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Chapter Text

Music thrummed and bounced from wall to wall. The band was playing across the room and yet their sound travelled to each corner. The vibration of it hummed through the soles of his shoes and up into the marrow of his bones. It could’ve been the exhaustion that the late night brought out in him, but Thomas could’ve sworn his heart was pumping in beat. 

He was sitting at a worn wooden round table, picking at a piece of splintering wood. Across from him sat a group of people, one of which being his older sister. Her grin was blinding as she spoke to those around her, head throwing back now and again in laughter. She had an energy about her, a sort of aura of belonging that never ceased. 

It was the kind of thing that made him think no place would be the same without her. Everything would be a little duller, a little less interesting. No one questioned her being there, no one thought she was out of place. She fit in and stood out all at once, and in the best possible way. 

Thomas narrowed his eyes a little, the action unnoticed by her, and then turned his attention to the floor a half dozen paces away from them. 

Bodies hustled around, some dancing and others just bobbing up and down as they had the kind of conversation that had to be shouted in order to be heard. It was a sea of gray clothes, a sea of bodies whose heat packed the room and filled it with an intoxicating sense of excitement. It was suffocating, really. But Thomas couldn’t be upset. 

A pre-game, that was what they called the first of three celebrations over the choosing. Tomorrow would be the game itself, a night for chaos and honouring those who had been chosen. Then, of course, the post. And the parties only grew more intense if District Two brought home a Victor of their own, which wasn’t a rare circumstance. 

The youth held parties like the one he was stuck at. But as one aged, they became more accustomed to something more quiet, more polite. Usually Thomas and Teresa spent their time over the choosing at Jorge’s quaint dinner parties, having small sips of celebratory wine and eating many varieties of cheese from Ten, or fancy bread from Nine. 

But this year his sister had insisted they join in on the festivities with her friends, and after some convincing, Jorge allowed them to. 

And there they were. And Thomas understood why Teresa had wanted to do this instead of listening to adults make their bets on who would win the choosing the following day, who would volunteer. She looked happy, sitting between her friends with lively music flowing in the air around them. He didn’t mind it. He was glad she was having fun. He was. 

Thomas didn’t care that she hadn’t spared him so much as a glance in the past few hours they had been there. And he didn’t envy the way she embodied freedom, the way everything was so easy for her. They were siblings, after all. Thomas wanted her to be happy. 

He sipped the water from his cup, ignoring the fact that it had grown warm from his grip on it, and looked around the room. The band was made up of three girls and a guy, and they were all sweaty and red in the face, but still smiling as they went on playing. A group sat before the stage, listening and screaming along. Others sat against the walls, alone or in groups. 

It was an exciting night for them all. 

Around Teresa sat Hank, Adam, and a girl Thomas had met briefly when they first arrived. She had an obnoxious name—Honey, or Rose—and Teresa had taken to her immediately. The four sat close together on the opposite side of the table, all enamoured in a conversation about something or another. 

He didn’t know the girl, but he knew that whatever Hank and Adam spoke of was nothing worth laughing at the way Teresa was. Hank was a ginger boy who spoke with an agonizing inflection in his voice, and Adam only spoke in jokes. Poor ones, at that. Thomas didn’t know why Teresa was friends with the pair, but she had been for many years now, to his annoyance. 

Suddenly a girl approached the table, tucking a strand of her long brown hair behind her ear as she smiled at Hank, who smiled right back. 

Thomas didn’t bother trying to hide the way his eyes rolled. 

“Hi,” she said shyly. 

Adam eyed her over a few times, amusement flickering through his expression. “Hey.” 

“Hi,” Hank hummed. “Weren’t you in my–” 

“Yeah,” she finished for him. “I live in the neighbourhood beside yours actually. I’m Molly?” 

“Molly!” Hank said. “Good to see ya! How’re you doing?” 

“I’m alright,” she said sheepishly. “I was just wondering if you’d like to…” Her arm limply gestured back to the floor. 

Hank smiled. “Sorry, I’m not much of a dancer.” He pointed at Adam. “But my friend here–” 

“Nah, nope,” Adam cut in. “Sorry to say it, Mols, but I’m not interested in getting married for a few years yet.” 

“Ah, that’s okay,” the girl said a bit awkwardly.

“But!” Adam started again as the poor girl tried to leave, grinning something sharp. “We’ve got a friend who would surely love to feel the touch of any woman.” He winked at Thomas. “This is good ol’ Tom. Say hi Tom.” 

Thomas glared at the other, mumbling his greeting without looking Molly’s way. “Hi.” 

Hank raised an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sure he’d love to.” 

Poor Molly looked terribly uncomfortable from the way Thomas watched her shift in place in the corner of his eye. “Oh, well…alright.” 

He looked at her fully. “I can’t dance. Sorry.” 

She nodded shortly and turned off, seeming relieved to get away from them. Teresa immediately smacked both boys on the arm. “You two are awful.” 

“What?” Adam hissed. “Tom here is usually so smooth with the ladies.” 

“Fuck off,” he hissed. 

Hank barked a laugh. “Oh relax.” 

“Stop tormenting him,” Teresa scolded, her eyes turned to Thomas, finally. “She was pretty, hm?”

He said nothing, and instead decided to stare into his drink. 

Adam hadn’t finished, however. “You know, you might just have to teach me a few things.” 

Thomas looked up to see if he was being spoken to, and sure enough Adam was staring at him with a raised eyebrow. He frowned. “Fuck off, Adam.” 

“Someone’s feisty today. You’re supposed to be happy!” 

“Fuck off.”

“Leave him be,” Teresa said, elbowing the guy. “Haven’t you been rejected by that pretty blonde girl—oh, what’s her name, Jules? Jules—a hundred times?” 

“It’s called the long game,” Adam supplied. “And technically she hasn’t rejected me.” 

“Ah, harassing your way in, are we?” Teresa’s friend, Honey or Rose, said. 

Adam scoffed. “She likes me.” 

“She doesn’t,” Hank countered. “Did you forget that she threw a knife at you?” 

“A butter knife, and it was a joke.” Adam straightened up. “I always liked a hotheaded woman.” 

Teresa scoffed, picking up her cup. “You’re going to die alone.” 

At that, Thomas snorted, then looked around for some sort of clock to check the time. After coming up short he figured curfew was only an hour or two away, and he’d only have to put up with Teresa’s friends for a little while longer. So, he poured the last drops of his water into his mouth and set the cup down, leaning back on his chair. 

The group before him had begun to talk of the Trials, which was of no surprise since the choosing was just a night away, but their conversation wasn’t the same as it was a year or two ago. 

See, Teresa had turned eighteen this year, and it would be her last choosing. The first time she volunteered was when she was sixteen, Thomas fifteen. She had lost to another girl that year, and the year that came after, and this was her final chance. 

Most people—from what Thomas had heard—believed that every person from Two had attempted to volunteer in the Trials while they were of age, but that wasn’t true. Most families couldn’t afford the price of admission to the academy, and even with that the majority of kids dropped out after the first year or two. 

The pool of volunteers was far larger than any other district, even One, but it wasn’t all that excessive. Usually in Section Three—their section—there were only around three or four people who were willing to step up. The population of all eight sections accounted for, there were a few dozen volunteers each year. With that said, Teresa had already lost at two choosings. 

“I will hurt people, if I have to,” he heard his sister say, bringing him back into the conversation. “I almost got in last year, but that stupid girl had like two-hundred pounds of muscle on me. And she didn’t even win!” 

“A tragedy,” Adam drawled in a bored fashion. 

Honey-Rose seemed completely drawn into Teresa’s words, eyes all big and practically twinkling. “What will you do if you win?” 

Teresa grinned. “Oh, well, isn’t that a fun question.” 

Hank’s head dropped onto the table, banging loudly. “Here we go.” 

“We’ll start off with what I’ll do when—not if, when—I win the choosing,” Teresa started, ignoring all of them other than the girl. “And what am I going to do? Rub my victory all over everyone's jealous faces.” 

Honey-Rose giggled. 

“And then I’m going to win, obviously,” his sister went on. “And after that I’ll come home and drink myself to death on…on…” She frowned. “Tom, how does Jorge’s friend describe that one fancy wine?” 

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, annoyed. “Nectar–” 

“Nectar crafted and gifted by the Creators own hands!” Teresa exclaimed. “That. I’m going to fill a tub with it.” She crossed her arms over her chest, leaning back on her chair. “Buy bread made from the most pristine grain. Beef from shorthorns fed pure gold.” 

“That can’t be healthy,” Adam commented.

Teresa glared at him. “Ruin my fun, why don’t you?” 

If Thomas agreed with Hank and Adam on anything, it was their collective annoyance at the speeches Teresa made when it came to her participation in the Trials. They had heard hundreds of them by now, especially the ones brewed when their own district’s tributes lost or made a move that she didn’t much appreciate. 

If they were in a district like Eleven or Twelve, such theatrical bragging may have been called for, considering the outlying districts hadn’t had a volunteer in decades, but they were born and raised in Two. Two hadn’t had a chosen name go into the Trials practically ever, and yet Teresa acted like her going into them was a thing to behold. 

She wasn’t special. When Thomas turned eighteen the following year he would be volunteering just as she would. In fact, he had spent almost as many years at the academy as his sister. Honey-Rose didn’t need to be staring at Teresa with admiration in her eyes. It was ridiculous.

“What about you three?” the girl in question asked, a small smile playing on her lips. 

Hank put his hands up. “Not me. I’ve got my heart set on working in the Fort in Section Two.” 

“I’m gonna be a Keeper,” Adam said. “A Runner.” 

“You won’t be a Runner,” Hank snorted. “You’ll be a Builder at best. A Bagger at worst.” 

Adam shoved him. 

“And you?” Honey-Rose asked, looking at Thomas. “Are you volunteering?” 

“Next year,” he said simply, not feeling the need to brag about it incessantly. 

Adam coughed out a laugh. “No way you are, Little Tom. Not possible.” 

“It is possible because I am,” he corrected. 

“If you get through the choosing,” Teresa hummed. 

His eyes narrowed. “Which I will.” 

She sipped her drink, nodding half-heartedly. 

“I’m not the one who lost at two of them,” he bit. 

She shrugged. “Because you’ve never volunteered.” 

“Because I was smart enough not to risk going before I was of age.” 

“Smart enough? Or too weak?” 

“Relax there, you two,” Hank said, putting his hands up in what Thomas assumed was supposed to be calming. “No need to start sparring and get us kicked out.” 

“I say let them,” Adam teased. “I’d love to see which sibling would win.” 

Hank pondered that for a moment. “Imagine sticking them in an arena, just the two of them.”

“Hm.” Adam scratched his chin. “I’d put my money on Teresa, no doubt.”

“Good choice,” Teresa said quickly. “I’d win. It isn’t a question, really.” 

“I’m bigger than you,” Thomas countered. “Hand-to-hand I’d win.” 

“We both know that doesn’t matter nearly as much as you want to think it does,” his sister huffed. “Besides, in the arena I’d never be stupid enough to lose my weapon. Not to mention I’m quicker than you, and I’ve been training longer.” 

“A year longer,” he hissed. “And we both know I’ve never lost with swords against you.” 

“With swords,” she repeated. “And how are your skills with a bow again?” 

“Better than yours with knives.” 

“As if.” 

“You know what,” Hank said suddenly, glancing between the siblings. “I put my money on Thomas.” 

Both Teresa and Adam turned to him, speaking in unison. “What?” 

“Yeah,” Hank said, nodding at him. “He’s got that sad, brooding thing going for him. I bet he could hold his own.” 

Thomas couldn’t decide whether or not to be offended by the comment, so instead he ignored it. “You’re stubborn,” he told his sister. “You’re set in your ways, and you don’t work well with people. You can’t win if you don’t ally with people.” 

“Well if only there were predestined allies for our district,” Teresa said mockingly. 

“Allies until you drive them all over the edge and get eliminated in your sleep,” Thomas argued. 

His sister rolled her eyes. “You’re acting like you work well with people.” 

“Better than you!” 

“Okay,” Hank said, exasperated. “As fun as this is, you guys need to relax.” 

“Or,” Adam started. “Counteroffer, you guys go into the arena together.” 

Four heads turned at the comment. 

“What?” he said defensively. “That way you guys can figure out who’s the better sibling, and we can make money betting on you.” 

“Don’t be stupid,” Teresa said, shaking her head a little in something almost amused. “Tom’s not volunteering.” 

“I am next year,” he said.

Teresa sighed, long and tired, and met his eyes. “No, Tom. You’re not. You didn’t volunteer last year because you were scared—whether you admit it or not—and you won’t volunteer next year either. It’s fine, most people don’t. You don’t need to do everything I do.” 

“I haven’t volunteered because you've been volunteering,” he said, staring at her like she was stupid. “This has been my plan as long as it’s been yours—I’m not doing this just because you are.” 

“Fine,” she spat. “Then volunteer tomorrow.” 

He scoffed. “What?” 

“Volunteer,” she repeated. “I mean, what are the chances both of us will win the choosing? It’ll be one or the other. Whoever goes into the Trials, wins.” 

“What if you guys both win?” Honey-Rose asked, brow pinched. 

“We won’t,” Teresa said with certainty. “There’ll be at least a dozen other tributes on both sides. It’ll be fine.” 

It wasn’t certainty about either of them winning, or her winning in specific, it was certainty that no matter the situation, Thomas wouldn’t win. Teresa was absolutely positive he couldn’t get through the choosing, so much so that risking it was nothing to her. 

“Fine,” he huffed, reaching a hand out to her. “It’s a deal.” 

She smiled, eyebrows shooting up. “Perfect.” 

“You know Teresa, if you lose you’ll never, ever hear the end of it,” Hank teased. “I don’t think we’ll even be able to be friends anymore.” 

Teresa raised an eyebrow. “You two wouldn’t be able to function without me.” 

And—as if the conversation had never happened—Thomas faded into the background as the others fell into their usual quips and banter. He pulled his empty cup into his lap, warping the plastic of it with gentle squeezes as his gaze drifted to the floor again, where people were still dancing and chattering away. 

The girl who had approached earlier—Molly—was standing against a wall with a guy who Thomas had seen around before. Beside the pair sat a younger boy who was being spoken to by an older boy who looked similar to him. The band was taking a break, sitting around the stage laughing as they sipped colourful drinks. 

And Thomas, with new-found and entire certainty, decided he hated the place and everyone in it. Next year he would stay home and endure the bland conversation Jorge and his friends made. He would enjoy the odd food and he would never step foot in a place like this one again. 

Teresa had always treated him like that. As if he wasn’t like the rest of them, as if he was one of those from the Glade with their fluffy, coloured hair and painted skin. Someone who didn’t know anything at all. He was younger than her, but only by a year. And he wasn’t as incompetent as she and her friends seemed to think he was. 

An hour dragged by, passing with Thomas sitting in silence, observing and doing nothing more. Though, when the bartender began rounding everyone up for their own minuscule version of the Trials—which was really just a bunch of people pummeling each other until they tapped out—Teresa got up and told Thomas to wait for her outside. Their curfew set by Jorge was nearing.

And then Thomas was standing with his back against a brick wall, listening to the muffled music coming from inside and staring up at the darkening sky. It wasn’t often that the night sky was clear in District Two, but tonight it was. Barely visible stars shone down and the half moon was bright, and he sucked in the cool night air. 

Thomas imagined the look on his sister’s face if he won the choosing the following day. He imagined it to be something beyond anger, and entirely distraught. Then he pictured her reaction if he won the Trials as well. He smiled to himself at the idea, and then shook off the image all together. 

“Sorry about that,” Teresa said, walking out the door and tucking her hair behind her ears. “Hopefully Jorge won’t be too mad.” 

Thomas nodded, though he didn’t say anything in response and the pair just began down the cobbled road of the Slums. District Two was the richest outside of One, which went without saying, but in certain sections there were poorer areas. It was usually the areas closest to the border and in Section Three theirs was particularly large. 

The Slums were defined by their bumpy roads and flickering street lamps, as well as the abundance of wildlife that took to rifling through trash. Thomas had never enjoyed walking down them, and yet Teresa and her friends always led them there for one reason or another. Jorge had grown up there, Thomas knew. 

He had a friend who lived out his childhood in the Slums, a boy called Darnell. The pair rarely spoke of it, but Thomas knew that Darnell had a sickly mother he took care of, and a younger brother, so he didn’t have the time nor the money to afford attending the academy. It was unfortunate, but it was the way plenty of people lived. 

Besides, Darnell didn’t really seem the type for the Trials anyhow. And if Thomas were honest, his friend was a little bit odd. Most people scoffed at his presence, as many had a particular disliking of him. Thomas understood it, to some extent. Darnell said strange things and believed even stranger things. He was certainly weird, but Thomas hadn’t minded such things for some time now. 

“Tom,” Teresa said softly, arms swaying as she walked. “Are you actually going to volunteer tomorrow?” 

He spared a short glance at her, then nodded. “Yeah.” 

She laughed lightly. “What if you win?”

“I’ll go into the Trials?” 

“Well, yeah obviously,” she murmured. “But, you know, that’s sort of a big commitment.” 

“I was already going to go next year. It’s no different.” 

“Sort of is, though. Isn’t it?” 

“How?” he asked. 

“See, I think you were never going to, and now I’ve gotten into your head–” 

“Can you stop?” he hissed, cutting her off.

“I’m not doing anything.” 

“You are, actually,” he grumbled. “You’re acting like I’m stupid. Like I’m still six-years-old and you’re teaching me how to fight with a foam sword. I’m getting pretty sick of it.” 

His sister shrugged. “I was just playing around, Tom. Don’t be so sensitive.” She sniffed. “Maybe we’ll end up going in together. That’d be fun, huh?” 

“Fun?” he mocked. 

“What?” she mumbled. “Don’t you think we’ll make a good team?” 

“So I’m not too weak now?” he muttered bitterly, a sour taste in his mouth. “Why do you even think that in the first place? And why do your friends think that too?” 

“Because—and don’t get all pissy with me—but it’s because you’re…you’re soft, Tom.” She wrapped her arms around her middle, trying to fight off the cold of night. “You are a good fighter, I won’t deny that. But you just…well, you know all those people who ended up going all nutty after the Trials?” 

He scoffed. “What, You think I’m going to go crazy or something?” 

“Can you blame me? I mean, you’ve never been normal, Tom. You know that.” 

“I’m fine,” he breathed. “You just think I’m incapable.” 

“No, I think that you can’t survive on your own,” she told him, still speaking softly. “You’re just…I think things really leave a mark on you.” 

“I can be on my own,” he muttered. “I’m alone all the time when you’re out with your friends. When you leave me behind.” 

“Don’t be like that.” 

“I’m not being like anything. I’m just stating facts.” 

She laughed emptily. “Facts?” 

“Yeah,” he huffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets and holding his shoulders high. “Facts like you always go places without me. Facts like you always say stupid shit behind my back to them. Facts like you think you're better than me...” 

“Tom, it’s not like that–” 

“It is, though. Isn’t it?” he cut in, glaring at the road before them. He could hear blood rush in his ears, heart pumping rapidly. He felt hot, suddenly. Too hot. And every breath his sister took was beginning to irritate him. “I don’t go anywhere without inviting you. I don’t ditch you for my friends.” 

“What friends? You only have Darnell and you only keep him around to entertain you when I’m not there,” she shot back. “It’s not my fault you’re incapable of having a life outside of me.” Teresa put space between them, arms flying as she spoke. “You could always do something else with someone else. Believe it or not, we are the only siblings in the world who hangout this much.” 

“I do–” 

“You hangout with Darnell,” she said. “You could make real friends. Not him.” 

“I don’t want–” 

“Yes Tom, I know,” she breathed, running a frustrated hand through her hair. “But it’s not my job to tend to you and keep you entertained. You’re seventeen. I’m your sister, not your babysitter.” 

“I don’t want to be babysat!” he hissed, trying not to disturb the quiet of night. “I would just appreciate it if my sister didn’t act like hanging out with me is worse than having teeth pulled. I want you to be my friend!”

“I am your friend, but Tom—holy shit—you never fuck off!” she half-shouted. “You’re like a hungry stray nipping at my heel all the fucking time!” 

Thomas drew back as if he had been slapped, slowing, though his sister didn’t alter her pace in the slightest. “The fuck is that supposed to mean?” 

She turned back, walking backwards. “I don’t think I could’ve possibly been more clear with you.” 

He watched as she turned again, leaving him behind beneath a streetlight. Thomas felt the anger bubbling up inside of him, ugly and thick. He shut his eyes tight, counting to ten then counting down the way Jorge always told him to do. It wasn't helping, it never did. But he didn't want to prove her point by blowing up. He could be calm, rational. He could. Unfortunately, his sister must’ve noticed, calling from the short space she put between them. 

“Shit—you’re not crying are you? I can’t deal with this right now.” 

“Fuck you!” Thomas spat, stomping towards her before his mind could catch up to his mouth. He gestured over her, lowering his voice. “You think you’re so much better than everyone else, but the truth is you’re just obsessed with yourself. Guess what? You’re going to lose this year just like you did the last two, because you’re fucking weak.”

They were a few feet away from one another now, Thomas’ chest heaving with more insults he was barely holding back and Teresa entirely calm, looking at him with indifference. Internally he begged her to fight him, to say something equally as horrible or hit him or do something that showed that she cared for the words he spewed, that Thomas had an effect on her. 

Instead, she only shrugged. “Are you going to have a full on temper tantrum again? Should I go get Jorge?” 

Any minor guilt that may have risen receded just as quickly. 

“I hope we both win the choosing, because if I get into that arena with you…” He paused, looking between his sister’s eyes and pushing all the intensity he could. “I will eliminate you. I promise.” 

She leaned in, holding his gaze. “No, you won’t.” 

And then she was walking away, long, dark hair blowing in the slight breeze and careless demeanour making Thomas’ heart thump violently, whilst also feeling shattered right there in his chest. As he listened to the taps of her feet against the road, quieting more the further she walked, Thomas decided then and there he hated his sister. 

He could feel it, the emotion, swirling inside of him, powerful and unending. It was pure heat, like molten steel had taken the place of his blood and was scolding him inside out. And while Thomas was suffering, Teresa was gone, walking back to their house, feeling no different than she had twenty minutes prior. It was beyond unfair, and he hated her for it. 

Finally, Thomas started walking, feet beating against the concrete and mind set on ensuring he made Teresa see how she made him feel. She didn’t get to act like she was better than him, then walk off like Thomas had done something wrong. Acting like he was wrong for caring about his family while all she cared about was herself. 

Though, when he finally made it back to the house his rage had all but gone, and he realized he was exhausted both in mind and body. Thomas pushed the front door open, then kicked it closed before shuffling off his shoes and starting towards the kitchen to find something to fix the dry stick in his throat. 

Jorge was there, talking to Teresa in a low voice as she sat up on the counter, hands combing through her hair. The anger returned, if only slightly, but Thomas only crossed the kitchen and grabbed a glass from the cabinet, sighing loudly as he filled it in the sink. 

Jorge moved away from Teresa and began putting away a few clean dishes, and the tense silence filled the room until a sweat started between Thomas’ shoulder blades. If Teresa felt his anger, she didn’t act on it, and instead sat, staring at the ground with her fingers still working knots from her hair that the wind created. He wanted to scream at her. He wanted to be seen and heard. He wanted her to know he hated her. 

“What is going on?” Jorge asked after a long minute. Neither sibling said anything, Teresa still toying with her hair and Thomas taking slow sips from his glass. The older man sighed, leaning against the counter. “Did something happen? Have you fought?” 

“She’s being a bitch,” he hissed lowly, meeting Teresa’s eyes briefly.

Jorge looked at him, slowly, eyes narrow and jaw set. “Would you like to try that again?” 

“Gladly,” he muttered, placing his glass aside. “She’s being a–” 

“Finish that sentence and the only thing you’ll be able to choke out will be soap,” Jorge snapped, crossing his arms over his chest. “Now, are you two going to act like the adults you are, or would you rather sleep out in the yard?” 

“Tom had another meltdown,” Teresa said gently, cracking her neck. “Nothing new. He just thinks the world revolves around him like always.” 

Thomas scoffed. “Oh that’s rich coming from you.” He threw his arms up, giving Jorge a look of disbelief. “So, I can’t say a few choice words without you freaking out but she can say that and it’s fine?” 

“This is why you had a meltdown?” Jorge asked. 

“I didn’t have a meltdown!” he barked. “Stop calling it that! Teresa was being a fucking asshole, like always. Sorry I’m not allowed to be angry at her, I forgot she’s perfect and can do no wrong.” 

“No one said that,” Jorge said calmly. “Why are you angry, Thomas?” 

“Because I hurt his ego,” Teresa answered. 

“Shut the fuck up!” he bit. “You’re such a piece of shit and I–” 

“Enough,” Jorge ordered loudly. Thomas’ mouth snapped shut. “We cannot keep doing this. You two are of age now. I’m sick of you acting like children.”

Teresa laughed dryly. “Tell that to him.” 

“Are you being serious?” he snapped, stepping forward towards his sister. He looked at Jorge. “Is she being serious?” 

The older man only gave him a long look, then pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Look–” 

“Don’t worry,” Teresa cut in, then slid off the counter. “I’ll go to bed. I’m sorry for keeping you up, Jorge.” She looked back at Thomas, eyes narrowing slightly. “I was wrong, Tom. The Trials won’t make you crazy. You already are.” 

Thomas laughed in disbelief. “You’re mad at me because I want you to be my sister, and you think I'm being crazy?” 

“That’s not it and you know it,” she said tiredly. “You have spent every single year of our lives acting like you’ll die if I’m not constantly paying attention to you.”

“That’s not true!” he said loudly, turning to Jorge. “Tell her that’s not true!” 

“Don’t bother,” Teresa hummed, touching Jorge’s arm lightly as she started towards the stairs. “I’m going to bed.” 

“I hope you I never see you again,” Thomas snarled after her.

She stopped after a few steps, smiling wide. “Volunteer then, Tom.” She started up the stairs again. “And may the best sibling win!” 

Thomas fell back into the counter again, dropping his face into his hands and attempting to scrub away the unease that settled under his skin. He wanted to follow her, scream and scream until she finally, finally heard him, but he knew it didn’t matter how loud he got. Teresa just couldn’t understand. 

“What did she say?” Jorge said. “May the best…?” 

“It’s nothing Jorge,” he grumbled, then started towards the stairs. “Night.” 

A half hour later Thomas was still awake despite the fact that he had been lying in bed with his eyes shut. He counted in his mind, hummed a softer song the band had played that night, but his eyes had yet to even grow heavy, thoughts feeling too heavy for his skull. He grunted in frustration, rolling onto his back, then his side, then his other side, then his stomach. He pushed his face into his pillow and swore, falling still, then pulled himself up off the bed. 

He grabbed his pillow and a blanket then quietly opened the door to the hallway, stepping out and trudging the half dozen feet between he and his sister’s doors. He knocked quietly, and found no answer. He knocked again, and this time he heard small words of invitation. 

Thomas pushed the door open all the way, but didn’t step inside. Teresa’s gaze was on him, but he didn’t meet it. Instead, he stared at his feet, watching as they shifted slightly beneath him until he summoned the courage to speak.  

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, looking up. “I don’t know why I said any of that.” 

Teresa’s gaze was scrutinizing for a minute, but—like every other time such a thing had happened—she shrugged and gestured for him to come in. He obeyed, hanging his head, and dropped his bedding onto the end of her mattress so he could duck down and pull out the slightly deflated air mattress from beneath his sister's bed. It wasn’t often he slept in his own room, but that didn’t put any truth to Teresa’s earlier words. At least he thought so. 

Once he had set everything up and had curled up on his makeshift bed, Teresa turned off her light, settling down and sucking in a quiet breath. The events of that night, it wasn’t necessarily a regular occurrence, not this specifically, at least. Siblings fought, but according to Teresa their case was a special one. In the worst of her anger she had told him he was a problem, that he was broken, on and on. Thomas had said cruel things too—but in his mind, siblings fought. It’s just how it was. 

Sometimes when the dark grew quiet enough, Thomas took her words in and let them swirl around in his mind. Tonight, she had called him crazy. Other nights she had called him ill, sick, a burden. It wasn’t often that he had believed her, putting it all down to things said in the heat of the moment, but there were times when he felt as though she had meant it. Felt as though she truly believed the awful things she said to him. 

“Tom.” 

He rolled from his side onto his back, looking up at the smooth ceiling. “Yeah?” 

“You know you don’t have to go into the Trials for me to think you’re my brother, right?” She was playing with her hands the way she did when she was uncomfortable. Thomas could hear the scratch of calloused palm against calloused palm. “Because you really don’t.”  

“It’s not that,” he told her. “It’s really not.” 

She was quiet for a second. “Why then?” 

“Same reasons as you,” he whispered. “I mean, the money, the honour. And I just…” He shrugged even though she couldn’t see it. “I don’t know.” 

“Tell me.” 

“You’ll make fun of me.” 

“I won’t,” she murmured. “Promise.” 

“Well, I er…” He sighed, long and nearly pained. “I’d just like to be somebody, someday. Hear them call out my name at the choosings and just…just have something real. Maybe it’s stupid. I don’t know.” 

“You already are,” she told him. 

“Hm?” 

“You already are somebody,” Teresa said softly. “You’re Thomas. You’re my little brother. You’re Jorge’s kid. You’re Darnell’s friend. You don’t need to be anybody else.”

He sat with that for a moment, worrying at his lip. A part of Thomas wanted to believe that that little list of things, of sombodies that Thomas was, was enough. But it wasn’t. He wanted to be important, not just one in a million, or a few million. He wanted to show the world that he was more than what they made him out to be. 

He wasn’t weak, and he wasn’t crazy. He wasn’t just a kid who knew nothing. He was more than that. And no one saw that, not his sister and not Jorge, the people who knew him better than anyone else. He needed them to see that he was more. He needed to prove it to everyone and himself. 

Thomas didn’t say anything else to his sister, hoping the conversation would die without his interference. Though, it seemed Teresa wasn’t done. 

“What would you do if we ended up in the arena together?” 

Thomas rolled onto his side, curling up into himself. “I don’t know.” 

“Would you be able to eliminate me?” 

He scoffed. 

She laughed lightly. “What? You’re the one that said you never wanted to see me again.” 

“I wasn’t serious,” he murmured. When his sister didn’t speak, something expectant lingering in the air, he sighed. “I think I’d be able to if we were fighting. But it’d be out of instinct more than anything else.” 

“How would you do it?” 

“What kind of question is that?” 

“M’just curious,” she hummed sleepily. “Knife? Sword? One of Darnell's stories?”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” he said, rolling over onto his other side. 

A few quiet minutes went by, and Thomas figured his sister fell asleep. If he were honest with himself, Thomas knew that no matter the scenario, he wouldn’t be able to put an end to Teresa’s life. It was partially due to the fact that—though he would never admit it out loud—she was more skilled than him, but most of it was solely the fact that he loved her. 

Elimination was a complex thing, or so he had learned. In the academy they were always taught to go for the heart if possible, and to never draw it out. Most of it seemed simple enough, eliminating a stranger who was nothing more than a pawn standing in the way of victory. But Thomas knew that ending the life of someone you knew was far different. 

The tributes—including your own district partner—weren’t people, not after they were chosen. To consider them as people was to set yourself up for failure. But there wasn’t a way for Thomas to pretend Teresa was nothing more than another body among bodies. It was his sister. He wondered if Teresa had thought about such things. He wondered if that was what led her to ask in the first place. 

“Could you?” he asked despite the fact that she was likely sleeping. “Eliminate me, I mean.” 

A few moments of silence passed, and Thomas shut his eyes, already starting to drift off. 

Then a small sigh sounded. 

“If I had to.” 

A loud crash jolted Thomas out from the comfort of his sleep hours later, blinding light from a barely risen sun peering in through the window and awakening his headache with a roar. He groaned, feeling bile jump up his throat as he blinked hard, desperately trying to get his eyes to adjust and his head to stop its pounding. When his vision cleared just slightly, he was able to make out a figure in the doorway with a head of brown hair. 

“Darnell! Fucking idiot!” Teresa cried into her pillow. 

Thomas’ vision sharpened and he found not just Darnell, but an empty pot on the floor a few feet away from him. His friend grinned at him happily, hands on his hips. “Good morning to you.” He looked at Teresa. “And your poor excuse for a sibling!” He jumped forwards and gave Thomas his hand, hoisting him to his feet. “It’s the grand ol’ choosing day—don’t want to be late or they’ll cut you to bits!” 

Thomas groaned again, grabbing Darnell’s upper arm and dragging him out from the room. “C’mon.” 

A few minutes later the pair were standing in front of the sink in the main floor bathroom, Thomas stifling multiple yawns as he attempted to brush his teeth through them. In the mirror his reflection looked back at him, sporting dark circles under his eyes the other had poked a few times. Darnell was pressed up against him now, however, elbow bumping into Thomas’ side as he brushed his own teeth with the spare toothbrush that had long been marked as his. 

Thomas hadn’t really meant for Darnell to be in his life—they had met at a young age when Thomas first discovered the playground down in the Slums that held monkey bars, which his own local park lacked—and Darnell was just suddenly there whenever he was. Eventually he found Thomas in most places and despite Thomas’ efforts, or lack thereof, the boy just stuck around. It wasn’t until a few years ago that Thomas simply stopped caring and let Darnell do whatever he liked. 

He wasn’t a bad friend, he was just…different. But Thomas was too, in his own way—a separate way entirely, but still—so he guessed that was what made them stick around one another, if not for Darnell’s insistence. Thomas bent forwards to spit out the toothpaste, and his friend stuck a finger into his side, causing him to snort and spray the mirror with white foam. 

“Dick,” he choked out, spitting the rest of the substance into the sink. “What was that for?” 

“Well, I was on my way over and I ran into a very dear friend of mine,” Darnell said through his toothbrush, words muffled. “The big ginger one.” 

“Hank,” Thomas supplied, rinsing out his mouth then using his shirt sleeve to clean the mirror, leaving smudges that Jorge would certainly be upset about later on in the day. “And doesn’t he hate you?” 

“Bit of a strong word, no?” Darnell drawled, then bent over to spit into the sink. When he straightened up he discarded his toothbrush in the holder, and steadied Thomas with a look. “You’re volunteering?” 

He rolled his eyes. “It’s too early for this.” 

Darnell poked his shoulder pointedly. “You said you weren’t going until next year.” 

“I wasn’t, but then Teresa and her idiotic friends were being assholes so now I’m going this year.” He grabbed the hem of his shirt and shucked it over his head. “It’s not a big deal.”

Darnell flicked his nipple, causing Thomas to rear back, offended. “You do realize that your sister will also be there? And that she’ll be volunteering just as she has these past few years?

“That’s the point,” he murmured, walking over to the shower and twisting the knob. “We both go into the choosing, and whoever gets into the Trials wins.” 

“And if you both do?” 

“There’s like thirty volunteers every year. And that’s a lowball.” 

“If both of you win the choosing you can’t take it back,” Darnell went on, hip leaning against the sink, brow furrowed. “Then you’ll have to kill your sister.” 

“I’m not going to do anything to my sister, idiot.” 

“I’d rather that over the other option,” Darnell muttered. “I don’t really like her anyway.” 

He frowned, pulling off his shorts. “She’s lost two years in a row now, it’ll be fine.” He looked up at the other. “Turn around.” 

Darnell did, facing the wall but still waving his hands around as he spoke. “What if you don’t volunteer at all? Is that a crazy idea?” 

“Yes,” Thomas said, stepping into the shower.

The water felt good against Thomas’ face, easing the headache he’d woken up with. He stood there for what was certainly a solid minute simply enjoying the feeling until he remembered that there was a sparse amount of time before they had to leave. He pulled the shower curtain aside slightly, finding Darnell an inch away from the mirror, picking at a pimple that was already bleeding.

“Mind getting us some clothes?” he asked. 

Darnell looked at him through the mirror and winked. “My pleasure.” 

Around five minutes later Darnell was back and Thomas’ skin was scrubbed red, and he shut off the shower and stepped out, wrapping a towel around his waist as he looked over the clothes Darnell picked out for them. They got dressed, and Thomas noticed the shirt his friend had chosen for himself—the same shirt Jorge had bought for Thomas earlier in the year. A black button up that was far too tight around his arms, far looser around Darnell’s. 

“You took my best shirt,” he commented, buttoning up the white one Darnell had selected for him. 

“You didn't have anything blue. Besides, you never wear it.” 

“So?” 

“So? It looks better on me.” Darnell straightened up in front of the mirror, putting his arms up behind his head and making an odd face. Thomas looked into the reflection, eyes flickering over the ‘C’ shaped birthmark on his throat, watching as the shirt rode up and revealed sharp hip bones and a little scruff of hair leading down into the loose gray dress pants he had also stolen from Thomas. 

A blue vein stuck out beneath the pale skin, running over one of the bones. 

“You’ve lost weight," he hummed. 

Darnell dropped his stance and rolled his eyes, nudging Thomas playfully. “It’s disrespectful to talk about a woman’s figure.” 

He made some kind of amused sound and buckled his belt, pulling the bathroom door open and finding Jorge at the bottom of the stairs, Teresa a few steps up. 

“I’m not wearing it!” she sing-songed from upstairs. “It’s the most terrible thing I’ve ever seen!” 

Jorge was standing at the bottom of the steps, looking at the end of the wick. “I picked it out specially for you.” 

“It’s hideous!” 

“Wear whatever then,” he shouted to her. “But hurry up!” 

Darnell threw an arm around Thomas’ shoulders, pressing their temples together. “Can’t believe you’re leaving. What sort of funeral would you like?” 

“Shut up.” 

It wasn’t another twenty minutes until they were all packed up into Jorge’s car, Teresa up front in the blue dress Jorge picked for her and Darnell splayed out across all three of the backseats, feet resting on Thomas’ lap with his eyes shut. Thomas played with a piece of loose rubber from the sole of his friend’s shoe, looking out the window as the houses and buildings passed. It was a few hours to Section One, and with the night he had Thomas was quick to doze off, head bouncing slightly against the window. 

When he woke again the sun was further up in the sky, and the familiar tall buildings of Section One were within view. As his mind fully came to, Thomas heard Teresa and Jorge speaking in a heated whisper. When he looked over, Darnell was asleep, mouth open and breathy snores sounding from his throat. 

“...unbelievable,” Jorge huffed as Thomas finally focused in on the conversation. “Is this some sort of practical joke? Because I know I did not raise you to be so unintelligent.” 

Teresa scoffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Not a big deal?” Jorge repeated, then raised his voice. “Not a big deal?” 

“No!” she insisted. 

“Thomas!” Jorge half-turned to look at him, then turned his attention back to the road. “Thomas—you’re awake? Yes—tell me your sister is making a joke.” 

He scratched his cheek, still a bit groggy. “Er, well what’s the joke?” 

“Teresa tells me that you are participating in the choosing,” Jorge said in one breath, agitated. “She says you’ve made a game of it.” 

“Oh.” He was far too tired to gauge Jorge’s feelings on the subject, so he figured it best to be honest. “Yeah. Whoever goes into the Trials wins.” 

Jorge was quiet for a moment, but it was the kind of quiet that could’ve been a scream due to how truly deafening it was. Thomas was suddenly awake, anxiousness coiling in his stomach and eyes planted on the side of his sister’s face, seeking some sort of help. She seemed not to care, however, and just stared out the passenger window. 

Thomas hadn’t done anything wrong, or at least he didn’t think he did anything wrong. Jorge was well aware of he and Teresa’s plans for the Trials, as he himself had enrolled them in the academy and had even helped Thomas practice in their backyard. 

“Both of you,” Jorge said finally, mostly to himself. He then laughed dryly. “Tell me I am mistaken.” 

Thomas sat up further, adjusting Darnell’s legs in his lap. “I was gonna go next year anyway so–” 

“Irrelevant!” Jorge shouted, causing Darnell to jolt awake. He shot Thomas a confused look before palming at his eyes. “Have you not considered the fact that if both of you are successful in the choosing, that one of you will...will be eliminated in the arena?” 

“Like I told you, that won’t happen!” Teresa huffed, annoyed. “Even if we wanted to go into the Trials together we’d never manage it.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jorge hissed. “It doesn’t matter if the odds are one to a goddamn hundred, Teresa. Why would you ever, ever risk such a thing?” He ran a hand over his face glaring out at the road. “In all the years I’ve raised you I never imagined you to be so…so stupid!” 

The words struck Teresa like a palm, Thomas knew. She sat up further, scoffing. “What do you care, anyway?” 

“What do I care?” Jorge parroted, frowning. 

“It’s not like you’re even our dad,” she muttered, and Thomas’ eyes immediately fell to the ground, wanting no part in the conversation. “Don’t know why you act like you are.” 

It didn’t matter that the tires were rolling against the road. It didn’t matter that the wind was whipping past. The second the words fell past her lips the entire world fell silent. Even Darnell, who was always making some sort of noise, was holding his breath. Thomas just stared down at his lap where his friend's legs rested, wishing he could disappear. 

“Thomas,” Jorge muttered a painful minute later. 

He swallowed. “Yeah?” 

“You may not volunteer,” the older man said softly. “I forbid it.” 

Teresa turned around in her seat. “Ignore him, Tom.” 

“Do not ignore me!” Jorge countered. “Thomas, you cannot go into the Trials. You will die. So help me if I see you make one step out of bounds during the choosing you will never, ever step foot in my house again.” 

Thomas blinked. “You…” his voice fell off, but he looked up, starting again. “You don’t want me to go into the Trials because you think I’ll lose?” 

Jorge shook his head. “I don’t think anything. I know.” 

And Thomas didn’t say anything else, because there was nothing to be said. He didn’t even let himself think about it. Instead, Thomas looked out the window and watched the streets breeze by, glancing at the many people walking along with their friends and family towards the square. He thought it was sort of nice, the choosing. Everyone gathered together to watch, free of their jobs and harsh responsibilities for a few days.

Darnell pulled his legs off of Thomas’ lap and scooched into the middle seat, slinging an arm around Thomas’ shoulders and resting their temples together. His friend was always like this, insistent on touching and leaning, and usually Thomas pulled away. But now he just felt the warmth of the other and shut his eyes, heart feeling rather heavy. 

They were a few minutes from the square when the roads got too busy for them to drive through, and Jorge pulled off to the side to let them out. Teresa shoved open her door and stepped out, slamming it again as hard as she could manage. Jorge didn’t offer any sort of goodbye, so Thomas just pulled himself out of the car when Darnell did. 

“He’s such an asshole,” Teresa said as they joined the crowd walking towards the square. “He always acts like he’s so much better than us. He didn’t even go into the Trials, you know? He didn’t even try.” 

“He was a Runner, though,” Thomas said half-heartedly. 

She crossed her arms, sending a withering glare towards a younger boy who almost knocked into her. “Being a Keeper isn’t anything like being a Victor, and why are you defending him?”

“I’m not.” 

Darnell linked his arm with Thomas’ own, nudging Teresa with his free hand. “Cut him some slack.” 

“No!” she bit, wiping at the spot Darnell had touched. “Just wait until I win this year and he asks to come live with me in the Village.” 

She was just angry, Thomas knew. If either he or his sister won the Trials their door would be open to Jorge no matter what. Because, even despite what Teresa had said and the fact that they were never allowed to call Jorge their father, he was. While they were aware he wasn’t related to them, there hadn’t ever been a time when Jorge wasn’t around. 

Shortly after the older man retired young, Teresa and Thomas were orphaned and put into his care. And he didn't hesitate in taking them. Not ever, not even for a moment. He was strict, sometimes. And a bit quick to anger. But he was all they knew, and Thomas had never considered him anything other than their parent—or guardian, as Jorge preferred. 

It was one of the reasons Thomas wanted to win in the first place. Jorge had done so much for him and his sister, put so much time and money into raising them, it was only fair that they returned the favour however possible. 

Teresa thought the same, on some level. Thomas was sure she did. Jorge and Teresa had a bond like no two people Thomas had ever known. She loved him more than anything, as he did her, even if the pair of them denied it. 

Eventually they arrived in the square and Thomas and Darnell followed behind Teresa as she searched for her friends. Soon enough she spotted them in the fourth queue at the sign-in, and with a few glares she managed to get them in the line. 

And then, like he had never existed in the first place, Teresa’s attention tore from him as she fell into playful conversation with Hank, Adam, and a group of girls Thomas hadn’t properly met before—likely from one of Teresa’s classes at the academy. It didn’t really matter to him, not at that moment, because his mind was still playing Jorge’s words back in a loop. 

Thomas wasn’t weak, and he had no idea why everyone in his life seemed to make the assumption that he was. Teresa’s words didn’t really bother him, not that much, because siblings were meant to be like that. But Jorge’s thoughts truly counted. He raised Thomas himself, taught Thomas himself, he knew Thomas well. 

Physically, he was strong enough. He was somewhat above the average of other boys in his class, not insanely muscular like Hank, but enough to overpower the majority. He was good with most weapons, and he studied the survival texts just as Teresa had. He’d even gotten a better mark than her on a few reviews. 

Sure, he didn’t go around starting fights and boasting about his place in the academy. Nor did he brag about volunteering or go on for hours about how he was going to eliminate the others. It was because Thomas understood that words meant little in comparison to actions. What you want to do matters little. What you do is far more important. 

And when Thomas won the Trials, this year or the next, everyone would know that they were wrong about him. Teresa, Jorge, and every single trainer or teacher who doubted him. He needed to have a portrait of Hank and Adam’s reactions done when he did win. He’d hang it over the fireplace and spend hours staring at it. 

Darnell’s weight pressed against him, and when Thomas’ mind came to he realized they were farther up the line, a half dozen or so people away from the sign in. Just as his gaze fell to Teresa, one of her friends held up both hands, showing off short fingernails painted a brilliant blue. 

“My nails match your dress,” she said excitedly. “It’s meant to be.” 

Teresa grinned. “How do you make such a hideous colour look so good?” 

Thomas swallowed a scoff. 

Darnell leaned into him further. “Should’ve prettied up my nails to match you, huh?” 

A boy with painted nails. Thomas snorted, amused. “Ah, next time I guess.” 

“Next time,” Darnell repeated quietly. He then looked over to Thomas, faking a sad expression. “Unfortunately I don’t think many colourful nail adventures are to be had by us, not with you sending yourself off to die.” 

Rolling his eyes, his mood soured. “Why does everyone think that? You know I’m not just going to get there and then peel over.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “You all act like I’m completely useless.” 

“Oh Thomas,” Darnell mock-pouted, elbowing him in the side. “Don’t you worry. I know you to be that bloodthirsty psychopath you think you are. I’ve got you.” 

Using the lining moving up as an excuse to not answer, Thomas watched as his sister ventured off with the group of girls, not sparing a glance to him on her way to her age group. Hank and Adam hadn’t even noticed him despite the fact that they’d be standing a few feet away for ten minutes, and Thomas glared at their backs as they walked off. 

Stepping up, Thomas handed his finger to the nurse as Darnell did the same with the other, the pair simultaneously wincing as the needles were shot deep into their skin. Once they were cleared they strolled off towards their age group, joining the rest of the seventeen-year-old boys. The decorations were no more exquisite now that Teresa was volunteering, as she acted like they would be, but they were festive nonetheless. 

They settled at the very back of their group, quiet whereas the others were chattering away excitedly. Thomas wasn’t always a fan of crowded settings, especially with his sister so far, but he only sucked in a small breath and thought of his friend beside him, focusing on the way Darnell tapped his foot absently and rubbed two fingers together. Patience had never been his friend's strong suit. 

“Oi,” Thomas heard someone call behind him, both he and Darnell turning to find Hank standing there at the edge of the eighteen-year-olds. Thomas felt odd being addressed directly, no sister in sight, but he cocked his head in question. Hank grinned. “You excited?” 

“He’s vibrating with it,” Darnell answered for him, curling fingers around Thomas’ arm and squeezing lightly. “Seriously, I thought he was bound to explode.” 

Hank gave Darnell an odd look, but otherwise ignored him, his attention back on Thomas. “You know, Adam talks a lot—but I think you’ve got a running chance here, kid. Really, I do.” 

“Sure sounded like it last night.” Thomas muttered, trying to fight the frown from his face. “I’m sure you’ll be betting on me.” 

“Oh, not a chance. Your sister is still the best of us all, no doubt,” the ginger boy said with a smile, playfully tapping Thomas’ shoulder with two fingers. “But you’ll put up a fight. I know it.” 

Before his tongue could get the better of him he turned back around to face the stage, Darnell giving Hank a lingering look before doing the same. Thomas felt wrong in his skin, antsy and desperate to get home and hit a wall or go out and run around for a few hours. He had grown up around Teresa, it wasn’t as though he couldn’t take a little teasing, but it felt different. 

Hank and Adam didn’t know Thomas, had never tried to, but they knew the version of him that Teresa described. Meaning that his own sister thought of him as soft, weak. Making jokes and jabs was one thing, but Thomas was coming to the realization that it wasn’t as satirical as he had once thought. 

It would be understandable, had there been a reasoning behind it. But to Thomas’ knowledge, he had never failed any more than she—nor had he lacked in her accomplishments. They weren’t twins, but by skill level they could’ve been, and no one seemed to understand that. Not even her. It angered Thomas in a way that hurt more than enraged, like it didn’t matter what he did, he would never live up to his sister, would never be anyone worth her faith. 

Thomas shook away such repetitive thoughts, turning his attention to the scene before him. Rows and rows of possible tributes growing shorter in height up until the twelve-year-olds, all of them laughing and talking excitedly among their peers. Thomas remembered when he and Teresa were in the very front, ogling at the Mentors and trying to decide on which one they would want for themselves in their own Trials, then meeting up afterwards and discussing with the utmost detail their young minds could manage. 

The choices varied as they grew, but the both of them always came back to him, to Vincent Hawk. A mystery of a man, really, due to the fact that his Trials were somehow so incredibly brutal all the tapes of it had been erased, the only remaining evidence of him being a Victor the large, thick scar travelling from his left eyebrow down to his chin. 

That, and the recap of his Victory Tour. Never before had they heard him speak otherwise, nor had they really seen him communicate at all, but the pair of them were certain he was the strongest, most talented of them all. 

Thomas’ eyes fell on him then, noticing how his light brown hair seemed to bear more gray in the elastic it was pulled into as opposed to last year. His eyes were on the crowd, on the front rows, where the youngest children were. Thomas couldn’t make out his expression from the space between them, but he noticed the way the older man's hands rang in his lap, the way his knee was tapping ever so slightly. 

He must’ve been anxious to see the newest tributes. Thomas wondered if Teresa would be accompanied by him. Or him, of course. 

“It’s kind of strange, if you think about it,” Darnell said quietly. 

Thomas looked over at his friend, finding him to be looking around at the kids as they cheered and played make believe. “What is?” 

“All of us—One, Two, Three, and on and on." He paused, making a small gesture with a hand, eyes remaining locked in front of him. “Gathering around to watch a bunch of kids murder each other.” He pointed to a little boy standing slightly off from the rest a few dozen feet in front of them. “What if he was chosen? What if he went into the Trials?” 

Thomas ignored his confusion if just for a moment, examining the small boy. He had dark hair shaved down to the scalp, and his figure was less than healthy, the dress shirt his mother had surely stuck on practically drowning him. Knobbly elbows and a hand that kept touching the top of his head, possibly out of nerves. He wasn’t talking to any of the other kids, and they weren’t talking to him. He wouldn’t last a minute, Thomas knew. 

“Someone older would volunteer for him,” Thomas said simply, standing tall and glancing around at the many more eligible people around them. “They don’t have to worry about that—lots of people want to play in the Trials.” 

“And if they didn’t?” Darnell asked, looking over to him. “You’d be alright if they sent that little boy into the Trials? You’d think it reasonable? You’d think it just?” 

Thomas’ mouth felt dry, images of the many people he had seen fighting in the Trials flashing through his mind, putting the little boy in their place. “But someone would take his place.” 

“Yeah,” Darnell hummed. “But this is Two. What about in Ten? Eleven? Twelve? No one volunteers for them, Thomas. They die. And we watch it. Celebrate it.” He looked away, eyes finding the little boy again. “How much of their blood is on our hands?” 

Thomas wrinkled his nose, then relaxed his face, shaking away the idea. It was true. Sometimes younger kids were chosen from the outlying districts without someone to go in their place, and they always got eliminated. Of course, a few years earlier one guy from Four had gone in and won at the age of fourteen, and he was just one of two in a hundred years to do so, but that was a rare occurrence. 

So, younger tributes died. But it didn’t matter, they were still people just like the rest of them. A twelve-year-old dying was no different than someone who was eighteen dying. Twenty-three would go, one would be spared. Their ages didn’t matter. They were paying back for lives lost. 

Suddenly the weight of Darnell’s words dropped onto him, and Thomas quickly looked around to ensure no one had heard his friend. Everyone seemed to be absorbed in their own excited conversations, the collective chatter around the massive square nearly deafening, so he let himself calm and turned back to the other.

“One day you’re going to be killed for saying things like that,” he told the other. “You’ve got to stop.” 

Darnell licked his lips, seeming almost disappointed that Thomas didn’t want to commit treason. “Mm, right.” 

It wasn’t new. With Darnell there were two options. On one hand he would be pacing around Thomas’ room, hands going wild as he bounced his ridiculous tales off of Thomas. Usually it was something completely idiotic he got from his own odd mind, and other times he claimed to have heard it from various sources. Keepers, elders, a Mentor, allegedly. 

“It makes sense!” Darnell had said many years ago, hands in his hair. 

Thomas had rolled his eyes, pulling on socks and wondering why he had ever let the other stick around. “I promise you President Janson isn’t using the Trials to feed his insatiable hunger for human blood. Can we talk about something else now?”

“What else are they doing with the bodies, huh? Because they aren’t brought back.”

“Incinerated, if I had to guess.” 

“Get your head out of your ass!” 

On the other hand Darnell was quiet in moments when he shouldn’t have been. During the duration of the Trials, especially. He didn’t watch them, staying out of buildings and away from any screen unless Thomas forced him to—forced was a strong word—usually he had it on and Darnell didn’t have anything else to do, but it was all the same to his friend. And he wouldn’t look when the fighting began. 

Queasy and weak is the reason, or that’s what Teresa had said at the very least. Some people didn’t like blood. But Thomas knew the real reason Darnell didn’t like the Trials, the real reason he went on treasonous rants and spoke ill of the Glade and the way their country was being run. 

To be simple, Darnell was a traitor. 

But he just didn’t understand their world, and he took pity on the rebels for some reason. The Glade took care of the districts, kept peace and safety for them all, and saved them from a life of having to fight to live. Starvation and suffering had been obliterated. It was the districts’ fault for disrupting the harmony, and they were reaping what their elders sowed. 

It was as simple as that, and one day Darnell would come to understand that. But for now Thomas didn’t think that his friend deserved to be punished for being young and dumb. There hadn’t ever been a time where he even considered reporting such activity. He couldn’t. Darnell didn’t know what he was saying. 

Before Thomas’ mind could continue with its reeling, the anthem began, and he finally dragged his eyes off of Darnell, turning his attention to the screen to watch the same long message they always did. Pictures of war flashed across the screen, crumbled buildings and charred bodies, the voice of President Leocopus Janson flooding the city square, reminding them of the turmoil they caused, and the price of such a thing, the price they had to pay. 

Thomas stood up straight, proud. Darnell was simply uneducated, that was all. He didn’t understand the world they lived in, and Thomas hardly did either. But he knew he had to live by the rulings set in place, and found it useless to question the people who were simply looking out for what was best for them all. They had their reasoning, and Thomas was only seventeen, who was he to defy them? 

The anthem cut out, and District Two’s escort, Starlette Ink, tapped the microphone that stood out before her a few times, grinning with teeth so shockingly white Thomas could make them out from any distance. This year her skin was painted a soft teal, hair dark blue to match her dress and decorated with little silver beads. Her dress was tight to her plump figure, and very reflective. 

“I believe your lovely lovely Mayor has a few words to say, hm?” She said with a twinkling expression, waving their Mayor over. Thomas respected his district as everyone did, but the second the bald man opened his mouth Thomas was back in his mind, drowning out the speech he had heard so many times before. The bountiful history of Mayze was fascinating to some, Thomas believed, but not to him. History had never been his best class. 

After what felt like hours, the Mayor’s speech came to a halt after going down the painstaking list of District Two Victors, finishing with his usual closing line. “It is both a time for repentance and thanks.” Before shaking Starlette’s hand and taking his seat once more. Thomas spared a glance to Darnell who usually had a comment or three to make about one thing or another, but his friend was staring out into dead space, giving not so much as a twitch of lips. Thomas’ stomach flipped, but he only looked back to the stage. 

Starlette was back in front of the microphone, grinning happily as she sucked in a deep breath, arms out wide as she spoke. “Well, the Ninety-Ninth Trials have arrived!” 

The crowd roared, obviously grateful from being freed of the boring speeches and mandatory discussion, jumping up and screaming as if their lives depended on it. Starlette obviously loved the attention, as she herself let out a squeal and gave a few happy claps, wiping her eyes afterwards. District Two lived for these events—lived for the festivities and the energy they gave and fed, hungry for action, hungry for the violence that kept them sane. 

“As per usual,” Starlette drawled, calming the crowd just enough for her voice to travel over the large square. “Ladies first.” 

The teal woman took a few steps to the left towards a glass basin filled with the girls' names, and for some odd reason Thomas found himself hoping his sister's name was written on whichever slip she pulled, and another would offer up themselves. Thomas pushed that idea away, feeling as though somehow Teresa would hear it and skin him alive. He let the anticipation wash over him, his shoulders tense and his teeth gritted, eyes locked on Starlette’s hand that swished around the massive basin. 

She plucked a note from the masses, the entire square silent as she stepped back in front of the microphone, carefully unfolding the note. Thomas wondered briefly if the dye on her skin would rub off on the rich white of the paper. 

“De–”

An entire chorus of screaming volunteers drowned out the rest of the name, and Thomas watched what he was certain to be over a hundred girls file out from the massive crowd, all wearing grins and chattering to those around them. Starlette greeted them all as best she could as they began lining up on the stage, cheers and clapping sounding from the crowd. 

Soon enough he spotted Teresa standing tall among the many, wearing a polite but small smile. He could sense her quiet disliking of the girls around her in the way her eyes kept cold. She was terrified to lose, but she knew she wasn’t going to. 

Once the group of girls was in order, Starlette scooted over to the other bowl, grinning wide as the crowd settled into a suspenseful murmur. Thomas could feel his heart in his throat, eyes snapping from Starlette to Teresa, then back, again and again. 

A hand snaked around his wrist, cold and a bit clammy. 

“Don’t do this,” Darnell said next to his ear. 

Starlette cleared her throat, withdrawing a slip. 

Thomas met Teresa’s eyes across the yards of space between them. 

“You didn’t volunteer last year because you were scared—whether you admit it or not—and you won’t volunteer next year either. It’s fine, most people don’t. You don’t need to do everything I do.” 

“I mean, you’ve never been normal, Tom. You know that.” 

“I was wrong, Tom. The Trials won’t make you crazy. You already are.” 

It was as if he could read her mind, hear her thoughts pouring out from her temples and traveling into his. Coward, she hissed. Weak. Incapable. On and on. So much doubt radiated from her, doubt in him, doubt of him. From her, it felt more real than it did from even himself. And he hated it. He wanted to cut out whatever it was she saw in him. 

Starlette’s showy, oddly accented voice filled the tense air. 

"Ste–"

Another choir of voices sounded to drown out the name, and Thomas' was among them. 

Chapter Text

The cheering would’ve been deafening if not for the loud, insistent ring that kept him from hearing a single thing as he walked alongside a few other boys. The grip that Darnell had on his arm just a moment prior still lingered on his skin, warm and desperate, and Thomas felt a pang of guilt for the way he had torn himself away from the other and started off. 

The stage was nearing, and Thomas could’ve looked up to see the expression on his sister's face and seen it nearly perfectly, but he didn’t. His eyes were fixed on the ground, only occasionally flickering up to check how far the stairs leading up to the stage were. 

Ten paces, nine, eight, closer and closer. He couldn’t have found Jorge in the distant crowd even if he had turned around and tried, and yet he could practically see the disappointment laced within aged features. He felt sick at the idea, but swallowed it away, reminding himself that this had always been the plan. Thomas was always going to volunteer. 

Alongside what he counted to be a bit more than two dozen boys, he jogged up the stairs and found his place on stage, staring out at a sea of bodies that was the District Two population. People were cheering and shouting names—likely the names of those they knew on stage—but Thomas couldn’t make out a single one. 

Finally his senses reared back to him as Starlette stepped up to the microphone once more, arms out as if to display the group standing behind her. 

“Can we have yet another round of applause for our lovely volunteers?” 

And of course, the entire square went up in a roar. Thomas’ eyes jumped from face to face and eventually landed on a camera that was hovering midair—a drone, he thought—snapping and flashing. Another flew with it, and Thomas realized that he probably looked ridiculous. His general nervousness standing before such a large crowd would come off as fear to those looking in. 

Quickly he fixed his face in an impersonation of Jorge when they would all be dragged out to attend the funerals of Runners who died in the line of duty. It was stoic, empty, and Thomas always hated to see it, but now it seemed like the perfect expression to keep to. 

The choosing was complex in One, Two, and Four. A part of Thomas wished he were born in one of the outlying districts so they didn’t have to go through such a complicated process. From what he had heard, they changed the course every year so—despite the Elite’s other advantages—they couldn’t train for it specifically and the choosing would still technically be random.

One year it had been an obstacle course. Another it had been duels. And, according to The Life of A Victor, written by a woman called Penelope, one year all the volunteers had been brought to a temporary dome built behind the Justice Building and given a bow and a quiver filled with arrows that were laced with a sedative. They were mostly blunt, non-lethal, but Thomas didn’t like the idea of that. 

After a short speech from Starlette the group was instructed to follow behind a Keeper to be led behind the Justice Building—where all of the choosing courses were held—and the group let out small gasps and murmurs as they laid eyes upon two small buildings that had been constructed. The girls were led to the farthest one, and Thomas and the other boys were escorted to the closest. 

They filed through the door into a bright room that was lined with shelves. Each shelf held what looked to be the same thing, and Thomas assumed it was gear for whatever course they’d be participating in. The Keeper that led them there pulled off her mask, revealing the very stern look on her face. 

Without even offering a greeting or introduction, the Keeper cleared her throat and began. “First you will be searched for any weapons or foreign objects. Next, you will dress yourself in the provided gear. If you need assistance, you should not have volunteered.” 

A few boys snickered. 

“Do so—quickly—and then I will go over the course material.” 

So they did, each being quickly searched by her then stepping to the shelves and removing a bundle of gear from the slots. Thomas dressed himself quickly, stripping off his fancy clothes and replacing them with the sweats that had been in the bundle. They were a gloomy red, District Two’s colour, and thin. Next he pulled on the chest piece, tightening the straps before grabbing the odd holster he assumed needed to be clicked onto his leg. 

Pushing his discarded clothing into his now-empty cubby, Thomas deemed himself fit and went to stand before the Keeper. She didn’t look at him, but he copied her straight stance and held his chin high, hands tucked behind his back. The rest of the boys joined him soon after, and the very last went up with the holster snug around his arm. 

The Keeper took one look at him, frowned, and pointed to the door. “Out.” 

“What?” the boy huffed. “But I–” 

“Get out.” 

Her tone and expression were more than enough to send him back to his cubby to retrieve his things, and within the minute he was out the door. 

“This course is simple,” she went on, unfazed. She was a Runner, based on the bright red banner that sat over her heart. Thomas wondered if she thought herself above running the course. “Each of you will be given a weapon, non-lethal, and three bracelets.” 

Thomas hoped it wasn’t a bow. 

“In order to eliminate someone else, you must strike their chest piece with said weapon. Individually, you cannot take all of another persons bracelets. Only one at a time. Once you’ve lost all three bracelets, you’ll be eliminated.” 

“So if you hit someone, you have to wait until they’re hit again by someone else in order to eliminate them?” a brown-haired boy asked. 

“Yes.” she answered. 

He nodded. “What if–” 

“Get out,” she cut in, quiet and yet somehow a shout all the same. 

The boy stared at her a minute, but left to change without another word. 

“There are three rules,” she continued. “One, you may not back out once it's begun. Two, you may not team up. Three, no physical altercations outside of the permitted. You are not animals, and if you behave as such you will be eliminated.” 

She went quiet, as if waiting for questions, but none came. She seemed relieved. “Follow me.” 

Thomas and the others pooled by a door behind her, and spilled inside one by one as she pushed it open. As they passed she scanned each of them with an odd device, and as she pressed it to Thomas' wrist he watched as three white lines appeared wrapped around his wrist, as if they were embedded into his skin. The room he then entered was large, the walls, floors, and ceilings a bright white that reflected the overhead lighting so violently his eyes scrunched into a blurry squint. 

“Grab a weapon, holster it, then take a spot within any of the circles,” she instructed, gesturing to the many randomly splayed out painted circles. First he grabbed a blunt stick from the rack beside the entrance, then Thomas found a circle near the back wall. Once everyone had chosen a spot, the Keeper stepped back through the door, calling, “Remember the rules,” before shutting herself inside the connected room. 

Thomas blinked, and then the room was pitch black. All he could make out was the small white of their bracelets, which glowed in the darkness. 

“Has it started?” a boy whispered. 

Another made a confused sound. 

Thomas’ hand fled down to his leg, touching over the cool plastic material of his weapon. It was similar to the batons Runners carried, though it was smaller and softer. A part of Thomas hoped the course would be something a bit more difficult, something more…hands on. He imagined that Teresa felt the same. 

He wondered how well she would fare, considering her group had been so much larger than Thomas’ own. He thought of their deal, and although he did want to win, a part of him worried that if he won and Teresa didn’t, she would never forgive him. Another part of him was focused on Jorge. If Thomas lost, would he have a home to return to?

In the middle of a room a large hologram appeared, dimly lighting the area around it. At first it was just the Glade’s logo slowly spinning, the anthem playing softly. None of the boys had moved from their positions, all too afraid of being eliminated. 

And then the logo morphed into a countdown from thirty, each number being called out by a monotone voice much like in the Trials themselves. Thomas sucked in a long, deep breath, forcing his heart rate to even out, and forcing his mind to focus on the goal at hand.

If Thomas lost, that would make Teresa right. Everything she thought of him, everything she said that he was to her friends, all of it would become true. That he was weak, incapable. Hank and Adam would spend the rest of the year berating him, and if Teresa came home a Victor, his entire living would be built off of her victory. 

And she would love that. She would remind him of it every day. That was probably the sole reason she told him to volunteer this year, to make her own victory that much sweeter. She wasn’t just winning against twenty-three other tributes, she was winning against Thomas. 

And Jorge. Jorge who saw him as nothing more than the runt of the litter. Jorge who didn’t just think he would lose in the Trials, but knew. If Thomas came home a Victor, Jorge would finally see him. No longer would he be just Teresa’s little brother, just Darnell’s friend, or just Jorge’s kid. No, he would be Thomas. A Victor. One who helped in repaying the debts of those before them and brought honour to their district. 

The countdown was at three and Thomas wrapped his hand around the holstered baton. When it struck two he let himself tense, eyes locked on a boy a few feet in front of him. When it fell to one the countdown exploded into light that filled the room, only to dissipate quickly and leave them in total and entire darkness. 

What came next was nothing if not utter chaos. 

Grunts and shouts filled the space, the sound of plastic smacking against plastic hitting like a car backfiring against the sealed room. Thomas focused and lunged forward, jumping after a boy who had been standing still, his bracelets giving him away. His baton landed on the boy’s chest after a few misses, causing one of his bracelets to fade away, and Thomas covered the light of his own and snuck back as the other began to blindly swing towards him. 

He bumped into someone else, blocking the other’s arm with his free hand as it swung towards him, baton moments away from smashing into him, and instead plunged his own into the other’s chest. The guy cursed and pulled away, bracelet hand shooting out into the dark and grabbing at something. 

Thomas took a step back, but by the time he realized the other boy had struck someone else it was too late, and a harsh blow landed on his chest piece. He slunk away quickly, but fell onto his bottom as his feet got tangled up on what he soon realized was another person. 

“Ow!” the boy shouted. 

Thomas scrambled away a few paces. “Well what are you doing on the floor?” 

“I’m eliminated,” the other huffed. 

“Get up.” 

“I can’t, asshole.” 

Thomas frowned, but got to his feet, stepping more carefully. 

He wanted to do something, anything, but he could barely make out his own limbs let alone what was going on around him. Bodies brushed by him, sometimes he caught them and others he didn’t, but overall he didn’t know who he had hit versus who he hadn’t. 

In frustration Thomas knelt to the ground for cover, quickly examining his own two remaining bracelets before trying to gather the scene. Though, before he had the chance someone was tripping over him, toppling onto the ground beside him. 

The single line on the other’s wrist stared at him, and Thomas moved without another thought, his baton coming down violently until it hit against the hard plates of the chest piece. The boy cursed, and Thomas nearly thanked him for the idea. 

So, crouched on the floor he remained. The other boys would either trip over him, knees toppling into his back—the bruises would be worth it—or their legs were caught by his hands as they tried to breeze past. It was almost easy. And especially satisfying when he would take someone’s last line and watch as they were glued to the floor. 

Eventually the shouts lessened one by one until Thomas was almost entirely certain there were only three boys left outside of himself. He couldn't see them, obviously, but there were sets of small sounds coming from three different directions. His own wrist—the one bearing his last two bracelets—was tucked between his legs, hidden from view. The others must’ve had a similar idea, because Thomas could only make out one distant light in the sea of darkness. 

“Where are you?” someone sing-songed, far enough from him. “Come out and play.” 

“Man,” another boy said. “Don’t make it weird.” 

A few laughs came from those stuck on the floor. 

Thomas started to shuffle towards the boy whose light was out, hands carefully reaching out to ensure he didn’t fall on top of the floor-dwellers. His mood had heightened significantly, as did his confidence. He’d made it this far, and he was just a few people away from winning against Teresa. 

“What’re your guys’ names?” the first voice said again. “Mine’s Jackson.” 

The second voice came quickly, a decent few paces to Thomas’ left. “Stan.” 

“Peter,” another said from far behind Thomas. 

“Thomas,” he risked, then began to scoot away quietly.

“So,” Jackson drawled. He was moving, Thomas could tell. By his guess he was after Stan, who must’ve sounded the closest. “How are you all doing?” 

“What’s your plan here?” Stan asked, and Thomas had withhold from telling him to shut up. “Small talk your way into winning?” 

Jackson said nothing, leaving them in a tense silence.

A light flickered in front of Thomas’ face, and just as he went to jump back a baton slammed into him. Throwing caution to the wind he got up and ran until he hit a wall, then moved along until he found the corner, then slid down it, clutching at his wrist which now only held one sad little bracelet. 

“Yes!” Peter shouted. The scuffle of feet sounded, then the unmistakable smack of a baton against a chestpiece, then a groan after a slam into the ground. “No,” Peter muttered meekly. 

“Rookie mistake,” Stan said smugly, around five, maybe six paces away from Thomas. “Should’ve–” 

Another smack, another slam. 

“Man you guys suck at this,” Jackson said happily, even chuckling a little. His voice moved further away. “Who’s left now? Is it just us, Thomas?”

He held his breath, bracelet arm half-shoved under his shirt. 

“I’ve got one left, you?” Jackson tried again. When Thomas said nothing, Jackson sighed. “Don’t be like that. Come on out, this has got to end one way or another.” 

And then a small light flashed, revealing Jackson to be maybe ten paces in front of him, standing closer to the right side of the room. Thomas searched his mind for a Jackson, hoping they were from the same section so he had at least an inkling as to what he looked like. Was he faster? Bigger? He should’ve looked around more at the other volunteers when he had a chance. 

“Where’d you run off to?” Jackson asked. “No way you’ve got two or three. Wouldn't have run away if you did.” He took a few steps, moving even closer to the right wall, at least that’s what Thomas thought. “No, but you ran. So, even then, are we?” 

“Do you ever shut up?” Stan said from the floor. 

“Thomas,” Jackson began to chant mockingly, his baton smacking against the wall then screeching along it. “Thomas, Thomas, Thomas.” 

Teresa would’ve hated this guy. A part of Thomas almost wanted to let him win just to watch someone else eliminate him next week. Confidence was important when playing in the Trials, but too much left you dying all the more painfully. No one liked a cocky tribute. 

Jackson was getting closer by the minute, still quietly chanting Thomas’ name. It was entirely possible that he could go after the guy now and win, but there was too much of a risk. Jackson could hit him first, or Thomas could trip on another volunteer and leave himself entirely vulnerable. No. He needed to catch the other off guard. 

He leaned forward and began to crawl, pawing for a body on the floor. Eventually he came in contact with one, and he shoved his hand over the boy’s mouth just as he began to make a noise. Carefully Thomas grabbed the baton from his hand and threw it across the room, the loud bang of it hitting the opposite wall and echoing through the room.

The screeching of Jackson’s baton stopped, and Thomas held his breath. 

“Rookie mistake,” Jackson muttered. 

Thomas listened to the sounds of Jackson’s slow walk, and moved quickly and quietly over the bodies on all fours. He was grateful no one could see him, and grateful they didn’t record and broadcast the courses, because Thomas couldn’t imagine he looked all that good hurling himself across the room on his hands and feet like a deranged animal. 

Eventually he stopped, crouching on his feet right in Jackson’s path. To their credit, not one of the boy’s lying on the ground had made a single peep outside of annoyed groans or sighs, and seemed to have some sort of appreciation for decent sportsmanship. 

Jackson’s footsteps came nearer, just a few steps from running into Thomas, when suddenly he stopped. 

“Huh.” Thomas held his breath and slowly, carefully looked up, seeing the dim glow of the bracelet startlingly close to him. “Where are ya, chickenshit?” 

Against his better judgement, Thomas quietly faced his body fully towards the other and reared back slightly, ready to pounce. And he did, throwing himself forwards and blindly smacking his baton down until it landed against hard plastic. Jackson’s own baton had found his chest, however, and Thomas couldn’t make out who had hit who first. 

Suddenly the lights came on, blinding him for a second before he blinked hard and watched as Jackson’s reddened face came into view. Light brown hair reached past his ears, darker bits matted to his forehead with sweat. And he was looking at Thomas like…

Like he wanted to kill him. 

“Son of a bitch!” Jackson bit out, throwing Thomas to the ground where he narrowly missed falling into another boy. A weight dropped on his stomach and by the time Thomas registered that Jackson was on top of him, a fist slammed down onto his jaw. “I fucking hate you!” 

Thomas’ arms were pinned to his sides by Jackson’s knees, but he fought anyway, trying to pull them out. Jackson hit him again, and then once more on his nose by the time he was pulled off. The explosion of pain all over his face pulled a groan out from him as he hoisted himself up, then slumped over on his knees. Blood was dripping from his nose and onto the shocking white of the floor. He cupped his hands over his face to catch it. 

“This was my fucking year!” Jackson roared, two Keepers struggling to hold his massive arms. “I’ve been training my whole life for this shit! Let me go!” 

The Keeper who had led the course came up to the writhing boy, looked him in the eye for a moment, then drove her own baton into his stomach. Jackson tensed instantly at the contact, his entire body beginning to shake violently, eyes rolling back into his head. It must’ve been electric. 

“Get a stretcher,” she said blandly as she pulled her baton away and the boy fell to the ground. She turned around and looked at Thomas, not a flicker of emotion crossing over her face. “Congratulations.” 

Thomas, despite the pain all over and his truly anticlimactic win, smiled wide, the metallic taste of blood pooling on his tongue. 

“Er, ma’am?” one of the others called from the floor. Thomas looked around and choked out a laugh at the sight of nearly thirty boys splayed in all sorts of positions on the floor, locked in place. “Can you let us up now?” 

Fifteen or so minutes later Thomas walked alongside the Keeper in his proper clothes, a bit of tissue shoved up his nose to keep it from bleeding further. It hadn’t been broken, apparently, and the leader of the course told him he was fine and to walk it off, so he did. 

The group was brought into one of the many back entrances to the Justice Building, the other volunteers were then guided to an exit where they would return to their individual age groups, while Thomas was escorted to the main hall. The massive curtains were drawn over the windows that faced out onto the square, and the chatter bled in loudly. His insides squirmed at the idea of being under the crowd's attention.

Starlette, who had been waiting for him, greeted him fondly, congratulating him and explaining that the girls' own course hadn’t finished yet and they’d have to wait just a few minutes longer. It didn’t matter. Teresa was up against many more people than Thomas was, she didn’t stand a chance. 

“So,” Starlette whispered, taking one of his hands with both of hers. His eyes fell to them, confused as to how they were so vibrantly coloured. It was almost as if she really did have teal skin. “What’s your name? What’s your story?” 

“Thomas,” he told her, voice matched to her quiet one. “And I don’t know, really. Nothing special.” 

While his life wasn’t anything special, his victory really was. If he were honest, Thomas still wasn’t sure he had won, still wasn’t sure he was going into the Trials. It was almost as if he were waiting for someone to come into the room and pull him off to the side, tell him it was all a mistake and he’d have to return home to a furious Jorge who may not even allow him back. 

But it wasn’t a mistake, it couldn’t be. Jackson—no matter who had eliminated who—had broken the rules, ensuring Thomas’ victory either way. Thomas had won, and he was going into the Trials. 

Thomas was going into the Trials.  

All of those years spent at the academy, and the years prior to the academy in the backyard with Jorge, learning to fight with sticks he pretended were beautiful, sharply detailed swords. The late nights he spent sitting across from Teresa in her bed, the pair taking turns interviewing each other and asking stupid questions like how will your favourite colour affect your swordsmanship? And he had done it. He had really, truly done it despite everyone thinking he couldn't. 

It was far more than a few minutes later when the girls course had finally finished. Thomas’ heart was in throat, admittedly, because if he and Teresa did somehow manage to go into the Trials together…well, he didn’t want to think about it. He really, really didn’t want to think about it. And yet the image still floated through his mind at least once every second while they awaited the female tribute's arrival. 

“Come with me, love,” Starlette said soon after informing him the other group was finishing up and his district partner would be on her way shortly. “We’ve got to clean you up a bit.” 

“Can I just–” He gestured to the door he had come through. “Wait and see?” 

Starlette frowned, confused, but nodded. “Okay. I’m sure they’ll just be a minute.” 

Less than a minute, actually. The Keeper—another Runner—who must’ve led the girls course pushed through the door just a few moments later, a red haired girl who Thomas had never met before in tow. Relief flooded through his veins until he began to feel light headed, and he allowed Starlette to whisk him off to another room. 

Another woman found them quickly, and worked silently as Starlette instructed her. She was in an odd, flowy white outfit and wore a necklace that looked similar to the ones tributes wore in the Trials. It wasn’t so much a necklace as a collar, though hers held no district number on its tag and instead had four letters etched onto the surface. 

W.C.K.D

She must’ve worked for the Glade. It explained why she wouldn’t meet his eye, and why she didn’t say a single thing as Starlette ordered her around like it was second nature. He would’ve felt bad for the woman, but it was a job like every other. Most people hated their work, or at least that’s what Jorge had told him. 

It seemed the red-haired girl had also gone to be cleaned up, because when he returned to the main hall, rid of his blood stained skin and unkempt hair, she wasn’t there. He was placed in front of the massive double door that led out to the stage with Starlette standing beside him. 

The image of Teresa standing in the crowd floated through his mind, the anger and betrayal he would find on her face as their eyes met. It had been Thomas’ dream too, but he knew Teresa had been holding hope for her participation in the Trials to a much more extreme extent than him. He didn’t know why, because she never gave any further explanation than wanting to do right by her district, but it was important to her. 

It wasn’t as if his winning had prevented hers, it wasn’t his fault directly, but she would blame him anyway. Maybe he should’ve let Jackson win and gone the next year instead. Jorge was already angry with him, and now Teresa too? What would it be like when he returned home at the end of the Trials? Would they even want to live with Thomas in the Village?

The doors clicked open, pulling Thomas out of his thoughts, and he was suddenly faced with the massive crowd of District Two’s population who were screaming and cheering, jumping up and down like madmen. A part of him wanted to smile, to wave, but stress sat heavy in his chest now and he couldn’t find the energy for it. So he put on the cold, stoic expression once more, trying to appear confident and…well, intimidating? He didn’t know. 

“What was your name again dear?” Starlette said beside him. He nearly answered, but he soon realized she was talking to the other tribute on her left who had appeared while he was lost in his mind. 

“Teresa,” the red-haired girl said. Thomas thought that was one giant coincidence–

Wait.  

Trying to be somewhat subtle, Thomas peeked past Starlette and found that the red-haired girl had not been the winning tribute, and instead, it was his sister. 

Thomas’ sister had won. 

Teresa had won. 

He straightened again just as the doors finished their slow opening and Starlette began walking, both Thomas and Teresa keeping up with her—though the former was trying to cage in the shock that roared through his mind. It wasn’t happening. It couldn’t possibly be happening. Teresa had gone up against a hundred other girls, all of whom had presumably gone to the academy. 

She was good, but she wasn’t that good. Right? She couldn’t have been. No one was that good. It must’ve been pure luck. Or maybe Thomas’ pure awful luck. 

It wasn’t happening. He was hallucinating. Teresa—who had to be in the crowd—was right, he was crazy. 

Starlette introduced them, but the words were muffled against the blood rush in Thomas’ ears. Their escort was speaking to the mass of District Two, going on about something or another while Thomas and Teresa were standing on the same stage, about to be brought to the Glade together. He thought she might've asked them both questions, and he honestly didn't know what he had said in response. There was obviously some sort of rule against this sort of thing. There had to be. 

Starlette finished and took a few steps back from the microphone, and Thomas—like he had seen in many choosings before—turned to shake the other tribute's hand as if it were instinct. But she wasn’t just some tribute, it was his sister. It was Teresa. 

She turned at the same time, an air of indifference around her. How was she so calm? He reached out a clammy, trembling hand, and she took it. Hers was cold, sticky with the invisible residue of blood not properly washed off, just as his own were. Their eyes met, and the world shifted beneath Thomas’ feet. 

Teresa’s eyes were cold, normal, but they kept flickering down. Her grip was steady, but her free hand was tapping against her leg. She held her head high, but there was a line formed between her brow, nearly invisible. 

Teresa was scared. 

Thomas felt like he was going to throw up. 

Keepers came up behind them, one for each, making them part and leading them back into the Justice Building. The cheers and shouts of the crowd dulled as the mammoth doors swung shut, and the massive bang seemed to snap Thomas into the reality of the situation. 

“There’s been a mistake,” he told the Keeper that was leading him to an adjacent room on the other side of the hall from Teresa. “That’s my sister.” 

“What’s the mistake?” the Keeper asked gruffly. 

“Well, I mean it’s…it’s a conflict of interest, isn’t it?” he tried, feeling desperate as the door they were headed towards came closer. “I mean, there’s a rule against it, isn’t there?” 

“Dunno,” the man grumbled, stopping at the door and unlocking it. “Probably not.” 

The man shoved the door open and ushered Thomas inside, who went, but turned back. “Can you ask? Because I really don’t–” 

The door slammed in his face. 

“Fuck,” he muttered to himself, beginning to pace the cushy room. “Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck!” 

Jorge was right, they were stupid. They were idiotic, the pair of them. Never before had anyone ever been so utterly and entirely moronic. It didn’t matter that they were the top of their classes in school, nor did it matter how well they did in the academy, Thomas and Teresa were the stupidest, most idiotic and most moronic people to ever step foot in their district. 

He should run away now, venture into mountains and never look back. He could do it. He certainly had to know-how on how to survive that way. 

Thomas ran his hands roughly down his face, deciding to shut off his mind for a moment and to just look around, to figure something out. He found himself in a somewhat cozy looking room. One of the walls was covered by a large bookshelf containing literature about Mayze, and there were a few cushy couches and chairs scattered about. Thomas stepped towards the closest one, sinking down into it. 

He picked at the fraying seam on his pants. He chewed at the nail of his thumb. He ran hands over his face once, twice, three times. There was a clock somewhere, ticking again and again. The beginning of a sweat began between his shoulder blades. 

Thomas knew bits and pieces of what was to come before the actual Trials themselves, everyone in District Two did. There would be a few viewings to gather favour, an interview too, to help with Sponsors—not that they needed it—all with glittery outfits and weird Glader-like fashion. There would be training so the Makers could rank them. Their every move was important. 

He thought of himself on stage, thought about whether or not his stoic expression had faltered at all upon seeing Teresa. Luckily the footage wasn’t shown until all of the tributes were chosen, so he had a few days before anyone would see him humiliating himself. He wondered how Teresa had acted. She was probably as Victor-esque as always. 

He wondered what she was thinking at that moment, and thought of the fear he saw in her on stage. It had been many, many years since he had seen his sister afraid. When they were five and six, an odd brown snake had found its way into their garbage and she had screamed so loud Thomas’ ears had rung for an hour after. Nothing similar had happened since. Until now. 

What was she so afraid of? Did she fear what Thomas did? Or was she just nervous on stage, and really deep down she was excited? Did she care that they were going in together? 

The deadbolt clicked open and Thomas rose in an instant, ready to face Jorge. 

But it wasn’t Jorge. It was Darnell. 

He nearly broke out into a relieved smile, but his friend stopped it from ever rising when he crossed the room and dragged Thomas by the shirt towards a wall, slamming him into it hard enough that the painting nailed above him rattled. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Darnell barked, pulling Thomas off the wall only to shove him back against it. “Are you whacked in the head?” 

He frowned. “Whacked? Is that even a word?” 

Darnell paused, blinked, then shoved his chest once more before taking a step back. “I can’t believe you. I can’t. You must be the dullest person I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting.” 

His friend’s own unstable emotions seemed to paint a clear coat of calmness over Thomas’ anxiety, allowing him to step forward and attempt to catch the other’s eyes, voice low. “Hey, it’ll be fine.” 

“Fuck off with that,” Darnell spat, shoving him again. Thomas opted to just stay against the wall. “You’re dead, Thomas. Have you wrapped your little brain around that? You’re going to die. You’re going to die. Do you even understand a smidge of what’s happening right now? What’s going to happen?”

Thomas crossed his arms over his chest, rolling his eyes. “Your faith really does mean a lot to me, you know. Some friend you are.” 

“I’ve got no faith in you,” Darnell snarled, rounding on him. “None. You’re dead already.” 

“How can you even say that? You’ve seen me fight, you know I’m just as–” 

“Oh, I’ve seen plenty,” Darnell cut in. “No I have. I’ve seen you with your little swords and your little knives and your stupid little wrestling matches. I’ve seen it all.” He stared right into Thomas’ eyes, something fiery in his own. “Wanna know what else I’ve seen?”

Thomas didn’t. Not really. He didn’t voice that, however. In fact, he didn’t say anything at all, only stared at his friend, feeling suffocated at the change in demeanor. Darnell never got angry. 

“I’ve seen you with her, with Teresa,” Darnell said quietly, venom on his tongue. “I’ve seen you all mopey every time she lets you down. I’ve seen you spend hours with Jorge training to be like her.” He opened his mouth to argue, but Darnell held up a hand, silencing him. “Do you want to know why you can’t eat while you watch the Trials, Thomas?” 

He rolled his eyes. 

Darnell took it as a yes. “It’s because—even if you don’t know it—that shit makes you sick.” 

“You don’t know what you’re–” 

“It’s because even if you’ve spent your entire life trying to be, you’ll never be like them. That’s what I like about you, and now you’ve gone off and killed yourself. What am I supposed to do with that?” 

Darnell was right. Not about Thomas being different to everyone else in the same way he was, but about Thomas’ inability to win. Without his sister there, he had a decent chance against nearly every district. Tributes from Two won nearly every other year, they were simply better than the rest of the districts. It wasn't arrogance, it was fact. 

But with Teresa? How could he be expected to hurt her, let alone eliminate her? Essentially everyday of his entire life his sister had been by his side, and the rare days when she wasn’t had always ended up terrible. They fought. A lot. Sometimes it even got physical. But not once in his entire life had Thomas gone after his sister with intention to truly hurt her. 

And he didn’t think he could. 

Darnell’s words—no matter the minor truth within them—only planted a seed of anger in his stomach, the shell unfurling and releasing a heat that scorched his insides. He rose to his full height, glaring down at the other. “I don’t know why you’ve convinced yourself I’m like you—maybe because I’m the only person in this place that doesn’t hate your guts—but I’m not.” He looked the other over. “I’m not a traitor. I don’t say things that would get me killed. And I do not bring shame to my family by–” 

“Shame to your family?” Darnell cut in, huffing an empty laugh. “What family? Your family’s dead. And how d’you think that happened?” 

Thomas froze. “Don’t.” 

“They were killed. And who do you think killed them?” Darnell cocked his head mockingly. “The same people you’re sacrificing yourself for are the ones who orphaned you. And you know what the best fucking part is?” 

“Please stop.” 

“Your sister’s gonna do the job.” 

Thomas didn’t know what happened to his parents, and he assumed he wouldn’t ever know. But it could’ve been many things. Sickness. An accident. Rebels, even. But Darnell had clung onto the idea that they had been traitors like him and had been executed. 

“People their age don’t just suddenly die, Thomas.”

Darnell didn’t ever bring it up outside of arguments like this one, which didn’t happen all that often with them. But when he did, it felt like someone had torn into his chest and pulled his bloody, pulsing heart right out from inside of him. And his friend knew that. It was why he did it. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered. 

“Maybe,” Darnell shrugged, looking off to the side then turning back. “Maybe not. But I know one thing.” He pointed to the door, to their district. “When you die for an unworthy cause, they’re going to celebrate it.” 

Thomas scoffed. “So be it.” 

Darnell threw his arms up, then dropped them against his sides. “So fucking be it.” 

They stared at each other for another few seconds before Darnell turned off towards the door with one final sigh. Thomas was angry, he really was, but not nearly enough to blind him to the fact that there was a chance he wouldn’t ever see his friend again. His only friend, at that. 

“Hey,” he called as the other knocked on the door to be let out. Darnell turned to look at him, anger drained from the steel gray of his eyes, leaving only exhaustion behind. “You gonna weep for me?” 

Darnell’s lip quirked, if only a little. “‘Course. Night and day.”

And then Darnell was gone, and Thomas was all alone. 

Slumping back down onto the couch, he let out a groan that felt like the very tip of the iceberg when it came to the disgruntled sounds he wished he could release. Thomas wanted to scream for hours, scream and scream until his throat bled. He had seemed to disappoint every single person in his life in one fell swoop. 

Then there was the other thing. There was the inevitably that crept up behind him, not touching, not yet, but just remaining there, out of sight but not out of mind. And it was on that couch Thomas decided to ignore it entirely, as if it was never there to begin with. He couldn’t erase it, couldn’t escape it. But he could close his eyes to it. He could shut it out. 

It wasn’t until over half an hour later that Thomas heard footsteps outside his door, a muffled greeting, then the jingle of keys. He jumped off the couch in an instant, straightening out the wrinkles Darnell’s fists had warped into his shirt and stood as tall as he could. 

Thomas was already prepared for Jorge’s disappointment. But a small part of him hoped that his…that his guardian would be just slightly proud of him. Because—though it hadn’t worked out the way he had hoped—Thomas was still going into the Trials, he had won the choosing, he had a chance. And it was with that chance that he was going to do right by Jorge, by his district. 

And maybe Jorge would see that. See his determination and his ambition. And maybe Thomas would get a taste of the pride that Jorge always looked to Teresa with. 

It wasn’t as though Jorge was awful to Thomas, not at all. From an outside perspective Teresa and Thomas were treated exactly the same. But there was just something about Jorge and Teresa that didn’t exist anywhere else. Maybe it was love. But it seemed bigger than that.

Jorge stepped inside and turned to quietly close the door. Thomas’ heart sped up as the other took a few steps closer to him, eyes surveying, expression otherwise unreadable. Thomas needed something, anything. 

And he got it. 

Via a palm stricken across his cheek. 

“How could you do this to me, Thomas?” 

It wasn’t long ago that Thomas had taken three jabs to the face, but the slap Jorge doled out onto him hurt worse than all of them. The sting of it travelled beyond his skin and throughout him, only so painful due to the person attached to hand. 

Thomas’ fingers ran over the area Jorge had struck, trying to soothe it. The older man looked nothing like himself, crows feet born from smiles and laughter creasing in nothing else but anger and… and something else that Thomas couldn’t understand. His brown eyes were jumping all over Thomas, as if the answer to his question was etched into Thomas’ skin. 

Jorge took a few steps back at Thomas’ silence. “How could you be so idiotic? So… so unintelligent? How? Tell me, boy.” 

Thomas straightened, dropping his hand and ignoring the pain in order to appear confident. “Jorge, I won’t disappoint you. I’ll do right by you, I swear–” 

“Do right by me?” Jorge roared, advancing until there was little more than a body of space between them. “You think dying will do right by me? Killing?”

He didn’t have the words to right this, didn’t have an explanation. 

“Sit,” Jorge ordered after a quiet moment, and Thomas quickly made his way back to the couch, sinking down onto it. Jorge towered over him this way, arms crossed and expression stormy. Thomas felt small. “What is done, is done. I cannot fix this.” He cupped his chin, rubbing at the stubble there. “Both,” he muttered under his breath. “Both of you.” 

“I’m sorry,” he managed, sharp pain shooting through his heart. “I really thought that, you know…” 

Jorge bent down in front of Thomas, voice coming out so low Thomas had to strain to hear it. “Now, you listen to my every word, you hear me boy?” 

“Yes,” he said quickly. 

“Nothing is as you believe it to be,” Jorge muttered. “The Capitol, the districts, none of it.” He put a hand on Thomas’ knee. “Your sister was made for this world, but you were not. However, the damage is dealt, so here’s what you’re going to do.” 

It felt like he’d been slapped again, but Thomas didn’t argue. He only nodded. 

“Never leave your sister’s side, do you understand?" Jorge gave him an intense look until he nodded again. "No matter what, the second you’re in that arena you stick to her like lint.” The older man squeezed his knee. “You’re a good kid. You’re smart. But there is a bigger picture here, and I need your trust.” 

None of what was being said made any sense. “For what?” 

“I–” Jorge stopped, shut his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, there was something dismissive in his gaze. “Stick with Teresa, watch her back.” He stood up, patting Thomas’ hair. “You’ve been good.” 

Jorge was walking away. It was his goodbye. 

Thomas swallowed hard, watching him go. “Maybe I’ll see you again.” 

Jorge turned back as the Keeper opened the door. “Maybe.” 

And then the older man left. Thomas just sat there, staring at the place the older man once stood for many minutes, wondering how long he had spent with Teresa as compared to the measly few minutes he had spent with him. 

Time passed slower than it ever had, Thomas having no more visitors and presumably waiting for Teresa to be done with her many adoring fans. That fact alone was enough for him to be chewing on his lip until the metallic taste of blood flared in his mouth, imagining how many people who knew the pair of them were hoping—praying—for Teresa to return as opposed to him. 

But finally a knock sounded and Thomas rose as a Keeper stepped inside, giving him a nod and leading him back out into the main room of the Justice Building. Teresa walked in as he did, eyes avoiding his as she held her chin high and wore a seemingly permanent smile. Not an obvious one, just the quirk of lips anyone that prideful would bear. 

He’d given a halfhearted attempt of catching her attention, but it was in vain, so instead he just wore his stoic expression and let the two Keepers guide them outside where Starlette awaited them with a shiny blue car for them to step into. The driver was a wiry man who took off the minute the doors shut, and Starlette sat in the passenger seat, going into a rant of compliments about how powerful the pair looked. 

As Thomas watched the buildings and people of his district whir by, he decided he didn’t feel all that powerful. He felt… alone. Like even his own people wouldn’t be cheering for him, hoping for his victory. That right was reserved for his sister. With all the doubts pouring in from every corner, Thomas’ determination had taken a blow or two. 

Some time later they walked along the train station, Teresa giving minuscule nods to those who gathered to see them off and Thomas pettily ignoring them all. He felt overwhelmed with the calls and cheers of people around them, flashes of light and mechanical clicks of intricate cameras making his irritation all the worse. 

It dissipated quickly, however, as when the train doors slid shut silently behind them, they were met with Vincent Hawk. Whoever he was from a distance or behind a screen couldn’t rival the man before them now, all bubbled scars and fierce eyes. Thomas had to give a genuine effort not to hound the man with questions, and he knew his sister felt the same way. 

“You,” Vincent huffed, pointing at him. “You did a fantastic job out there, I mean that.” 

Thomas sucked in a long breath, blinking a few times in surprise. “I–thank you, sir.” 

“Now that you’ve presented yourself that way, you’ll have to stick with it. Understood?” Vincent asked, continuing at the questioning look Thomas gave. “That means no smiling, no blushing, no nothing—you get me?” 

“Yes sir,” he breathed, forcing his expression blank as if to prove himself. 

“And you.” Vincent turned to Teresa, looking her up and down. Thomas had to keep himself from looking over and sending his sister a smug smirk. “We’ll figure everything out at another time, yeah? Yeah. Now look.” 

The man moved and both siblings kept to his heel without hesitation, Starlette quietly following behind as they made their way to a separate cart—one that slightly resembled their own living room back home, if not a load more elegant and oddly smooth. Vincent took a seat on a couch, Teresa and Thomas slinking down together on the one in front of him. 

“Here’s how it’s going to go,” Vincent started, rubbing his hands together. “It’ll be just about two days before they’ve got everyone on board—in that time you are free to do as you please, so long as you don’t break anything.” He looked over them both, seemingly expecting an interruption. When none came, he continued. “We’ll watch the recap together, get a look at your competition, then it’ll be another two days until we arrive at the Capitol.”

The Glade. Thomas had seen bits and pieces of the place on screen, but never before in person. Jorge—having previously been a Runner—had told them about it now and again. Incredible buildings that touched the sky and water fountains the size of houses. The fear, the hurt, it was all fading now, making room for excitement. 

“You won’t be seeing a lot of me before the recap, as it’s illegal for us to begin training before the rest of the tributes.” He crossed a leg over the other, giving Thomas a slightly amused look—if you could call the way his eyebrow jumped up slightly amused—and nodded. “As I’m sure you two are well aware.” 

“Question,” Teresa said, shifting in her seat slightly. “If I may, uhm, your Trials…” 

Vincent’s expression—laid back and seemingly calm—switched to something hard and unapproachable, giving them a glimpse of the boy who was so vicious his Trials were never to be seen again. “You may not.” 

Disappointment was the main feeling that struck Thomas then, but instead of showing it he looked at his sister with a frown, shaking his head as if her question was utterly preposterous. She glared back at him, and Thomas’ chest swelled as he turned back to Vincent. 

“When’s breakfast?” he asked, stomach grumbling. 

Vincent’s face morphed back into its somewhat relaxed state, and his lip quirked up a bit. “Starlette will show you to your chambers, and I’m sure she’ll be happy to answer all of your questions regarding the food situation.” Starlette made a happy sound behind them, and Vincent nodded. “And I’ll be seeing the pair of you soon enough.” 

Hours later Thomas sat under the hot water of his shower, opening his mouth and letting the oddly fragranced liquid pool under his tongue, only to spit it out and do it again. Along the walls sat shelves aligned with all kinds of soaps Thomas had taken to testing. He didn’t know how long it had been since he got in, but his fingers were beginning to prune painfully. 

A minute or so later he begrudgingly stepped out and found a towel, running it over his hair before tying it around his waist and stepping out of the adjoining bathroom into his room. The bed was one of the most massive ones he had ever seen—bigger than Jorge’s—and atop it sat an array of blankets, all of which were the same shade of red, though they varied in texture. 

He changed into some soft red clothes from the wardrobe beside the door and laid back on the mattress, staring at the ceiling as a genuine wave of joy washed over him. Thomas was going into the Trials. It couldn’t be a dream or a trick, he was finally proving to them all that he wasn’t weak, wasn’t a coward. 

And if he didn’t think too much, didn’t allow himself to wonder about the little voice in the back of his mind, the reminder, he could feel entirely content with his decision. 

The sound of his door sliding open startled him slightly, but when he noticed it was only one of the Capitol workers in the flowy outfits, he calmed. It wasn’t the same girl he had met before, but she wore her hair slicked back in a similar way and had the same collar. Her eyes didn’t draw his way once. 

He wondered what it would be like to work for the Glade.

“Hello,” he said simply, rising from the bed to offer her his hand. “I’m Thomas.” 

Finally her eyes landed on him, wide and confused. She didn’t take his hand nor did she speak a single word, only looked at him like there was something wrong with him. Maybe the social etiquette in District Two was far different than in the Glade. Maybe he had offended her, somehow. 

“Sorry,” he muttered, giving her a sheepish smile and dropping his arm. “Uh...what’s your name?” 

Still, she didn’t speak a word, frozen with a pile of his laundry in her arms, eyes fixed on him. He felt awkward now, body sort of recoiling into itself beneath her gaze. In a last ditch attempt to be polite, he just stood there and held her eyes, waiting for her to answer. 

But she didn’t, and he had just been staring at her for what he was certain had been at least sixty seconds. Slowly, as if he were moving around a frightened animal, Thomas sidestepped her and inched towards the door. Her eyes followed him, and he gave an awkward wave as it opened for him. “Er…nice meeting you.” 

Shaking off the humiliating scene, Thomas made his way over to his sister's room, going to knock but failing when the door slid open as he stepped up to it. He rapped knuckles against the frame instead, peeking his head inside. 

Teresa looked up at him from where she sat with her legs crossed on the bed, facing the window. He took her soft expression as permission to come in, shuffling onto her bed and crawling across to plop down beside her. While she turned so their shoulders were nearly touching, she didn’t seem to share the joy he had felt, and her odd demeanour made it lessen in his chest, worry taking over. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, bumping their knees together. 

“‘Course,” she answered. “Never better.” 

“At least try not to sound like a liar.”

His sister laughed lightly, turning to him with a smile. Had she been upset with him at any point, it had vanished, and Thomas had this version of Teresa back in his grasp. Not angry, shouting Teresa, nor quiet and distant Teresa. No, this was Teresa. Smiling, laughing at his jokes and nudging him with her elbow. 

Her expression started to morph, however. The crease in her brow returned, mouth downturning as a shaky exhale escaped her. 

“Tom, this isn’t good.” 

He swallowed, wishing she wouldn’t acknowledge it. “We’ll be fine.” 

“Pfft. Will we?” 

“Yeah. You said we’d be a great team, right?” 

She nodded, gaze drawing to the window again. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t even think there is anything we can do. But I…” She squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, Tom.” 

“Can I?” he asked, raising his arm. When she nodded, he wrapped it around her shoulders, pushing their temples together like Darnell always did. “We’ll figure this out.” 

She huffed, smiling without any of her usual light. “Right.” 

Another day passed, then a night, and by the evening the train had found all of its stops, picking up twenty other tributes and then began to make its way towards the Glade. Thomas had spent some time trying to peek out of the windows to get a glance at their competition, but whenever the train stopped outside a station, the windows turned black. After the third or fourth attempt, Thomas gave up. 

He and Teresa made their way towards the same cart they had spoken to Vincent in on the first day. Starlette had come to Teresa’s chambers half an hour prior to remind them, then again a few more times, so when they got there the teal woman seemed pleased that they hadn’t been late. She fluffed a few pillows before guiding them to sit, quickly scrambling away to grab drinks. 

“What if we get stuck with a bunch of idiots?” Teresa asked, folding her legs up under her. “I don’t think I can both survive and have to fight off the urge to eliminate the people I’m supposed to be allied with at the same time.” 

“I’m sure they’ll be fine,” he replied with an eyeroll. “And it’s better the less you like them, that way eliminating them won’t be hard.” 

Teresa caught his eye, giving a quick smile before busying herself toying with the fringe of a fancy yellow pillow. Thomas watched her hands work for a few moments, swallowing away whatever it was that was bubbling inside his chest. 

“Okay!” Starlette announced, returning to them with that quiet girl Thomas had met on the first day at her heel, a tray of drinks balanced on her gloved hand. He had seen her around since, but hadn't made any more attempts to talk to her. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we? I’m sure Vince’ll show up sooner than later.” 

The girl handed Thomas his drink, and he looked up at her. “Thank you.” 

She still said nothing, looking over him briefly before handing his sister her drink and scurrying off. 

Thomas frowned and turned to his sister, settling into the couch and sipping on the sweet drink he’d been given. “I don’t think she likes me.” 

“Who, that girl?” Teresa asked, glancing back. 

“Oh no my dear,” Starlette tutted, bending down to pat his knee. “That’s an Avox, don’t worry about it.” 

“An Avox?” he asked, cocking his head. “What’s that?” 

The woman carefully placed herself down in a chair, crossing one leg over the other. “It’s a rehabilitation program for criminals. They are modded and gifted to us so they can work off their debts, a lovely thing compared to what was once the punishment.” 

“How long until she’s set free?” Teresa asked. 

The teal woman gave a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, hand straightening out her tight pink dress. “I suppose that depends on the crime in which they committed.”  

Thomas went over the woman’s words once more in his mind. “They’re modded? Like modification? What kind?” 

Starlette grabbed the remote from the short glass table in the center of the couches, turning on the screen just as the anthem began to play, which quickly was lapped over by the familiar celebratory theme of the Trials. “Ah! It’s on!” 

The host—a man whom everyone called Toad—gave a long introduction to the choosing, going on about how interesting the mix of them was for far too long. In the time of his speech spoken in loud words and catchphrases, Vincent joined them, sitting on the chair across from Starlette. He greeted them with nothing more than a nod, attention quickly taken to the screen. 

Thomas watched the older man for a few seconds, eyes tracing over the scar on his face and the split skin that had healed in such a gnarly fashion. It was ugly—torn and bubbling and discoloured—and he found himself wondering if Vincent had chosen to keep it. Thomas had seen many tributes in the Trials leave the arena with horrible gashes and injuries on their faces, but by the time they returned on screen it always looked as though nothing had ever been there in the first place. But Vincent's made him look cool. Thomas would've kept it too.  

Finally the actual footage of the choosing began, and Thomas leaned forwards from where he sat, hands clasped between his knees, excited to view both his allies and competition. His sister sighed beside him as District One came on screen, leaning into him to whisper, “I’ll give you my left arm if these two aren’t the most obnoxious people you’ll ever met.” 

They watched as dozens and dozens of volunteers dispersed from the girls crowd and then the boys, then the footage cut to the doors of the Justice Building opening to the pair that had been successful in their courses. 

The girl—Rachel—bounced up and down, almost throwing the escort to the ground with her happy squeals. She was wearing a soft pink dress, black curled hair braided intricately down her back. The boy—Aris—made a show of pounding his chest and hollering like a mad man, face red with his excitement. They were both fit, medium height, and pretty, as were most from District One, but they wouldn’t know of the duo's skill quite yet. 

“Guess you can keep your arm,” Thomas commented. 

Teresa snorted. “You can say that again.” 

Their own choosing was simple enough, and Teresa had given polite smiles and nods, seeming content to be there without going overboard. Thomas, however, was the spitting image of indifference. Somehow he had almost managed to come off as…scary. Bruised jaw and dead eyes. Seeing such a thing on camera was an odd feeling, but the seemingly proud look Vincent gave him was enough for him to feel more comforted than worried. 

District Three offered a tall boy and a short girl. He’d missed the girl’s name due to the fact that Teresa had more than a few insults to spew about the boy—Ben, who had cried on the stage—and in his laughter he’d missed most of the information. Emotions aside, the boy was large and decently muscled, and certainly could’ve posed as a threat, so Thomas stored his face in the back of his mind. 

Four offered up two promising tributes, to Teresa’s glee. A tall guy with long blond hair, broad and muscled who wore clothes a size too tight. Dan was his name, and Thomas knew by the way he winked at the cameras that his personality would be less than bearable, though the advantage he would give them was certainly enough for him to push away the thought. 

The girl—Mara—almost matched Teresa in being wildly intimidating. She wore a split lip and a black eye, and kept a stone face the entire way through. When she shook Dan’s hand he bent down and whispered something in her ear, and the girl’s annoyed expression sent a trickle of cold down Thomas’ spine.

From that point forward Thomas didn’t pay as much attention—hardly reading the names and going off of looks alone. There were quite a few people he knew would pose absolutely no threat, a boy from Ten, for example. Small and chubby, wringing his hands nervously as he looked out at the crowd, couldn’t have been older than fourteen. He reminded Thomas of the boy Darnell had pointed out to him. He shoved that thought away. 

Finally they chose names from District Twelve—offering up two scrawny teenagers with pale faces and dark circles around their eyes, to no one's surprise—and it came to an end. Thomas went over the names he had stored away in his mind, those who would pose a threat to Teresa and him. It was a short list, but most of those who’d been chosen were practically trembling. And Teresa thought he was a coward. 

Ben, Gally, Beth, Alby.  

Guaranteed threats. If given the opportunity he would try and sneak a glance at their competitions individual strengths, hoping to weed more of them out and give himself the advantage. Though with Teresa at his side Thomas really doubted there was any real danger to be fearful of. She had been right in what she said. They would make for a good team.  

“Well, can’t complain I guess,” Teresa huffed, leaning forwards to place her now empty glass on the table. 

Starlette jumped up from her seat, turning off the screen before she ran to stand before it. “Now, once we arrive you’ll be escorted to what we call the Remake Centre.” She looked between them, expecting excitement, expression faltering slightly when none came. “You’ll be done up by our brilliant stylists and our teams, then presented to the president and the people in the Tribute Parade.” 

“After that you’ll be brought to the Tribute Centre,” Vincent added. “It isn’t until the day after when the real training begins.” 

Teresa smiled. “Can’t we skip that?” 

“No,” Vincent said sternly. “Not unless you want to be blind against your competition.” He crossed his arms. “It’ll be an opportunity to both show yourselves off and get a taste of what the others are good at. As well as finding those you’d like to ally with, or get to know the ones you’ve chosen.” 

“It’s observed by the Makers as well!” Starlette chimed. “It’s in your best interest to get on their good side, as they are the ones who put together the arena. In the Trials, what they say goes.” 

Vincent leaned forwards slightly. “You’ve got to remember that you are one of the few who have…experience. It’ll be quite a few of these people’s first time holding a weapon at all.” 

Thomas wondered briefly what good three days of training would do someone, but if anything he should be grateful, a win for their district practically guaranteed. He looked over and found Teresa looking back at him, eyes on him and mind somewhere else entirely. He nudged her knee and she blinked a few times, giving a soft sigh and turning off to look out the window. 

The train arrived at the Glade a few days later in the afternoon, and Thomas and Teresa walked through an aisle made up of people screeching with their cameras out and flashing. Thomas kept Vincent’s words in mind, keeping his face entirely set as he followed their escort towards a car that would take them to the Remake Centre. 

Thomas and his sister were separated once they got inside the place, which was filled entirely with tall white walls and shiny floors. There didn’t appear to be a separate texture anywhere, nor were there seams, as if the interior was carved straight from marble. Thomas was brought to a small room where two Gladers awaited him, all smiles and giggles. 

A woman immediately took him by the arm, Thomas feeling slightly abandoned by the Keeper that had led him here as she guided him to stand before an array of tall mirrors. She had hair that touched the floor, black and weaved into a thick braid that swayed with her every movement. Her skin was a light pink and her eyes were just as black as her hair, not even the whites of them showing. The sheer white gown she wore had Thomas’ eyes on the ceiling as she stripped his clothes from his body. 

The man with her wasn’t as extreme looking with curly brown hair and tan skin only painted over with red stripes. He wore a vest and dress pants, standing off from Thomas and scribbling notes down in a little sketchbook. Once Thomas was fully naked, a part of him wanted to reach to cover himself, but for some reason he felt that it would be even more embarrassing if he did.

His thoughts and insecurities ceased as they began to torture him, and by torture Thomas meant put a warm sticky substance on his leg, press a paper to it, then tear it off like he had offended them. The first strip they tugged came off and with it, his hair. 

“What the–” The pain was sharp and long lasting. He looked up at the black haired girl, appalled. “Why?” 

She rolled her eyes. “Silly boy, hush. Save your whining for your mother.” 

Ouch.

Before he could stop her she ripped off another piece and he shoved a fist into his mouth, biting back a yelp. And it didn’t stop for what felt like hours, the man joining in on the torment until every last one of Thomas’ follicles had been torn from his skin. When they finished he found himself missing the hair, feeling cold against the breeze coming from nowhere. 

They had spread all sorts of creams over his body, then hosed him down, then repeated said process along with scrub brushes until Thomas’ skin was an irritated red all over and they finally dried him off. The woman ran her fingers over his chest, poking at certain places. She frowned, then left off to fetch a small green bottle, dotting bits of it onto her finger and spreading it over his skin first on his face over the faded bruises around his jaw and nose, then moved to his chest and throat.

He watched himself in the closest mirror as she did, and it appeared to be a tan skin coloured cream that seemingly erased blemishes. But she was covering his moles. 

“Why are you doing that?” he asked. 

The woman shrugged, and the man came over into his line of sight, looking him over. “Because they’re ugly.” 

Thomas ignored that. 

Finally he was dressed in a robe and left to sit on a bench by their work station, burning all over from the abuse his body had been put through. A part of him wanted to run away before the stylist came in, afraid of what was to come. Just as he had reached a decision, the clicking of heels sounded across the room. 

Thomas looked up to see…a…a person? Skin painted a soft blue, ears pointed and sticking out from a darker blue hair that fell just past sharp shoulders. Eyes bore no pupil nor iris, just pure and never ending white that seemed as if it were glowing. Thomas couldn’t make out if the person was a man or a woman, and he couldn’t help his stare.

“I am Tavour,” the stylist said, offering a hand that Thomas quickly took. “I ask that you remove your clothing so I can look you over.” 

Thomas stood and nodded, pulling his robe off and letting Tavour guide him before the mirror once more. He felt insecure under their gaze, for some odd reason. Not like he had with the other two, but insecure in a different way. 

“Uhm…” He pursed his lips awkwardly as Tavour began prodding at his body, running fingers over the muscle of his back, over his shoulder blades and circling the knobs of his spine. “Can I ask...well, I was just wondering… uh…” 

“What is the matter?” Tavour asked, meeting Thomas’ gaze in the reflection, glowing eyes curious. 

Thomas swallowed. “You just… I’m not sure what you… are?” That felt wrong.

“Human, I am almost certain,” Tavour answered, hands running from Thomas’ shoulders down his arms. He repressed a shiver. “What else could I be?” 

“I meant more like…” he paused, shrugging. “Are you a girl? A guy?” 

“Neither,” Tavour purred, taking a step back and crouching down to retrieve Thomas’ robe, draping it over his shoulders. “Both.” 

“I’m confused.” 

“That’s alright.” Tavour said.

Thomas frowned. “Well… I mean–”

“I must make adjustments on your outfit, small ones, I will only be a moment,” Tavour said, turning off and walking away. 

Thomas tied his robe again and took a few steps to seat himself on the bench, pondering the odd swirl going on in his stomach. He didn’t understand his stylist in the slightest. How could one be both male and female? And yet neither? Maybe Tavour was born different, like Thomas and Darnell, but in a more…drastic way. A visible one. 

It was less than ten minutes until Tavour returned, a bag slung over their arm as they made their way over. Thomas stood again and removed his robe, allowing them to begin without pestering anymore. Tavour was far more gentle than the other two, though they did apply a few more creams and odd things to Thomas’ skin before finally dressing him. 

It was a simple black three piece suit with red seams, paired with a red tie. The dress pants were soft on the inside, which Thomas appreciated since his skin was sore, and the shirt beneath the suit itself seemed to be made of silk. 

Tavour twirled their finger. “Look at the back.” 

Thomas obeyed, finding a massive pair of dual swords embroidered onto the back of his jacket itself. It was red, as the seams were, and incredibly intricate. How Tavour knew of the weapon he favoured, Thomas would never know. “It’s beautiful.” 

“That it is,” they said softly. “Our time is almost up, turn to me.” 

Thomas did as he was told, caught by surprise as they stepped up close and began dabbing at him with a brush. Covering more moles or other blemishes, Thomas assumed. Though they were prodding far too close to his eyes and when he got the chance to turn back to the mirror, he found that they had painted black over his waterline. It gave his eyes an odd look, dark. He turned back to question it, but Tavour was already speaking while packing up their supplies. 

“A Keeper will be along shortly to escort you to your…escort,” they hummed, amused. They then stepped up to him and latched a red collar around his neck, the tag bearing his district number. “Good to meet you, and may the odds be in your favour.” 

Thomas probably muttered some kind of goodbye, distracted as they began walking away, hips swaying rhythmically. 

He always figured he wouldn’t truly like the Gladers, especially considering the fact that Jorge had often complained about them. But outside of the colourful clothes and strange makeup, they didn’t seem so bad at all. Except for the pair who ripped all his hair out. 

A Keeper cleared his throat a moment later, startling Thomas. He apologized, flushed, and made his way to the door. 

Starlette, Teresa, and Thomas stood in a long wide hallway built of the same marble, a large overhead door barely blocking out the chatter of a crowd. Before them looked to be a plate about the size of a small car, hovering in the air. When tapped, it hardly moved. When Thomas kicked it full on, it teetered slightly. 

“Stop that!” Teresa scolded, smacking his arm. 

Thomas rolled his eyes, growing impatient as they awaited further instruction. He wouldn’t have to wait much longer, it seemed, as Vincent was walking towards them. 

“Alright, Thomas, I want you the same as before,” Vincent said, and Thomas nodded firmly. The older man turned on his sister. “You give small smiles, a nod here and there, but keep it subtle. Try and be a bit more intimidating this time around. Understood?” 

Thomas didn’t think Teresa needed to be any more intimidating at all. 

Teresa nodded anyway. “Got it.” 

“And whatever you do, do not fall off the platform,” Vincent instructed. “It’ll take you in front of the president and then straight into the Tribute Centre. I’ll meet you there.” 

“As will I,” Starlette added, beaming. 

A buzz sounded and Vincent hurried them onto the platforms, straightening their outfits as he saw fit and giving a small thumbs up before walking off with Starlette down a hallway. Thomas nudged his sister, looking her over. She was wearing a pantsuit, funnily enough, black with the same red embroidery on her pant leg, but with an axe instead. 

She looked back at him, raising an eyebrow. “Aren’t we fancy?”

He snorted.

Looking around, they had to be the most simply dressed of all the tributes—Aris and Rachel ahead of them dressed in clothing that appeared to be made of gems. Thomas didn’t mind, however, as earlier he had seen the District Ten tributes dressed like cattle, and he decided he was rather comfortable with their stylists' choices.

With a quiet whine the overhead door slid open, and the plate they stood on jolted to a start. The sounds of the crowd went up to deafening as the first platform floated out, and Thomas had to resist the urge to cover his ears. Thousands of people were jumping up and down in the stands, all dressed as oddly as his stylist and their team. 

Teresa gave small smiles and subtle nods, and after he got his look around Thomas bore his stare into the back of Aris’ head in front of him, keeping any and all emotion out of his expression as people roared around him. The lane was long—seemingly long enough to hold the Glade’s entire population—long enough that Thomas’ legs started to shake from his attempts to keep his balance. 

Suddenly the entire place went silent, then went into an uproar so loud Thomas’ ears began to ring—or bleed, at least that’s what it felt like—and he turned slightly to see what was causing such a commotion. He couldn’t, however, but his sister sent him a steadying look and he resumed his original position, looking up at the distant outline of the ruler of their nation.

Finally the platforms slowly took to the curve of the lane, stopping before the tall platform that President Janson stood on. He was an odd looking man with a long, sharp nose and beady eyes. Hair a dark gray on the top and white on the sides, otherwise looking entirely average compared to his people. He stepped up to a microphone, tapping it a few times before sucking in a small breath. 

“Welcome, tributes,” he announced in a pitchy voice. And that was it. 

The platforms jolted to a start again and Thomas finally got the opportunity to look over, eyes catching on the plate at the very end, where the District Twelve tributes stood tall, their outfits on fire. Thomas panicked for all of three seconds before realizing that neither the boy nor the girl seemed in any state of panic, and the flames must’ve been artificial. He dragged his gaze away, shaking himself off. 

As the overhead door to the Tribute Centre slammed shut, the screams of the crowd silenced completely, leaving Thomas’ temples pounding. He took a wobbly step off the plate, Starlette immediately on top of both him and his sister, drowning them in praise. Vincent expressed his own pride, but his gaze followed to the end of the area by the doors, where a group was all loud chatter. 

District Twelve, and their fiery outfits. 

Like somehow his stare had called to them, the District Twelve tributes and their team collected themselves and made their way towards the doors into the Tribute Centre, passing by Thomas, Teresa, and their team. Thomas watched them the whole way, studying the outfits they wore, which were magically no longer on fire. His curiosity got the best of him, mind trying to put together how they’d managed to create a fake flame. 

The girl caught his eye, short red hair and blue eyes, and out of a pure childish urge, Thomas narrowed his gaze and set his jaw. The girl’s head dropped and he couldn’t help but chuckle. The Twelve boy noticed him then, not shying away as his little friend had, instead giving him a small look of disgust before turning away and disappearing behind the doors. 

Thomas rolled his eyes and tuned into Starlette’s chatter. 

If Thomas thought the train's interior was glamorous, then his jaw should’ve dropped straight to the floor upon seeing their floor in the Tribute Centre. It almost did, especially as he stepped into the chambers, finding a bed somehow larger than the one on the train and a bathroom almost triple the size. He washed himself of the makeup that had been smeared onto his skin, relieved that his moles were still intact and oddly put off by his body without any hair on it as he ran hands over the smooth skin. 

He stepped out from his shower after far too long, pruning and cleaner than he had ever been. After he had dried and dressed, Thomas splayed out on the bed, limbs tired but soothed on the soft blankets. A part of him was sad to have to leave this place behind, and curious if it was anything like the houses in the Village. 

The door slid open and in stepped that girl Starlette said was an Avox. Thomas sat up as she began collecting his discarded outfit, probably ordered to return it to Tavour. Thomas watched her as she picked up the collar he had placed on the dresser, and wondered if she ever took off her own. He wondered why she wore one at all, really. 

Thomas stood as she made to leave. “Hey! Uh…” 

She stopped, turned slowly, eyes narrowed this time, as if he was insulting her. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, wringing his hands. “Starlette told me about you, you know, with the whole Avox thing you’ve got going on.” 

She winced almost invisibly, beginning to toy with the collected clothing over her arm. 

“I wanted to ask you about it,” he said carefully, holding her eyes. “She said they…did things, modifications. What did she mean by that?” 

The girl swallowed—and it caught Thomas’ attention, as unusual as it was. It was deeper, somehow, forced, almost. She tried to turn and leave, and Thomas jumped forwards, grabbing her arm. She startled significantly and he let go, holding his hands up in surrender. 

“Look, I’m not going to tell anyone or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about.” 

The girl looked him over, once, twice, before slowly turning and placing his clothing onto his dresser, laying the red collar on top of the pile. He felt nervous all of a sudden, and out of place, shifting in his spot as she turned back and took a few careful steps towards him. He didn’t know what he expected, but instead of an insult or a punch to the arm, she opened her mouth. 

Thomas frowned, scanning her face to try and figure out what exactly she was doing. Her eyes were shut, cheeks obviously painted with something, similar to whatever was used to cover up Thomas’ moles, and her teeth were–

The girl didn’t have a tongue. 

The inside of her mouth looked… empty. The floor of it nothing but pink flesh leading to the back of her throat and ending off under her uvula. She closed her mouth, looking up at him, eyes portraying something… irritated? 

“They… they cut out your tongue?” he asked, hands fidgeting. 

She didn’t nod, instead lifted a hand and tapped her four fingers against her thumb, then pointed to him. You talk too much.  

“Are you…” he frowned, amused. “Are you insulting me?” 

She pursed her lips and turned off, retrieving the pile of clothing and the collar and stepping through the door without so much as glancing back at him. Thomas felt dumbfounded, mind switching from the fact that she’d made fun of him to the fact that the Glade cut out people’s tongues then hired them to work. Doing laundry and serving, all the jobs no one else wanted to do. 

A punishment, Starlette had said. Repaying debts. What could the girl have possibly done to deserve such a fate? What could anyone have done to deserve having such a crucial piece of them stripped away? Thomas almost felt…angry. He shook off the odd emotion and ran a hand through his damp hair. It must’ve been truly, truly horrible, whatever it was that she had done. Thomas shouldn’t talk to her anymore. 

He went off to his sister’s room as the sky fell dark, piling thick blankets on the floor to sleep on. She made a few idle comments about the other tributes, but dipped off into sleep rather quickly, her soft breathing filling the air. He shut his eyes, but instead of dozing off he kept thinking about the Avox girl and a weird familiarity he felt in her features. 

That simple insult, as wordless as it was, reminded him of Darnell. He found comfort in that for a few moments, comfort in the idea of his friend. But suddenly he was rudely reminded of the fact that, as much as he tried not to think about it, there was a high chance he would never see Darnell again. Never brush his teeth beside him after being rudely awoken. Never sit under the shade of a tree and stare up at the clouds.  

And Jorge. He may never see Jorge again.

Thomas pushed those thoughts away and forced his mind into focusing on the training to come the following day, deciding between showing off with the swords Tavour had seemingly picked out for him, or possibly daggers. Maybe an axe so he and his sister could match. A part of him wished he had spent more time with a bow, seeing as how it was the best weapon and he was a terrible shot.

He kept thinking of sharp blades and quick arrows as the room fell silent and he slipped away into unconsciousness, excited for the day they had tomorrow, pretending that the thick knots of fear lingering in his stomach weren’t there at all. 

Chapter Text

As it turned out, ignoring their problems proved to be far easier than Thomas ever could’ve imagined. As they woke into their first day of training, Thomas and Teresa seemed to have come to a mutual, silent decision. They didn’t discuss their predicament, didn’t exchange nervous side-long glances that spoke the words they couldn’t. 

Instead, they pretended the day was no different to any other, with the exception of the fact that the pair were in the Glade. Thomas, after spending around ten minutes willing himself to get up, had collected his bedding and returned to his room to wash up before breakfast. Things were fine, really. The Trials were days away, as were their worries. 

Now he was sitting at the massive breakfast table across from his sister, slathering butter onto a fluffy bagel with a knife that was far too detailed for a utensil. Starlette was perky as ever, wearing a lighter teal wig that made her a foot taller and a fluffy yellow dress. She sipped from a mug, and Thomas watched as he bit into his bagel, wondering if the small smile playing on her lips was permanent.

Vincent came in a while later when Teresa and Thomas were in the middle of a conversation. Both siblings looked to him as he entered, watching intently as he pulled out a chair and sat down, as if even the most mundane movements were a show. And they were, Thomas thought. 

He tore his gaze away from their Mentor, swallowing a bite before returning to their earlier topic. 

“Maybe they could make me a wig,” he told his sister, pointing briefly to his hair. “Make it look long like yours. Then we could pretend to be twins, bet they’d love that.” 

Teresa considered it a moment, licking crumbs of eggs off her lips. “Hm, maybe.” She stabbed her fork into a sausage. “I bet they’ll still be focused on the damn love-birds.”

Starlette had informed them of such an event a few minutes after they’d all sat down. Apparently the duo from One was the center of everyone's attention after they were caught holding hands during the Tribute Parade. Scandalous, as Teresa had said. 

Neither of them were surprised to hear it, however. It really wasn’t an uncommon thing. Even they themselves had put minor bets on a few girls and boys who batted their eyelashes at one another in the Trials dramatically. In their district it wasn’t a big deal, it was more of a joke than anything else. In the Glade, however, they took it rather seriously. 

At least that’s what Thomas thought based off the street interviews that aired between commercials during the Trials. Two tributes were usually randomly selected by the Gladers—pretty much always from the same district—and they’d be the talk of the country. Last year it had been the pair from Six. And when the boy eliminated his district partner in her sleep, even he and Teresa had been caught by surprise. 

“Oh, maybe I should set you on fire,” Teresa offered. “Their little brains would probably explode.” 

Ah, the other thing. Along with the supposed lovers from One, District Twelve’s fire show during the Tribute Parade had also caused quite the stir. Teresa was especially annoyed by this due to the fact that the stylists' talents were wasted on the duo. Thomas figured it was about time Twelve did something interesting, so he was less put off. 

“Luckily for us those two’ll be eliminated in the first few hours,” Thomas offered. “So you’ll just have to deal with Mr. and Mrs. One.” 

“Finding love in the arena,” Teresa mocked, shoving a cut piece of sausage in her mouth then talking through it as she chewed. “Wonder how that’ll end.” 

Jorge always hated when she ate like that, especially at dinner parties with his Keeper friends. But that was why she did it. That, and to see if she could make Thomas laugh hard enough that he choked. 

He grinned. “A ride into the sunset, I’d say.” 

“Oh, absolutely.” 

Starlette placed down her mug a bit loudly, checking her watch and clearing her throat. “Eat quickly darlings. Training begins soon enough and it’d be no good first impression to show up late!” She gestured towards their rooms. “Your clothes will be brought to you.” 

Teresa burped, causing Thomas to snort out some of the orange juice he’d be in the middle of sipping, and smiled. “M’kay.” 

“My word,” Starlette said, affronted, as she looked between the two. “Where are your manners?” 

Teresa only rolled her eyes and grabbed a napkin, shoving a few of the sausages into it then standing from the table. She took one of the sausages out, pointing at Thomas with it. “You should try out that wig thing. Might give us a real shot.” 

Thomas grinned, glancing at Starlette’s appalled expression as Teresa started off. “Alright.” 

“How she shares your blood I’ll never know,” the woman said softly, frowning after his sister. “And here I was thinking they taught you people human decency down there.” 

Thomas took the last bite of his second bagel, nodded to Vincent, and went off towards his room, not sparing a glance Starlette’s way. The truth was, Thomas and Teresa had been taught their manners. In fact there had been many scoldings for holding utensils the wrong way or eating soup with forks just to see who could finish first. Jorge was proper that way. 

But Starlette was always visibly offended by bad manners, and Thomas knew that Teresa was amused by that. And he was too. It had started on the train during one of their very first breakfasts when his sister had unintentionally flicked a piece of bacon across the table, sending it right into Starlette’s lap. The woman had panicked—something about staining—and ran from the room. 

Now it was burping, forks screeching against porcelain plates, dirty hands being smeared on clean clothes, all of it. Teresa had said she wanted to find out how long it would take for the woman to turn so red her painted skin went purple. So far she’d been unsuccessful. 

Thomas showered quickly—somewhat quickly—and dried himself off thoroughly before stepping back into his room. A pile of red clothes sat on his bed, along with the same collar he had worn during the Tribute Parade. He took the bulky thing into his hands, examining it. 

The tag was a round piece of thick, cold metal. A shiny silver with his district number etched onto its surface. The collar itself was red, and felt scratchy, though the inside seemed slightly more comfortable. He always imagined them to be slightly smaller when he had seen them on tributes in the arena, and he wished now that they were, as it looked rather uncomfortable. 

The collars were for identification purposes, and occasionally they would interact with areas. Jorge told him that many years prior the tributes had been set out in a massive series of tunnels, and their collars would act as keycards in order to open doors to get to supplies. Ever since then tributes stopped taking them off. 

He wondered what the letters carved onto that Avox girl's tag meant. 

But he wasn’t meant to be thinking about her, so Thomas pushed away such thoughts and began to dress himself in the clothing laid out for him. The shirt was long-sleeved and stretchy, but hugged his torso far too tightly for his liking. He was given simple boxers—which were very soft—and the pants were loose and light. 

Once he was dressed he flopped down onto the bed, feeling the warmth of the duvet beneath him. The Avox girl—who he wasn’t thinking about—must’ve changed his bedding while he was eating breakfast despite the fact that he hadn’t even slept in it. His chest ached for some odd reason, so he thought of something else instead. 

It had been too long since he held any sort of weapon in his hands, and he was excited to have a way to pass the time. That, and to see how well his sister got along with the pair from One. Maybe he was an awful person, but there was nothing more entertaining than being on the receiving end of Teresa’s kill me now looks. 

If he were honest, Thomas thought he and Teresa could fare just fine on their own, and eventually he imagined they’d have to. But allies were important. Even despite the fact that they were some of the hardest people to trust. 

His door slid open and Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, knowing it was the Avox girl without having to look up. He pulled himself to sit anyway, watching as she moved nearly silently around the room, her eyes avoiding him like they usually did. 

He was bound to leave in just a few minutes, however. And this girl—who had to be familiar with the schedule of things—decided to come into the room while he was still in it. She did look rushed, but Thomas couldn’t turn a blind eye to the possibility that maybe she wanted him to talk to her. 

He shouldn’t though. Obviously this girl was dangerous, and more than likely a very, very bad person. For such a punishment she would’ve had to have done some truly horrible things. And Thomas loved his country, and not once had he ever doubted their justice system. He wasn’t about to start now. 

“So,” he started, folding his hands in his lap. “What’s your name?” 

She froze in place, turning slowly and settling on a less-than-impressed look directed his way. She was reminding him of Darnell again, and he couldn’t help his smile. He was especially glad that she didn’t seem as frightened as she had previously. 

“Spell it out in the air,” he told her, writing his own name in the air as an example. 

She didn’t watch his finger as it moved, instead staring pointedly into his eyes until he finished and let his hand drop back into his lap. For a moment he thought she was going to do something, like pull out a piece of paper and write it down, but instead she just collected the last piece of clothing and made towards the door. 

Thomas all but flew across the room, stopping her just before the point where the censor that opened the door was. He put his hands up as she started, as if to surrender, and spoke quickly. 

“How about I guess, and you let me know if I’m right?” 

A blank stare. 

“I’ll take that as a yes,” he hummed. “Okay…er, Angela?” 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“How about Jenny?” 

Not even a twitch. 

“Meredith?” A glare. “Molly?” Nothing. “Paul?” 

The girl laughed—well, not so much a laugh as a slight exhale of air through her nose, but a laugh nonetheless—and Thomas felt like he could jump up and down in excitement. He didn’t, however, and instead just grinned at the exasperated expression her face morphed to. 

“Just tell me,” he pleaded. 

She rolled her eyes, considering, before putting the laundry on the dresser and returning to him, offering her his hand. 

He felt nervous all of a sudden, with her being an Avox—a criminal—and all, but he gave it to her anyway. 

She took it softly, gently, like she was afraid the smallest touch would harm him. Her hands were shaking slightly, but were otherwise warm and dry. She turned his arm so the belly of it faced the ceiling, her other hand holding it up by his elbow, and her small fingers began tracing something on his wrist. A line, then two bumps on top of it. B.  

“B,” he muttered softly. She looked up at him with a small smile. He returned it. “Next one?” 

She started again, and she was halfway through the next line–

”Thomas!” Starlette screeched from the hallway, startling the girl and sending her jumping away, grabbing the pile of clothes, eyes wide in fear. “Hurry along now, we should’ve been there five minutes ago!” 

Thomas shouted a quick reply then turned back, unmoving, expecting the girl to return to him and offer up the rest of her name. She didn’t, however, and instead she stood there with her head bowed, then moved past him to the door. 

“I can call you Bee,” he told her rushedly. “Like the bug.” 

She nodded, maybe, and disappeared down the hallway. It was small, but an accomplishment nonetheless. And it wasn’t as though Thomas was doing anything wrong by simply talking to her. He was curious, and surely her job got boring with no one to have a real conversation with. It was harmless, really.

The elevator doors slid open to the basement floor a few minutes later, Teresa and Starlette stepping out first and Thomas following with his neck craned up, amazed at the sheer size of the room they were in. It was a hallway, but the ceiling was so far up Thomas couldn’t see it unless he practically tilted himself backwards. It was similar to the Remake Centre with bright lights seemingly coming from nowhere, though the walls and floors were all a solid gray. 

They walked for a minute before coming up on a large archway, where grunts of effort and the clangs of metal could be heard. Thomas attempted to steady himself, to retain the hard empty stare Vincent instructed him to, but when they walked in he imagined his face to display nothing more than awe. 

The room—or gymnasium, as Starlette called it—was seemingly never ending, training stations everywhere and glass rooms along the far left wall. A few tributes arrived before them, the redhead girl from the previous day tying knots with an instructor while Dan was occupied with choosing a spear. Starlette pointed out everything for them, finishing as Vincent appeared behind them, patting Thomas’ shoulder. 

“You two have expectations, you know that yeah?” he asked, to which both the siblings nodded. “You’ve got to meet those today, tomorrow, and the day after—show them you’re not to be messed with, make them afraid of you. They’re expecting you to be good, so show them you’re better.” 

Thomas looked around the room again, watching as Dan plucked a spear from the rack, holding the sharp head up to examine with a sort of fascination. “Anything else? Any advice?” 

“Make good with the right type, don’t pick on the little ones, nothing exponential. They need this, you two are doing it for fun. Don’t forget that.”

Teresa hummed agreement as Vincent walked off again, disappearing off to…wherever he usually disappeared off to. Starlette left with him, and as the siblings turned back from watching them his sister shrugged. “Sounds simple eno–oh my god.” 

Suddenly Thomas was being dragged by the wrist across the room to where a large, long, tilted display sat. Along it were knives of every size and shape, including some that were only permitted to exist in the Trials, like the one Teresa plucked up, eyes big. 

“Look Tom!” she said breathily. 

“Shit, is that…” 

She twisted it in her grip. “Yeah.” 

It was a ballistic knife, something that District Two wasn’t allowed to make anymore and something Thomas and Teresa had been waiting to see in the Trials since Jorge had told them about its existence. It was essentially a knife with a dejectable blade set off with the pull of the trigger. If either of them were to get their hands on a few, they’d win in a day. 

Maybe that was an exaggeration, but still. 

His sister placed it back down where she had taken it from, eyes darting around to examine the others. “I’m getting a collection like this when I win.” 

He snorted. “And what are you gonna do with them?” 

“Cut bread,” she answered, picking up a hooked dagger. “Cheese. Use them like forks.” 

He raised an eyebrow, amused, and looked off, immediately spotting a rack of swords by the left wall. “Er, swords,” he told her. “You in?” 

She waved him off, gaze not leaving the variety of knives. “No, no. You go on. Go on.” 

He smiled fondly at his sister—then rolled his eyes for good measure—before starting off towards the rack containing a series of elegant, sleek swords. Beside it sat the glass rooms, or the simulations, as Starlette had called them. Curiosity peaked, Thomas walked up to the door where a small screen sat. On it sat the words, Press to begin, so he did just that. 

There were a series of settings he took a moment to read through. The first was just selecting which weapon you’d be using, then selecting which weapons you’d like to go up against. Thomas debated them for a moment before deciding to select a mysterious-ish button that read All.  

He then grabbed a longsword, just to start, and pressed the green button on the screen that said Start and pulled open the glass door. The second it shut behind him everything went eerily silent. He could feel it in the air, in his lungs when he sucked in a breath, electricity. It was heavy, but not necessarily uncomfortable, though his skin prickled with it as he steadied his grip on the weapon and walked towards a white circle in the center of the room. 

If his stylists hadn’t gotten rid of every hair follicle on his body, Thomas imagined it’d all be standing on edge. 

There were platforms running up the walls, and openings on every side. When he stilled inside the painted circle, the windows viewing into the gym went black just as the ones on the train had, and rays of blue lasers ran over every inch of the room before vanishing entirely. Gut twisting in nerves, Thomas set his jaw, waiting, expecting. 

The first sound he heard was an echoing click. Like someone was clicking their tongue off the roof of their mouth. A chill ran over him as he slowly began to turn on his heel, senses picking up a presence. 

It took all of Thomas’ will to keep himself from gasping at the sight of the…the thing that stood before him. It was a person, though, it wasn’t. It bore no clothing and its skin appeared to be made of plastic, but it moved like a human. Faceless, lifeless, and yet hurling a glowing blue knife at him full speed. Thomas jumped out of the way and spun, throwing his wielding arm out to connect with the things stomach. He half expected blood, but instead the creature just dissolved into thin air. 

An arrow whizzed by his ear, startling him, bright blue as the knife was, and Thomas looked behind him to reveal another one of the things with a bow in hand, the next arrow aimed for his throat. Thomas ran towards the thing, sliding onto the ground as it released the arrow and swiping its legs with the blade, standing up behind it and driving his weapon into the back of its neck. 

The thing melted away, and Thomas swallowed hard, looking up to find another.

Holding an axe, double bladed, an elegantly long handle, the same bright blue as the rest of the weapons. It held his eyes for a few moments—though it bore no face—then advanced unexpectedly fast, weapon held high. Thomas rolled sideways to avoid the crash of the axe, landing on his back propped up against a wall. The not-person rose up and Thomas held his sword across his chest—one hand on the handle, the other pressed against the blade—blocking the quick drop of the axe as it attempted to drive the sharp into his sternum. 

He fought it for what may have been seconds or minutes, but Thomas managed to get his feet up against what would’ve been its hips and push the not-person backwards, scrambling to stand before pulling his arm back and throwing the sword, burying it inside the thing’s stomach then quickly running over to retrieve his weapon. 

It didn’t end there—didn’t end for what may as well have been hours—and Thomas fought what felt like dozens of the things, all bearing different weapons. Spears, knives, swords, bows, bats, chains with hooks, on and on until he was certain he would never be allowed out. His clothes were drenched with sweat, legs wobbly. Had the not-people been coming more than one at a time, he’d have died in the first few rounds. 

Eventually he disarmed one he’d been struggling against for what felt like half an hour, both their weapons lost on the ground beside them. Thomas leaped forwards and crushed the thing onto the ground before pulling himself up onto his knees, the not-person’s throat trapped in his folded arm, fake hands grasping at his grip. He looked up, feeling sweat drip down his face, and put all of his force into snapping its neck. 

It melted away and Thomas slumped, breathing hard as the blue lasers scanned the room a second time and the lock of the door clicked open. He was finally free. Thomas rose from the ground, wiping the sweat from his forehead as he tugged the door open and stepped outside, only realizing how overheated he was when the cool air of the training area met his skin.

He doubled over, hands on his knees and chest squeezing hard with every breath he took. Behind him a small song played out, and when he turned to see what was the cause he saw the screen rate him a three out of five. 

“Fuck off,” he barely managed. 

An Avox man appeared beside him, offering him a water bottle. Thomas looked up from being slumped over and grabbed the man’s arm tenderly. “Thank–” He hiccuped. “Thank you so much man.” 

He looked wildly uncomfortable, though he gave Thomas a respectful nod and pulled his arm away, briskly walking off. Thomas uncapped the bottle and poured a bit over his face before dumping the rest down his throat. 

He wanted to leave. He was pretty sure he was dying already. 

“Quite the show you put on,” a deep, playful voice said, and Thomas looked up, finding a boy with a murky blue collar before him. District Four. Dan. 

Up close the guy looked all the more intimidating, though Thomas tried his best not to let it show. He was strong, muscled arms crossed over his muscled chest, shirt so tight over his body it left nothing to the imagination. His long blond hair was tied back, blue eyes searching. And Thomas wasn’t short, but this guy towered over him. 

Thomas rose to his full height, withholding a groan, and nodded. “Thanks.” It came out weakly, so he tried again, summoning more confidence. “I try.” 

Dan looked him over, and if Thomas wasn’t so exhausted he’d be annoyed at the amusement playing in the other’s eyes. “I’m Dan.” 

“Thomas,” he said after a deep breath. “You uh–” He gestured back to the glass room. “You wanna give it a go?”

“Ah, I’m good,” Dan hummed. “Think you gave it a go for all of us.”

He wanted to act like it was nothing, like it was easy, but his appearance wasn’t doing much to back such a thing up. Thomas was meant to be impressing Dan, but he didn’t think he was even able to do such a thing. Dan was all height and muscle. He probably didn’t even need to attend an academy. 

“Wanna come try out some knives with me?” Dan asked, saving him, somewhat. 

He looked back at the glass room, reliving the terrors of it for a moment before he huffed. “Sure, yeah. Lead the way.”

Dan brought them both over to a corner on the opposite end of the gym, where there was another table of knives, mostly throwing knives, and a long range bearing—thankfully still—targets. Thomas somewhat casually leaned against the table and watched Dan go first. His heart rate had evened out after a few minutes, but his breathing was still a bit rough. 

“Teresa, that’s your sister?” Dan inquired as he flicked a thin blade towards one of the dummies, Thomas watching as it planted itself into what would’ve been an eye socket on a person. 

He sniffed. “Yeah.” 

The other nodded thoughtfully, “You volunteered together?”

He nodded. “Mhm.” 

Dan sent him a look, a mix between amused and puzzled. “Why?” 

“We wanted to see who’d win,” he said simply, plucking up one of the mini blades and prodding at the sharp end of it. “She’s always going on about how much better she is, figured I’d knock her ego down a peg.” 

Dan huffed a laugh, turning to him, the dagger in his hand forgotten. “You’re kidding.” 

Thomas realized the implication of his words and went to correct himself, but then thought against it. “No, no I’m not.” Of course, Thomas didn’t expect he and Teresa to be chosen side by side, but his new ally didn’t need to know that. Especially when he looked at Thomas with utter shock, and maybe something a little interested. 

“That’s insane,” Dan breathed, looking him over for a moment. “You’re insane.” 

He shrugged, leaning further against the table and discarding the small knife, crossing his arms over his chest, the image of nonchalance. “It’s no big deal.” 

Dan’s attention returned to the range, face still bearing his amazed and slightly confused expression. “You two are on the outs then?” 

“What?” he said quickly, too quickly, then lowered his voice back to a lazy drawl. “No. No, we're fine.” 

The other glanced at him warily. “Oh?”

Thomas suddenly felt wrong in his own skin, itchy and far too warm. He pushed off of the table and turned around, plucking up a set of medium sized knives and moving beside Dan. The taller boy moved around him, taking the place where Thomas once stood. 

He wasn’t thinking about it. He couldn’t think about it. And he didn’t need Dan to stand by and remind him of the…of the thing he wasn’t meant to be thinking about. Yes, he and Teresa were both there. Yes, that implied the….the thing. But that didn’t matter. Wasn’t he not thinking about it? 

Well he was now. His insides were ice and his skin was sizzling with heat and he felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. But he wasn’t thinking about it. No, he couldn’t think about it. 

Instead he was thinking about the daggers he had collected, plucking one up from the counter below him where he had discarded them. It was sharp, thin, and light, the steel cool against his fingers. He put it between two fingers, turning his eyes towards one of the closest targets and raising his arm slightly. Drawing his wrist towards himself, then flicking it forwards, the blade found its mark between the non-existent eyes of the dummy. 

Another found a chest, another found a throat. Knives weren’t his specialty, if he were honest. They were small, clean, simple. He and his sister had always preferred short-range weapons. Though there was a boy in one of his classes who could strike down birds in a forest with a steak knife, and he had always admired it. 

But he could still hit a still target with them. And he did. Again and again until he pawed down at the counter below him and found it to be empty. He looked to Dan, who was watching him intently. 

“I’m not great with knives,” he told him, slightly embarrassed under the other’s gaze. 

Dan smirked. “Well, what are you good with?” 

“Hey,” a girl said—Mara, he quickly remembered—her eyes narrowing at Thomas slightly. “Made a friend I see.” 

“This is Thomas,” Dan told her. 

"I know." Mara tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear and stepped forward, offering him her hand. He shook it. “Mara.” She looked him over. “I’ve heard plenty about that sister of yours. They won’t shut up about her.” 

As she dropped his hand and stepped back, Thomas brought it up to his neck, scratching at the nape. He wondered if he’d meet someone who wouldn’t talk about his sister. “Yeah. She’s er…” He looked around. “She’s somewhere around here.” 

“Is she as good as they say?” the girl inquired, walking over to the table and examining the knives. “I mean, she’s got to be. They talk about her in our district, too.” 

It took all of Thomas’ strength not to roll his eyes. Instead, he nodded. “She’s good.” 

Dan, whose gaze had an odd habit of fixing on him, raised an eyebrow. “Better than you?”

Were they trying to aggravate him? “I guess you’ll see.” 

The three spent around half an hour at the knife range, Dan was good, a touch better than Thomas himself, but Mara threw knives as if they were an extension of herself. Some she tossed while turned around, and they still found their place in the targets. Eventually he and Dan retired to watch all the odd tricks she had mastered. 

She was in the middle of showing them how she could aim and hit with three knives at once, when Aris appeared behind them, giving a quiet greeting. He was all pale skin and mousy hair, an inch or so shorter than Thomas and lean. Upon seeing all three of them turn to him, he seemed to grow nervous. 

“I’ve been pretty excited to meet you guys since I watched the recap,” he told them, hands folded in front of him, feet shifting below. “I’m Aris, by the way.” 

Dan extended a hand for Aris to take, Mara and Thomas doing the same after. “Good to meet you. Heard lots about you and the wife.” 

Mara snorted. 

“Oh, that.” Aris flushed. “No, I don’t know where they got that from, really. I only held her hand because I almost fell off the platform.” 

“You dog,” Dan teased. “Where is she, anyway?” 

“Ah,” Aris looked around. “I believe she’s still getting acquainted with…” He looked back at Thomas. “Your sister.” 

He seemed nervous as he said it, wary in the same way Dan had been in his glances and tone. Thomas ignored it, frowning. “Teresa? Where are they?” 

“The camouflage station, I think. Rachel likes to paint.” 

Thomas turned to Dan. “I’m gonna go see them. Besides, Teresa would probably like to meet you guys sooner than later anyway.” 

“Alright,” Dan hummed, patting his shoulder before turning to the other two. “Spears, anyone?” 

Grunts and the clangs of practice sounded from every corner of the room as Thomas walked through the gym. People were falling from obstacle courses and practicing in the glass rooms, all while the Makers—who Thomas hadn’t noticed until then—sat up in a booth, watching. To his surprise, they weren’t as dressed up as the rest of the Gladers had been. 

A few interesting haircuts here and there, maybe an especially bejeweled jacket, but overall they looked normal. Skin untouched by colourful paint, hair natural. The man who was closest to the edge of the booth high up on the back wall was pudgy, balding, and sat like he was important. His eyes found Thomas’ quickly, and he raised a glass to him. 

Thomas gave a brief nod, but quickly brought his gaze elsewhere. He was the Head Maker, Thomas assumed. Trying to find something else to focus on, Thomas’ eyes locked with a boy who was sitting at a station about poisonous bugs. His collar was a grainy brown, tag revealing his district, but Thomas knew him previously. 

Alby, District Eleven. Threat. 

A threat because he was strong, made obvious by the clear muscle that a shirt couldn’t hide, but also because Alby had a look about him, something…empty. There were different kinds of tributes. Bloodthirsty, angry, scared. But Thomas had seen many Trials, and in his eyes there wasn’t anything more terrifying than someone who looked like they weren’t truly there. 

But when their eyes met, Alby gave a polite smile before turning back down to the book he had been flicking through, and Thomas felt completely caught off guard. So caught off guard that he ran straight into another body. 

“Shit,” he muttered, grabbing whoever he ran into by the shoulders and steadying them. He realized that he was half bent over in order to reach, and before he knew what was happening two massive blue eyes were looking up at him.

“Sorry,” the Ten boy said quietly. “I was just–I didn’t mean…I’m sorry.” 

He looked younger than Thomas remembered. Far younger. Cheeks still rich with baby fat and rosy. Nose small and upturned. And more than that, he looked terrified of Thomas. His feet were shifting beneath him, eyes jumping from Thomas’ face to the floor and back. 

“You alright?” Thomas breathed out finally. Dropping his hold on the boy’s shoulders. 

“Yeah,” the boy said quickly. “Sorry, I was just…” He limply held up an odd object. “Distracted. Or something.” 

“What’s that?” he asked. 

The other gave a nervous smile, eyes brightening, if only slightly. “Uh, well they’re called nunchucks, which I thought was sort of funny.” He handed them to Thomas, who took them. He’d seen the odd weapon once or twice in the academy, but didn’t think they were all that effective. “I was going to show them to Poppy, but then–” He gestured between them. “You know.” 

He nodded, examining them mostly for show. “What’s funny?” 

“Oh, right,” the boy huffed. “See, my name is Chuck. And they’re called nunchucks so I figured, you know. But I guess you didn’t know that so it’s…” He paused. “I don’t know. It’s kinda stupid, I guess.” 

“No, it’s funny,” Thomas told him, handing them back. “Think they’ll give these out in the Trials?” 

Chuck shrugged. “Maybe.” 

“Would you be unstoppable then?” 

The boy snorted. “I don’t even know how to use them.” 

“Good thing you have a few days to learn,” Thomas said seriously, looking over him. Chuck’s hands were small and pudgy, little faded freckles on the backs of them. “How uh…” He swallowed hard. “How old are you?”

He shouldn’t have asked. To be frank, Thomas didn’t want to know how old the kid was, because deep down he already knew. It didn’t matter what the number was, Chuck was too young. 

“Twelve,” Chuck informed him, looking up and giving a toothy smile. “My birthday was last week.” 

It felt like a gut punch. All the air had been stolen out from his lungs. He had been cut down the middle and emptied out. 

How had no one volunteered for the boy? Academy or not, surely someone saw that he was too young for the Trials. A brother, a sister, a cousin—anyone. If Thomas had lived in District Ten and saw someone like Chuck being led towards the stage, he wouldn’t think twice about it. How was letting this boy die better than risking your own life?

“Er, I should find Poppy,” Chuck said in a small voice, holding up his nunchucks. “She told me not to talk to anyone.” 

“Right, okay,” Thomas muttered.

“What’s your name?” Chuck asked as he started walking backwards slightly. 

“Thomas.” 

The young boy smiled and turned off.

Thomas didn’t go find Teresa and Rachel. Thomas didn’t return to the others, either. Instead, he stumbled towards the fire station—which was abandoned by its instructor—and plopped down on the patch of artificial grass. Divoted logs sat around him, as did many pieces of flint rocks and stripped sticks. He didn’t bother with any of it. Instead plucked a box of matches from the ground and pulled out one. 

Did Chuck know how to start a fire? Did Chuck know what sort of berries and plants were poisonous? Did Chuck know how to hunt? Or how to set a trap? Someone would’ve taught him, his parents would’ve taught him. Or would they? 

He was just a boy, just twelve years old. It was more likely that they never imagined it possible for him to be chosen, not that year, at least. His name was in the bowl once. One among so many. He wouldn’t know anything at all, other than how to be a kid. 

Livestock. District Ten was livestock. Chuck had to know some things. He had a Mentor. His Mentor would teach him how to survive. But it wouldn’t matter. None of it would matter. It wouldn’t matter if Chuck studied every station. He was too small. Too young. Too weak. 

So, younger tributes died. But it didn’t matter, they were still people just like the rest of them. A twelve-year-old dying was no different than someone who was eighteen dying. Twenty-three would go, one would be spared. Their ages didn’t matter. They were paying back for lives lost. 

Debt. Chuck was paying a debt. 

Next year would mark a century since the rebellion, since the very first Trials. It had almost been one hundred years since the districts rose against the Capitol and threw them into a new way of life, where bloodshed called for retribution and that retribution took the form of the Trials. Twenty-three children a year to pay for the hundreds of thousands of deaths the rebels caused didn’t seem like an unfair trade. 

Chuck hadn’t participated in the rebellion. His parents hadn’t either. Chuck was just a kid. Chuck had an entire life ahead of him, friends to make, days and nights to venture into. All that he was now, all that he could become, torn away because of the mistakes of people a century ago. 

Thomas wasn’t like Darnell. Thomas didn’t think thoughts like those, didn’t even consider them. The Glade looked out for them, gave them good lives despite their past mistakes. Their country wouldn’t be standing without it, and he knew that. But nothing was free. They had to pay. 

Why did Chuck have to pay? 

No. Thomas didn’t think like that. He was just exhausted from the simulation. He was just tired, just stressed out. High strung. He got like that, sometimes. One of his many problems. He put his focus onto the match between his index and middle. Many years ago Jorge had taught him how to make the match dance over his fingers.

He started, despite being out of practice.

Alby was still at the bug station, but his focus was darting between the book and the archery station across the room. At the archery station stood two people with matching dark yellow collars. He couldn’t make out the tags, but they were from Eight or Nine, he guessed. The boy was practicing with a longbow, the girl watching up close, Alby too, but from afar. 

The other tributes weren’t meant to show off their important skills here, Thomas knew. But Alby was making his far too obvious, probably assuming no one would pay him any mind. He may have been somehow more dangerous than Thomas initially thought. 

Far to Alby’s left another boy stood alone at the first-aid station, an instructor teaching him how to properly wrap a tourniquet. A ways away from him stood a girl who was climbing a rope impressively high. Below her stood her district partner, who was looking up at her like he couldn’t believe it. 

Gally and Beth, the especially deadly looking duo from Seven, stood outside the glass rooms, both tapping into their own simulation. Gally held a spear, Beth a hatchet. Thomas nearly convinced himself to watch them attempt it, but decided against it. 

And then his eyes found the trap station far across the room, where Chuck and his district partner—Poppy, Chuck had said—were being taught how to make a snare or something. Chuck was laughing, cheeks especially red, and Poppy was shaking her head fondly. 

And then he felt sick again, so Thomas’ gaze fell to his fingers, the match still smoothly passing between each of them. 

It took him a few seconds to realize he wasn’t alone, and when his gaze snapped sidelong, he started. 

“Didn’t mean to scare ya.” 

“You didn’t,” he told the Twelve boy quickly, attention then returning to the gym around them. 

A hand popped into the corner of his vision and he turned slightly, his own joining it tentatively. “Name’s Newt,” the Twelve boy said firmly, squeezing his hand before dropping it. “Yours is…?” 

“Thomas,” he mumbled, stilling the match and rolling it between his thumb and index. If he were honest, he didn’t really feel like making small talk with anyone outside of his allies. Not after Chuck. 

In an effort to make that obvious, he returned his eyes to the space in front of him, not really focusing on anything at all, just staring at nothing. 

Newt, however, didn’t seem to take the hint. 

“Heard you and your sister are here together,” Newt said in an even voice. “Sorry to hear.” 

Thomas frowned, sparing a glance at him. “Don’t be.”

Out of the corner of his eye Thomas watched as the blond’s face fell, quickly reconstructing itself as he hummed. “Alright then.”

They fell into a sort of silence again, one that was awkward but Thomas paid no attention to, far too distracted by the odd sinking feeling in his chest. His mind kept reeling back to Darnell every time his eyes found Chuck. To the words that had been whispered to him in the midst of a screaming crowd. 

“How much of their blood is on our hands?”

He sucked in a long breath, dropping the match and slotting his fingers together. His friend had gotten far too into his head with his odd theories and strange beliefs. Thomas felt like he was going crazy. Anyone could agree that Chuck being chosen was unfortunate, but it changed nothing. If it weren’t him, it’d be someone else. 

Thomas wished it were anyone else, if he were honest.

No. No, he didn’t. What was wrong with him? 

In an attempt to distract himself, Thomas faced himself towards Newt, whose eyebrows shot up at the movement. 

“What do you think of the Glade?” 

Newt frowned. “The Glade?” 

“The Capitol,” he corrected. “We call it the Glade.” 

“Why?” 

“Er…I don’t know.” He crossed his legs beneath him, cocking his head. “A clearing in the wilderness. A safe haven, I guess. Sort of makes sense.” 

Newt stared at him for a long moment, a distinct disbelief warping his features. Before Thomas could feel embarrassed, however, the other shrugged. “It’s quite nice, I suppose. Dunno why they’ve got so many soaps. It’s also rather quiet, I think.” 

Thomas huffed a small laugh. “Is it loud where you come from?” 

“Sometimes,” Newt said quickly. “And what’s the infamous District Two like?” 

He shrugged with one shoulder. “Cloudy. Boring. Twelve?” 

“Loud sometimes, as I said. Small,” Newt answered, bringing a knee up and resting his chin on it. “Makes me miss the grouchy bastards there whenever I’ve got to talk to one of them.” 

Thomas followed Newt’s gaze to the Makers sitting above, the pair staring up at them.

“My escort was complaining about missing her weekly appointment to have her fingers painted.” Newt shifted slightly, scoffing. “Can you imagine that being your biggest problem?” 

Thomas looked back at the other. “What’s your biggest problem?” 

“Not starving to death, to start,” Newt said with a laugh. Though when he looked back at Thomas—who was bewildered—his face fell. 

“Starving to death?” he parroted. “Why are you starving to death?” 

“I’m not now,” the other hummed. “Had a grand breakfast, actually. Have you tried the er…ah, what’s it called. The–” 

“Why would you be starving to death in your district?” Thomas cut in.

Newt gave him a curious look, then shrugged. “Dunno. We’re coal suppliers, but with the dam in District Five the Capitol doesn't have much use of us other than a backup, and to supply the rest of them, I suppose.” He paused, turning his eyes down to the fake grass below them. “We’re also the smallest district, smallest population. Furthest from the Capitol. I could go on.” 

“Does everyone there starve? Or is your family…?” 

“Is my family what?” 

Thomas flushed, shrugging. 

Newt’s eyes narrowed, but he spoke calmly. “Just how it is for most. ‘Course there’s a few who’re well off. The mayor and his lot.” 

“But most of you are starving?” Thomas asked. 

“Do you ever stop asking questions?” 

He frowned. “Doesn’t make sense. I mean, the Glade—the Capitol—looks out for all of us. Maybe if you went to the Mayor they could help–” 

Newt laughed loudly, cutting him off. “Oh, mate. D’you even hear yourself?” When Thomas gave no answer other than a confused mutter, Newt went on. “Look, I’m about to blow your damn mind. Ready?” 

Thomas felt awkward, but he nodded anyway. 

Newt scooted forward, leaning in slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. “The Capitol looks out for the Capitol. They only care about the Elites, and it’s not even care, per se. They need you. They keep you fat and keep you stupid because it’s too risky to do otherwise.” 

His eyes darted between the other’s for a moment before Thomas helplessly broke out into a smile. “You remind me of someone back home. A friend of mine.” 

Newt’s raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t even hear me, did you?” He pushed himself up to stand. “Well, it was nice meeting you, Thomas.” 

Thomas half-waved. “You too.” 

As Newt walked off, Thomas thought of Darnell. He would’ve liked Newt, Thomas knew. He thought of the repulsed face Newt had made after the Tribute Parade when Thomas had spooked his district partner. Now that he was thinking about it, it was distinctly Darnell-like. 

Thomas didn’t think about the things that Newt said, didn’t bother acknowledging them. And for once, it wasn’t because he didn’t believe it or thought that the boy from Twelve was insane. Instead, it was because he was afraid it was true. 

Newt was thin. His district partner was too. And after learning about Bee and what the Glade—the Capitol—had done to her, and meeting Chuck, Thomas found that it wouldn’t be all that surprising if District Twelve wasn’t treated properly. Thomas had seen minimal footage of the place, but the tributes that came from it never lasted more than a few days. 

They were always thin, and if not thin than just unhealthy. Bags under their eyes and a certain tired demeanour about them. The kind that came from more than a lack of sleep.

But Thomas wasn’t thinking about that. 

So he rose from the fire-starting station and found his way to a series of mats in the middle of the gym where the Elites—including Rachel and Teresa—had all gathered. Teresa was telling them some sort of story when Thomas walked up, and the group laughed uproariously. Usually it would strike a chord in Thomas, how easily people took to his sister. But at that moment he didn’t care. 

He needed a distraction. He needed to be in his body and not his mind. 

Luckily he was in the perfect place for such a thing. 

The morning went on, and Thomas put all of himself into sparring with the others with every weapon available, as well as with just hand-to-hand combat. With constant movement he wasn’t thinking about Darnell, or Bee, or Chuck, or Newt and District Twelve. By the time noon rolled around, he had forgotten all of it, aware only of the blows he was fending off. 

Finally he got Aris stomach-down, Thomas hovering over his body with his throat caught by Thomas’ arm. Aris tapped out after a few seconds, sweaty but laughing, and the pair rose up. It wasn’t long before Thomas realized their antics had gathered the room's attention. 

As Dan handed him his water bottle, Thomas looked around, never settling on any of the others for more than a second. That was, until, his eyes fell on Chuck. 

Who was holding Poppy’s hand, eyes flickering between Thomas and the Elites, feet shifting beneath him nervously. Poppy tucked Chuck behind her, and when he looked up she was staring at him, eyes hard. 

He turned off. Feeling a sickening unnamed emotion swirl in his stomach. 

When Thomas tucked himself into his makeshift bed on Teresa’s floor that night, his mind remained overactive despite the activities of the day, and the exhaustion that ran bone-deep. Darnell had ruined his mind, Thomas was sure of it. After years of hearing his friend’s ridiculous conspiracy theories, a screw in his brain had loosened. 

The issue was, it had been rare for Thomas to ever truly listen to Darnell when he would go on his rants. Usually he would tune it out, only really hearing bits and pieces that he would quietly laugh at. But now he almost wished he had listened, just to disprove it to himself.

Because some sick, dull part of his brain was starting to believe it. Well, not believe it, really. But he was starting to think that certain parts of the world weren’t as he once thought they were. If the Capitol was willing to cut Bee’s tongue out from her throat and send a little kid like Chuck to his death, what weren’t they willing to do?

No. He was being ridiculous. Bee was a criminal and Chuck…

Oh, Chuck. 

He felt nauseous. There had been many children Chuck’s age who had gone into the Trials, and never before had Thomas questioned it. Pawns, he told himself. Pawns, pawns, pawns. But Chuck was a person. Not just a person, but a child. He was twelve!

Thomas sat up in a rush, pulling his hands through his hair. 

What was happening to him? 

Rising to stand, Thomas went off towards the bathroom attached to his sister's room, flicking the light on and sliding the door shut quietly behind him. He felt like a traitor, guilt finding home in his chest and gnawing at his ribs. He wanted to wake his sister, to ask if she ever had such thoughts, but he didn’t have to. His sister was loyal to the Capitol, to their district, and he knew that. 

What if Thomas had always been a traitor? What if that was why he never reported Darnell? What if that was the reason he felt like an impostor among everyone else in his district? What if that was why Teresa seemed like she was trying to pull away from him? 

“It’s because even if you’ve spent your entire life trying to be, you’ll never be like them.”

No. No. Thomas wasn’t like Darnell. He was just exhausted. He wasn’t in his right mind. 

Has he ever been in his right mind? 

Thomas stepped towards the sink, turning the water on cold and splashing his face with it. It was only when he looked in the mirror that Thomas found the blood to be drained from his face, his chest jerking with rapid breaths. It only made him feel worse, seeing the mental turn physical. 

A knock came on the door before it pulled open. 

“Tom?” 

A choked sound came from him, but it wasn’t a sob. Thomas wasn’t crying. He never cried. 

“Hey,” Teresa whispered, sleep clear on her face as she stepped into the bathroom, rushing to Thomas’ side. “What’s going on?” 

Did she know what he was, on some level? Did she hate him? 

“Talk to me.” 

“I don’t know,” he spat out, bowed over the sink, arms barely holding him up. “I don’t know. I don’t…”  

“That’s okay,” she murmured. “That’s fine.” Her hand found his back, palming circles between his shoulder blades. “Want to lay with me for a little bit?” 

After a moment he nodded, and she linked their arms, leading them into her bed. 

“Dan likes you,” she said once they got comfortable, hand carding through his hair. “He told me so.” 

Thomas was curled into himself, head on his sister’s chest. It felt like pieces of him were falling away, disappearing into some void. 

“Aris is a little insufferable,” she went on quietly. “But he’s okay, I guess. I like Rachel. You should see her paintings, they’re incredible.” She tapped his head. “What if I showed you tomorrow?” 

“Her paintings?” he mumbled. 

“Yeah. I bet she’d make one for you.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” she whispered. After a few minutes of silence disrupted only by their breathing, she spoke again. “You can sleep here with me, if you’d like.” 

“Okay,” he said again. 

“Okay.” 

After what was sure to be a second few seconds of air time, Thomas was slammed down onto his back, air vanishing from his lungs. Dan landed on top of him, pinning his wrists to his sides. The taller boy’s lip was busted from Thomas’ knee shoving into it—unintentionally—a few minutes prior. He hadn’t even noticed, Thomas thought. 

“You’re feisty,” Dan said smugly. 

Thomas groaned, trying to free his wrists. “Shut up.” 

After another few seconds of him struggling Dan raised an eyebrow. “You done?” 

“Fine,” he grumbled, and Dan let him go and moved off of him. Thomas sat up, rubbing at his wrists. “Wanna go again?” 

“Not even a little bit,” the other huffed. “We’ve been going all morning. I’m tuckered out.” 

Mara walked over to them, giving Dan a one-over. “You’re bleeding.” 

Dan frowned, wiping the back of his hand against his mouth. He raised an eyebrow to Thomas. “And I’m bleeding.” 

He pursed his lips, pushing himself up to stand. “Sorry about that.” 

Dan waved him off, scooting towards his water bottle. 

Mara kicked his foot. “Wanna try an obstacle course with me?” 

“Sure,” he said. “Which–” 

“Tom!” his sister shouted, jogging over to them. “C’mon!” 

He gave Mara an apologetic look. “After?” 

She shrugged, turning to ask Dan instead as Teresa came and grabbed Thomas arm, dragging him away. 

It was only another two or so minutes later that Thomas was sitting on a stool by the camouflage station, Rachel cutting away at his sleeve with a pocket knife. Teresa was on another stool in front of him, painting a stick she had stolen from the fire-starting station a mix of pinks, whites, and oranges. 

“Is that necessary?” Thomas asked as Rachel threw aside the sleeve she had cut from his shirt. 

She grinned. “They’ll give you a new one, relax.” She picked up a tray of paints made from various clays, plants, and other natural substances, as Teresa had so graciously explained. “Now, what d’you want?” 

He frowned. “Er, I don’t know.” 

“What’s your favourite animal?” 

Thomas hadn’t known many animals in his life. Once he had seen a deer out in the woods with Teresa and Jorge. Not to mention the many squirrels and raccoons that were always prancing around in his section. He didn’t really have a favourite. 

“Give him a cat,” Teresa hummed, looking up at Rachel then turning to him. “Like Carmichael.” 

He snorted. “Yeah, okay.” 

Carmichael was their neighbour's cat. A sleek, black coated feline that liked to leave the bodies of mice, rats, and an occasional squirrel on their front step. Jorge had something of a feud with it. 

He sat there for around half an hour, trying not to squirm when the cold paintbrush touched towards his underarm where it was ticklish. Teresa spoke to them both throughout it, but Rachel was mostly focused on her work. She was a nice girl. A little shy, which Thomas liked. He didn’t feel judged by her. 

“I think I want a dog,” Teresa said, hiking her own sleeve up to her elbow. “Not one of those Glader-dogs, a real one.” 

“My aunt has this dog that herds her goats,” Rachel said idly, adding the final details of Thomas’ arm-painting. “It’s black and white, sharp as a whip. Fast, too.” 

“Sounds like me,” Teresa said, then stood up just as Rachel pulled away from Thomas. “Swap.” 

He obeyed, standing and then switching stools with his sister. 

Rachel pointed at him, though she was still looking at her paints. “Don’t move too much, let it dry.” 

He peeked over at his right bicep, finding a mix of dark browns and blues smeared over his skin that really did look just like a portrait of a black cat stalking down his arm. In fact, it was really beautiful. When he said as much to Rachel, she flushed, grinning as she worked on Teresa’s forearm. 

“It’s nothing, really.”

“How’d you learn?” he asked. 

She shrugged. “My mother painted a lot before she died a few years ago. I never wanted to, thought it was sort of stupid I mean…what’s the point, right?” Rachel frowned to herself, brush stilling for a moment before picking up again. “But then she was gone and I missed her. Thought doing it would connect me to her.” 

His sister looked up at Rachel with soft eyes. “Does it?” 

Rachel met her gaze. “Yeah. It really does.” 

They all sat in a comfortable silence for a few minutes, Thomas and Teresa watching as Rachel’s brush painted life onto her skin. Thomas wished he had secret talents like that. Maybe he’d pick it up, someday. 

Eventually Rachel finished and once it dried she and Teresa decided to go off and practice with bows, and Thomas returned to the mat where Dan and Aris were wrestling. Thomas was decent at hand-to-hand, really. And at the end of the day size wasn’t that big of a component in it all. Dan’s size, however, very much was. 

Thomas had lapped him practicing with swords the previous day, however, so he wasn’t all that put off with his losses on the mat. He could only hope that it never came to fists with Dan in the arena. 

He just sat on the sidelines, not wanting to disturb the painting on his arm, watching as Dan gave Aris pointers. The only other person in the arena who matched the tall boy’s size would be Gally—who was either the same height, or taller—and Thomas figured there wouldn’t be an opportunity where Aris and Gally would be left alone, but supposedly it wasn’t worth the risk. 

Suddenly something smacked hard against Thomas’ back, a blow of pain, and he whirled around as much as he could to find Chuck behind him, wide eyed and holding the same nunchucks in hand. The pain wasn’t bad, just surprising, and Thomas attempted to reach and arm around to soothe the pulse of it. 

“Hello to you too.” 

“Sorry! Sorry, I thought it’d be funny, you know. It wasn’t. I’m sorry.” Chuck ran a pudgy hand through his curly brown hair, a corkscrew strand falling over his face. Thomas hated how young he looked, hated how young he was. 

“It’s alright, have a seat,” he offered, patting the space to his right.

The younger boy obeyed, plopping down and joining Thomas in watching the boys have it out. He sat with his legs crossed, toying with the nunchucks in his lap, occasionally sniffling. He was a child in every meaning of the world, careless of the jam stains on his face from breakfast and immediately made nervous by the commotion that was Dan and Aris.

Thomas didn’t tell his sister about why he had been so overwhelmed in the night, not even when she asked. It was too risky. And he had tried not to think about it, all of it, but it was becoming impossible to ignore. Whenever he saw Bee, Chuck, even Newt from Twelve, it ignited like a fire in his mind. 

There was something wrong with Thomas, something sick about him just like Teresa had said. But it was fine. He could keep it inside, pretend it wasn’t there even if it plagued his mind. And it did. Especially in that moment with Chuck beside him. 

Chuck, who would be completely and entirely ignored by Sponsors even if he lived long enough to be eligible for them. Chuck, who was twelve years old and a few days away from being stuck in an area with kids many years older than him, that being only one among many of their advantages. Thomas’ heart ached in his chest. 

“Check it out,” he said to the boy, desperate to get away from his thoughts. “Rachel painted my arm.” 

Chuck immediately turned, grinning at the sight of it. “A cat, that’s cool!” 

“I thought so too,” he murmured, running his sweaty hands over his knees. “So, have you mastered the nunchucks?” 

Chuck gave a small laugh, holding up the weapon in his hand. “I mean, aside from bruising your back I don’t think I’m all that good with them.”  

Maybe Dan would agree to keep Chuck with them. He could be a good scout, and Thomas would watch over him. But what would that lead to? When they were all that was left could Thomas protect him from the strongest tributes in the entire arena? And with Teresa…well, it wasn’t like he could save him. Even if he wanted to. 

Thomas nodded. “You good with anything else?” 

“Uh, not really,” Chuck said quietly, then perked up a bit. “But I’m fast. I can run fast.” 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah! I used to have to catch the chickens on Dad’s farm every time they escaped. He said I’m the best at it, anyway, that’s why I had to be the one to do it.” Chuck looked up at Thomas. “Mom always got mad at him for it.” 

Thomas’ throat felt like it was sealed shut, suddenly bombarded with images of the little boy’s loving family sitting before a screen, watching as their boy—still practically a baby—fought to survive, ran to survive from a group of kids far older than he, far stronger. He tried to shove it away, store it so he didn’t have to feel the odd clutch in his chest, but he was unsuccessful. 

“Bet she misses you, your father as well,” Thomas said in a strained voice. 

Chuck was obviously not ready to have that conversation, shrugging away Thomas’ words. “What about you? What’s your family like?” 

For some reason, telling this little boy that Thomas was orphaned and lived with his sister and their guardian didn’t seem like the right thing to do. “I’ve got a mother and father, and they’re just great, you know. And I have an uncle too, called Jorge. He makes the best oatmeal you’ll ever taste, I swear. And my sister, well she’s here with me.” He pointed to the archery station. “Teresa.” 

Chuck’s bottom lip stuck out a little, eyes turning all big. “Oh.”

He cleared his throat. “Do you have any siblings?” 

Chuck shook his head, as expected, and grinned. “Mom said she couldn’t have any other babies, just me. But I think she just doesn’t want any. She says I’m more than enough.” 

Thomas felt as though someone had stuck a knife into his stomach. 

“I’ve always wanted one, though,” Chuck said, fiddling with his nunchucks. “A brother.” 

“Chuck,” a voice hissed from behind them, causing both boys to turn around to find the boy’s district partner, Poppy. “What are you doing?”

Dan and Aris seemed to have enough of their wrestling, and turned at the same time, walking over with stone expressions. Chuck immediately shrunk into himself, whispering a goodbye to Thomas before letting Poppy drag him away. Dan watched them go, eyes tracking. 

“What’d they want?” 

“Nothing,” Thomas said quickly. “Kid’s just curious about fighting.” 

His answer was accepted, Dan plopping down at his side and examining the paint job Rachel had done on his arm, making a comment about bad luck that Thomas didn’t pay much attention to. He felt his mind wandering to places he didn’t want to go to once more, but he didn’t put up much resistance this time around. 

He wanted nothing more than to tell his sister about everything, confess the awful thoughts that wouldn’t leave off and have her fix it for him. But it didn’t work like that. All he would get was a steady glare and eyes that searched right into his soul. She would see him for what he was, and he could try and deny it, but it didn’t matter. 

He could kick and scream and volunteer to prove himself, but no matter what Teresa saw through him, she knew him. She knew what he was. 

He had been right, she had known about him long before he had even known about himself. It was why she hated Darnell, why she pushed him away. She saw the wrong in him. And if Thomas went to her and admitted the stirrings going on in his mind, he would prove her right. 

So Thomas would bear the thoughts by himself and act as though nothing was wrong, holding his chin high and walking with confidence like he was meant for this world. Act as though he belonged in every crowd and every room, act like he was everything Teresa was and he could never be.

“Tom!” Teresa called, stepping beside him and offering a hand up, one he immediately took. “Wanna verse? Winner gets half the other’s steak tonight.” 

Thomas snorted, agreeing and walking with her into the middle of the mat. Dan, Mara, Aris, and Rachel gathered around to watch, getting comfortable and exchanging murmurs between one another. Thomas ignored the anxiety their eyes burned into his skin, rolling his shoulders to try and ease the tenseness so much physical exertion built in them. 

“You’re happy,” Thomas observed, tilting his head as if to examine her. “Did you hit your head?”

Teresa giggled. “Shut up.” 

They circled one another, Thomas jumping to make the first move, excited to wipe the smug grin off his sister’s face. He tackled her, taking them both to the ground as their combined shouts filled the air. Thomas didn’t know what was happening, it was a mess of jutting legs and flailing arms, hits landing everywhere as they wrestled as they did as kids. It wasn’t fighting, it was purely for fun, to see who was stronger, it was them, their game. 

Hands yanked hair, fingers drove into sides, giggles were exchanged between them all until finally Teresa pinned her knees onto Thomas’ chest, hands holding his arms down as she grinned. 

“Cheater,” he accused uselessly. 

Teresa snorted, then dropped one of his wrists, bringing her hand forward as she clutched at an imaginary knife, drawing a fake line across his throat as she used to do when they were far younger. This time, however, her face fell slowly and the non-existent knife stilled halfway, their eyes locked. 

Would the end look like this? 

Thomas wondered if she was thinking the same thing. It felt like it, based on how she bit at the inside of her cheek and slipped off of him, pulling herself up to stand and walking over to the rest, smiling at their cheers for her. It wasn’t a real smile, Thomas knew. And it wasn’t long before they would have to face the shadow following them around. 

He considered going to join the others, but behind them he found Newt watching from a distance. Thomas smiled, but the other didn’t return it, instead putting his attention elsewhere and walking off. It seemed purposeful, but it might not have been, and Thomas was determined to find an answer. Anything other than having to face his sister then. 

He rose off the mat and trailed off after the blond, finding him sitting down by the naturalist station, flicking through a book about plants. Jorge had the same copy at home, and Thomas had read through it more than once in his boredom when Teresa would leave the house without him. Carefully he sat across from the other, awaiting his presence to be acknowledged. 

It wasn’t, however, and he grew impatient. “What are you reading?” 

“A book.” 

Thomas frowned. “I know that. What about?” 

“Plants.” 

“What kind of plants?” 

“Edible, inedible.” 

He brought his thumb up to his mouth, biting at the nail there. “Anything life saving?” 

“Plenty.” 

Annoyed, Thomas gently kicked Newt’s leg.

Finally, the blond looked up at him, gaze flickering over Thomas’ face for a moment before his attention fell to the book again. “You’re bleeding.” 

Thomas wiped a hand over his face, brushing against a sting on his forehead. He shrugged. “It’s not a big deal. Can I ask you something?” 

Newt made a small sound. Thomas took it as permission. 

“I want to know more about your district, like, what it’s like there and–” 

“It’s amazing,” Newt drawled in the same way Darnell did when he meant the opposite of what he said. “Nothing but gold houses for miles and food so grand you’d scream after a bite. Better than here, even.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You’re not being helpful.” 

No answer. 

“You know, I haven’t seen you touch a single weapon in the time we’ve spent here.” He sprawled his legs out, leaning back on his palms. “How are you supposed to return to your supposedly glorious district if you can’t fight?” 

“Bold to assume I can’t fight,” Newt hummed. 

“Well, you obviously wouldn’t know how to fight. Not a lot of people do.” He looked over the other, slightly annoyed that he was so focused on the book. “And training before the Trials is illegal.” 

Newt looked up, finally. “And yet…” 

“Fine then,” he crossed his legs beneath him, sitting forwards with his elbows resting on his knees. “What’s your weapon of choice?” 

“Don’t have one,” Newt said. 

Thomas poked the other’s book until it flipped into his lap face down. “No? So how are you going to eliminate someone?” 

“I’m not going to,” Newt said simply. “Now, I’ve got loads of training to do, so why don’t you grab a book and quit it with the yammering. Sound like a plan?” 

“You’re not going to eliminate anyone? That’s not possible,” Thomas huffed, confused. “How are you supposed to try and win without eliminating anyone?” 

“Just will.” 

“But you won’t.” 

“If you’re so sure.” 

“What if someone tries to eliminate you?” Thomas asked. 

Newt shrugged. “I’ll run.” 

“And if they trap you?” 

“I’ll escape.” 

“And if you can’t?” 

Newt held his eyes for a few moments, breathing even and calm despite the words that fell from his lips. “Then I’ll die.” 

He sucked in a small breath, frustrated, looking down at his own lap before returning to the other’s eyes. “But… why? Why wouldn’t you want to survive?” 

The somewhat bored look on Newt’s face disappeared, brow creasing slightly as he sat forwards. “Thomas, you might not understand this right now—you may never be able to—but I couldn’t go on with my life knowing I had murdered someone. I couldn’t wake up in the mornings and be glad, because I’d have stolen the life from someone who barely got the chance to live at all.” 

Murdered. Thomas swallowed. 

“You and I,” Newt huffed, gesturing around them. “All of them, all of us, we’re people. We have families and lives ahead of us, and I will not be corrupted into believing that the things I do to survive are justified because of some war a century ago. They won’t turn me into a monster. I won’t let them.” 

For a full minute the pair just stared at one another, Newt determined and Thomas a mix between taken aback and guilty. He cleared his throat, looking down. “Do you think that I’m a monster?” 

Newt picked up his book. “I don’t know. I don’t know you.” 

That answer was the very last thing Thomas wanted to hear, as knowing him may have proved him to be just how Newt saw the Capitol. There were words to say, a lot of them, but he couldn’t find it within himself to speak them aloud. He wanted to correct the blond, tell him that eventually instinct would take over and he would fight. No matter how badly he didn’t want to. 

But the intensity Newt spoke with almost disproved that, as if he genuinely believed it would be better to die than to…kill, as if he valued his own life less than anyone else's. If Thomas were to attack him, to pin him down and hold a knife to his throat, would Newt beg? Would he fight? Or would he close his eyes and accept it as an inevitability, let the knife slit a wound and be at peace while his blood pooled beneath him.

“Thomas,” Dan said, appearing in front of them. “What are you doing?”

“Learning about plants,” he replied, pushing himself up to stand and following Dan as he led him away, not sparing a glance back towards the blond boy who spoke with sense and nonsense all at once. 

That night Thomas showered far longer than he ever had before, the grime and sweat long rinsed and yet he stayed. It was plaguing his mind. Newt’s words, Darnell’s, Jorge’s. Even Starlette and the modifications on Bee, all of it swarming his thoughts and tainting every word his mind attempted to form. It felt like everything he knew to be real was growing fuzzier the longer he spent there. 

When he stepped out he found Bee replacing his sheets, and he bid her a quiet greeting, then changed into his sleepwear in the washroom. When he stepped out again, she had disappeared, brand new sheets to replace the ones he hadn’t even slept on yet again. 

Thomas made his way to his sister’s room, but when he stepped up it didn’t slide open. He knocked, and no answer came. He knocked again, nothing. He called her name a few times, but she was either asleep or ignoring him. He stood there for a few minutes, debating, before finally deciding to retire to his room. 

Bee was in the hallway, and when he passed she came to a stop and bowed her head. Thomas stopped, put off by the gesture, and an idea popped into his head. 

“Uh, Bee, could you help me with something?” 

The girl looked up and frowned at him. 

“Really quick just…please,” he mumbled, embarrassed. 

Bee followed him to his room, and he quickly made his way over to his bed, slumping down onto it and pulling the covers over himself. She stood by the doorway, just inside enough for the door to close behind her, and Thomas craned his neck a bit. 

“Could you…” he paused, feeling like a child. “Could you sit on my bed until I fall asleep?” 

She watched him for a few moments, something almost fearful in her gaze. Thomas felt incredibly awkward, and also entirely filled with regret, but eventually she gave a chaste nod and sat on the end of his bed. Her weight hardly dipped into the mattress, but Thomas could feel her presence by his feet. 

He gave her a quiet thank-you, then pulled the duvet over himself and settled in. It was better, but sleep continued to evade him, mind racing with so many unwanted thoughts he was growing frustrated. He scooted further to the other side of the bed, away from Bee. 

“Could you sit up here?” he asked, patting the space beside him. 

She seemed uncomfortable, but obeyed anyway, and as she settled beside him Thomas felt the tenseness in his entire body ease. He matched his breathing to hers, shut his eyes, and let sleep tug at the corners of his vision until the hum of distant electricity and his new friend’s breathing faded, allowing him to slip away.

Chapter Text

“Girl from Eleven,” Dan said after a thoughtful moment, talking through a bite of his sandwich. “You should’ve seen her yesterday. I passed by her and she jumped so high I swear her head almost touched the ceiling.” 

“No way.” Mara picked up a carrot stick, pointing at the round table a few paces to their right where District Ten resided. “Him, no doubt.” 

Dan shook his head, waving her off. “Pfft, it’s all the same. If they even end up making it through the bloodbath something else’ll get them. Mutts, hot, cold, starving, dehydration, whatever.” 

Rachel swallowed a bite of her lunch, giving a grimace. “I’d rather that.” She didn’t say it outright, but Thomas was glad to know he wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to eliminate the younger kids.

Dan frowned, however, seeming confused. “Why?” 

“Well, I don’t know,” Rachel said quietly. “Doesn’t it seem cruel?” 

“Wrong,” Mara said through a full mouth. “It’s a whole lot easier to kill something that won’t fight back. That way you can’t feel how badly they want to live. You know, morally.” 

Dan turned to the girl slowly, very slowly. “Wow, Mars. That was dark.” 

She only rolled her eyes in response, the group finally steering away from the topic of who was bound to die first. Thomas hadn’t added anything all throughout, and instead focused on not losing his appetite as they talked of all the ways they had seen people die in past Trials and made their guesses on how people would die this year. 

His mind was still reeling with the bits and pieces of information he had collected, just as it did with the strange conclusions he had come to. Everything with Bee and Chuck and the Capitol. And Newt and his experiences in District Twelve. Alleged experiences, at least. But such thoughts weren’t the thing haunting the forefront of his mind. 

No, he was thinking about his sister. Thomas had spent many nights alone in his life when Teresa was busy with her friends, but she had never intentionally shut him out before. A part of him wanted to believe she had just fallen asleep, but the door was locked. His sister hadn’t locked her door a single time throughout their stay here. 

And if that wasn’t proof enough, Teresa hadn’t spoken a single word to him all morning, and from the looks of it even her conversation with Rachel looked to be a bit stilted. She was eating, and had trained hard as usual all morning, but she seemed away from herself. And more importantly, away from Thomas. More than once he had tried to bounce banter off her, but all she gave in response was a weary smile. 

Thomas went over every conversation they had over the past few days, every minor interaction, but he couldn’t place where he may have said something wrong. A part of him felt as though he’d somehow—unbeknownst to him—let the traitorous thoughts turn into words at some point, and she was pushing him away. 

But he couldn’t think of a single sentence uttered by him that would’ve insinuated such thoughts. He had been deliberately careful not to do so. 

A part of him wanted desperately to prod, to poke and nudge at her side until she told him what was wrong, just how he used to do when they were younger. But they weren’t little anymore, and he knew that such things didn’t work like they once did. So instead he just kept close to her and waited until she came clean or snapped at him, anything to get rid of the wedge of distance she’d put between them. 

Bee’s company had helped, even though he had woken into the early hours of the morning alone and ended up lying with his eyes closed until the sun was high in the sky. And while she was appreciated, Thomas feared seeing her again after exposing such a humiliating side of himself. 

It was more likely that she was already aware, seeing how he had been mostly absent from his room during the night and she wasn’t dull. But at least then she could’ve come to the conclusion that Teresa was the strange one, and not Thomas. Whenever he did see her next, he’d have to come up with some sort of explanation. 

“Five minutes,” a Keeper warned, pacing the room with their hand adjusting the Launcher attached to the chunky belt around their waist. Their badge was purple, which Thomas had only seen once or twice in his life, but figured it meant they were closely associated with the Capitol. Whatever rank it was was high enough for them to wield a Launcher. 

Launchers were common in Two, as their district not only produced them, but produced a few Runners who wielded them. It was one of the reasons Thomas believed Two to be the best district of them all, considering that becoming a Keeper—whether it be a Runner, a Bagger, whatever—was an option. 

The rest of the districts didn’t have such privileges, Thomas knew. He had always wondered what Elites did if they never got the chance to go into the Trials. Thomas and Teresa had trained their entire lives for it after finishing their elementary education, and had they not won they could’ve gone on to get their Keepers licence. But he had no idea what One and Four did.

He should’ve stayed in his district. Became a Runner—if he was lucky—and lived out his life like Jorge had. Then he’d have a Launcher of his own. He wondered if they would put one into their arena. If he got his hands on one he was certain he could finish the Trials in a day. 

“You okay Thomas?” Aris asked, kicking his shin lightly under the table. 

Thomas nodded, swallowing the last bite of his sandwich. “Fine. Just wondering if they’ll put a Launcher in the arena.” 

Mara snorted. “You wish.” 

“I got shot by one of those once,” Dan said casually, picking at his nails, entirely unaware of five pairs of eyes that snapped to him. “I definitely wouldn’t wish it on anyone.” He looked up. “What?” 

“You got shot with a Launcher?” Teresa said quickly, all traces of her bad mood gone from her face, replaced with shock and awe. 

Rachel sat forwards, eyes wide. “Why?” 

“Ah,” Dan looked around, seeming pleased with the attention. “See me and my buddies wanted to see if we could bring home this fish, a real expensive one, but the thing was like…seven, eight hundred pounds?” He shrugged. “So me and four guys are tryna lug it down the street in the middle of the night, and naturally we get caught.” 

“Naturally,” Aris snickered. 

“It was some Slopper way out of place, and I started telling him off, whatever. Then, his Runner buddy shows up, and next thing I know…” 

Thomas scoffed in disbelief. “Bullshit.” 

Dan’s eyes found him quickly, smug. “Oh yeah?” He stood up, hiking the hem of his shirt up under his chin to reveal a hard stomach, and sure enough there sat a bubbled pink scar to the right of his bellybutton. “See?” 

Thomas shook his head. “Yeah, yeah whatever.”

“What did it feel like?” Aris questioned. 

“Hot, electric-y.” Dan pulled his shirt down, taking a seat once more. “I passed out. Smelt bad for a bit. Everything tasted metallic.” 

“Bet I can top it,” his sister said quickly, everyone’s attention flicking to her. “So long as you never repeat it elsewhere.” 

Rachel grinned. “We promise.” 

A murmur of agreement sounded from each of them outside of Thomas, who was curious about whatever Teresa had to say that was supposedly more interesting than Dan’s story. He couldn’t remember anything happening with them that was nearly as insane as being shot with a Launcher for trying to steal a fish. 

“Well, my friend Adam once got this ticket for being outside past curfew,” she began, eyes twinkling with humour. “And he’s sort of…hot-headed, to say the least, so he gathers us up to avenge himself.” She paused for a few moments, seemingly trying to compile herself. “So we break into the department in our section, and go into Henley’s office–” 

“Henley?” Thomas questioned, confused. “You mean the Head of the Department of Keepers Henley?” 

“–and Hank leaves this dead raccoon behind a shelf of his,” Teresa went on, ignoring him. “And this thing’s already been dead for a day or two, and the smell is so bad that my other friend pukes in one of his desk drawers.” 

The entire table was beside themselves laughing, all but Thomas. 

“Anyway they don’t find the thing for days, and eventually they call in Sloppers and clear out basically the entire building. But I swear that street smelt rancid for like a week after.” 

He didn’t remember that. 

It was a memory that she had never once shared with Thomas, and one he hadn’t been included in. In fact, he couldn’t even place when it would’ve happened, as Hank and Adam had been around for a long time, and went out without him often enough. Something scolding and ugly slithered around Thomas’ insides, staining his mood and keeping his eyes locked on his empty plate. 

“Did you guys get caught?” Aris asked, barely collecting himself. 

“Nope, they just figured it got in somehow and died there. And if they found the puke, they didn't say anything." 

"I wouldn't," Rachel hummed. "Pretty embarrassing to have such bad security." 

“Genius,” Dan chimed. “But it doesn’t beat mine.” 

“Alright let’s go!” the Keeper called, clapping slowly to catch their attention. “Come on, we don’t have all day.” 

The tributes were then escorted into a separate part of the basement, herded swiftly into a small waiting room with rows of chairs, back to back. Thomas sat down near the back by the door that led into the private sessions, and folded his arms across his chest, feeling sour. It wasn’t new knowledge, that Teresa had done such things and left him behind, but the reminder that he was so unimportant to her stung. 

The fact that she was in the process of shutting him out only made him feel worse. 

The energy in the room was thick with stress, though such a thing didn’t seem to touch the Elites. Mara and Dan were sitting in the seats behind him and Teresa, Dan’s head occasionally dipping back to smack into Thomas’ own. Aris and Rachel were sitting beside his sister, whispering happily to one another. The other tributes needed to score high to gain attention from Sponsors, but really the Elites had Sponsors before they even arrived in the Capitol. 

Across from Thomas sat Newt and the Twelve girl. Beside them was Chuck and Poppy, and the rest were behind Thomas, but he could still feel their tense energy. Shaky exhales and shoes tapping rapidly against the floor. A part of him wished for them to fall quiet, feeling his own body heat begin to rise with their panic. 

A monotone voice rang through the room, calling the District One male forwards to enter. Aris rose from his seat, pulling the attention of most, and bowed down to plant a kiss on Rachel’s cheek before quickly turning off and leaving. The girl flushed, gaze turning down to her lap in an attempt to hide it. 

Teresa turned to Thomas with a repulsed look on her face, causing him to snort. 

“Where’s my kiss?” Dan asked from behind them, and Thomas turned in his seat enough to see the other looking back at him with a dramatically sad expression. “Cruel world we live in.” 

“Shut up,” Teresa said, smirking. 

“No I’m serious, why does she get a kiss but I don’t? When he gets back here I’m giving him a wet one.” Dan moved further so he was sitting backwards on his chair. “That cool with you Rach?” 

“Shut up, Dan,” Rachel hissed, face burning, hands held up to try and conceal it. 

Dan grinned. “What? Worried he’s gonna fall for me instead?”

“Gross,” Teresa muttered, giving Dan a dirty look. 

“Jealous, Tess?” 

“Don’t call me that.” 

Dan rolled his eyes and tugged on a short strand of Thomas’ hair. “You’ll kiss me, won’t you Tom?” 

Thomas moved until he was sitting sideways in his chair with his knees up to his chest and his back against the wall, giving Dan an odd look. “Think I’ll pass.” 

“You guys are so boring,” Dan grumbled. “Haven’t you ever had fun in your entire lives?” 

“Of course we have,” Teresa said, copying Thomas’ stance, facing him. “Kissing, however.” 

Dan looked appalled. “You’ve never kissed anyone?” 

“Well we’re saving all that marriage stuff until after the Trials,” his sister informed him. “Right Tom?” 

He nodded. 

Dan cocked his head. “Who said anything about being married?” 

“You kiss the people you’re marrying, obviously,” Teresa said, though her eyes seemed to show some doubt at the third’s tone.

Dan looked between them for a moment. “You guys are fucking with me, right?” 

Thomas and Teresa exchanged a glance. 

Suddenly Dan jumped over the backs of their chairs, scrambling over the siblings knees and ignoring their cries and hisses until he landed on the floor. The tall boy stood up, hands on his hips, peering down at them suspiciously. “You guys are aware that all the kissing stuff can happen without you being married, right?” 

It wasn’t impossible, obviously. But it was against their beliefs, the country's beliefs. Wasn’t it?

He looked at Teresa and she returned the stare, raising an eyebrow. Silently, they came to a mutual agreement. His sister looked up at Dan. “Of course we knew that.” 

“You…” Dan brought his hands up to his mouth, covering it for a moment before lowering them. “You know that you can have sex before marriage, right?” 

The siblings exchanged yet another glance. 

“I didn’t,” Rachel said from behind Teresa, seeming to have recovered from her salacious cheek-kiss. “Isn’t it against…?” 

Dan looked around at the three of them, eyes widened slightly. “No one actually listens to that shit.” He paused. “Except for you guys, apparently.” 

Teresa frowned. “So you just, what, go around having…doing that stuff all the time?” 

Dan looked bewildered. “No, not all the time but, you know…” 

“What’s the point?” Teresa asked. “If not for kids?” 

“Because it– I–” Dan threw his arms up, face a bit red. “You know what, ask someone else.” He jumped over top of Thomas and Teresa’s knees, causing them both to jab at him until he was back over on his side. When he was sat, Dan turned to Mara. “Can you believe that?” 

However Mara replied, Thomas missed it, because Teresa had looked to him, bringing her finger up to her temple and swirling it around as if to say he’s crazy. She used to do such things whenever Darnell would say something bordering on treasonous in front of her. 

Marriage was simple, as were relationships. Normally people found spouses when they were eighteen, nineteen and got married around twenty. They had kids immediately after, which wasn’t much of an issue. For every child born, the Capitol would pay the parents a large sum of money to care for it. The more children they had, the more money they’d receive until the children passed the age of twelve. 

Elites didn’t worry about such things, of course. Keepers weren’t allowed to have a partner or children, and those who went through the Trials either won and were allowed to do as they pleased, or were eliminated. 

Sex was…medical, or at least that was how they were taught. Kissing was a kindness, a formality for husbands and wives to bid hello or goodbye. It wasn’t as if Thomas didn’t have those feelings, he was a teenage boy. But he shut them down, ignored them, because his life was devoted to the Trials. Neither he or Teresa ever had any interest in pursuing the opposite sex. 

Even despite the fact that his sister had many male friends, he hadn’t ever seen her look at them the way Rachel looked at Aris. 

Suddenly Thomas remembered the fact that he was supposed to be upset with his sister, that he had been upset with her. With that in mind he turned his attention away, adjusting himself to sit normally in the chair, staring at his shoes. 

His mind reeled back to how Dan made it look like they were wrong for going by the Creators word. But Thomas didn’t need more things to mull over, so he banished any thoughts of the conversation and instead focused his attention somewhere else. 

His eyes caught Chuck’s, and the younger boy gave him a small wave that caused his heart to squeeze. Thomas waved back, wondering what score the kid would earn. 

Aris returned shortly after, slumping down into his seat with a red face, sweat beaded on his forehead. Rachel grew flushed the moment the doors slid open, and it only got deeper with every second that passed. It was repulsive, really. Teresa seemed to think so too, if her grimace was anything to go by. 

Thomas looked back at his shoes again, reminding himself once more that he was mad at her. 

When Rachel was called a minute later, she grabbed Aris’ face and kissed him straight on the mouth, darting out the doors within seconds. Thomas unintentionally snorted so loud it echoed off the walls of the room, causing Dan to all but howl, which, to his surprise, drew laughter from a handful of tributes sitting in the waiting area with them. 

“So,” Dan said in a low voice once everyone had calmed down. He had jumped over Thomas and Teresa again and took Rachel’s spot, and was currently striking an odd pose, arm supporting his head. “Aris, what’s up.” 

Chuck, so close to the action, completely lost it, hand planted firmly over his mouth as the giggles escaped him and he doubled over. Thomas grinned at him, causing the little boy to laugh even harder. His eyes caught Poppy’s beside the other, and she wasn’t laughing, but instead watching him carefully. 

Turning his attention away from her, Thomas watched as Dan murmured something to Aris, and whatever it was caused the smaller boy to shove him hard in the chest, causing Dan to shoot up dramatically. “Oh, come on!” 

Teresa scooted into Rachel’s spot in his absence. “Leave him alone you pervert.” 

“Oh whatever.” Dan plopped down beside Thomas. “How about you Tomboy, you gonna kiss me goodbye?” 

Thomas rolled his eyes. “I’ll think about it.” 

“Heroic.” 

He chuckled, unintentionally meeting Newt’s gaze. The blond looked away quickly, but Thomas’ attention was caught. He wondered what Newt was thinking about, if he thought that Thomas and the others were weird, if he thought Thomas was actually going to kiss Dan. 

Maybe Newt thought he was strange in the same way Bee must’ve after he had made her stay until he fell asleep yesterday night. Thomas was starting to think that being eliminated in the arena would be more of a mercy than anything else, especially after making such a fool of himself before so many people. He was then reminded of the fact that the Trials were broadcasted live. 

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Dan asked, bumping his shoulder.

Thomas let his head fall back on his seat, spreading his legs to further slide down it. “Millions of people watching me dump on live air.” 

Dan chuckled. “They cut that stuff out, you know. No one wants to see that.” 

“Yeah but they still have it recorded.” 

“Ah, gross.” 

Teresa leaned forwards to catch Thomas’ eye, head barely peeking over Dan’s large frame. “I’m gonna make them give me a tape of it. Show it to your future wife or something.” 

Thomas looked over at her, raising a single eyebrow. “Do you want me to die alone?” 

His gaze then shifted to Dan, and for some odd reason the taller boy was giving him a pitiful look, like he was a wounded animal. Thomas frowned, but the other’s expression quickly shifted as he sat back further, turning his attention to the ceiling. 

“Rach is taking too long.” 

“You miss her, Aris?” Teresa teased. 

All Thomas heard back was a quiet, whiny. “Shut up.”

Rachel returned sometime later, immediately falling into place beside Aris—after Dan had retired to sit on the floor—with a shy smile on her face. The pair fell into low whispers, to Teresa’s chagrin, and Thomas was grateful his turn had come up so he could escape them. He rose before he was called, stretching his arms far over his head and glancing subtly around the room. 

On the opposite wall by the entrance sat Alby, who seemed surprisingly calm compared to the rest. Some were pale in the face, looking close to puking. Others were blank, hands wringing excessively in their laps. Thomas couldn’t blame them. If he had little more than three—really only two and a half—days to prepare, he’d likely be on edge as well. 

Finally the voice came over the speaker, but before Thomas could move another voice sounded. Dan’s. 

“Come on,” the tall boy drawled. 

Thomas turned around from where he had been facing the door, raising his eyebrow at Dan, who had moved into his abandoned chair, and prepared to shut the ridiculous idea down. He went to start, rolling his eyes, but they found Newt’s own instead, who was looking at him expectantly. 

He could practically hear the other’s accented voice. You won’t.

A new, hot surge of determination coursing through him, Thomas looked back to Dan then took a few steps forward, glancing over at Aris and Rachel who were both giving him an odd look. He winked at the pair, grabbed Dan’s face and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. He let his hands linger when he pulled away. 

Dan was grinning wildly. “I’ll think about you every second you’re gone.” 

Thomas, not much of an actor, only patted his face lightly and started off, walking backwards until he heard the door slide open. Before he crossed the threshold he held a hand to his heart, making a throwing gesture to the other, one which Dan caught. As the door began to shut, Thomas heard the entire room erupt in snickers. 

He had barely morphed his expression by the time he stood before the Makers, but luckily he managed a cold, hollow gaze, directing it up at the group of men and women dressed oddly, though not nearly as exotic as the rest of the Gladers. 

He stood straight, proud, and started, “I’m–”

“We are well aware,” the Head Maker replied through a smirk quickly, cutting him off. “I’m Kevin Anderson, Head Maker. It’s good to make your acquaintance, Thomas.” 

“You as well,” he stated, using the manners Jorge was always so insistent on. 

“We’ve heard lots about you,” Anderson drawled. “Or, lots about your sister. But pieces of you as well.” He looked into the glass clasped in his chunky hand. “Quite the impressive specimen, your sister.” 

Thomas set his jaw. “Yes sir.” 

“I don’t believe we have ever had such a talent in one of our academies. Not Two born, anyhow. Not for many, many years.” 

Anger coiled in his gut. “Yes sir.” 

“I’ve been anticipating her place in the Trials for some time now, really. Always curious as to how she’ll fight when faced with the real thing.” Anderson crossed his leg over the other, eyeing Thomas in a way that made his skin feel hot. “And you’ve come along with her? Curious.” 

He swallowed every curse he knew, forced his mouth to keep from twisting, and instead held his chin high and blinked away the black creeping into his vision. “I’ll begin now. Wouldn’t want to keep you.” 

“Very well, boy. Go on.” 

A pace or so in front of Thomas sat a podium with a screen attached to it, much like the one on the door of the simulation room. By the wall—the wall where the Maker’s platform sat up on—was around a dozen or so different stations bearing different weapons and skills from archery to camouflage. Thomas frowned down at the screen. 

There was no reason Thomas needed to impress them. He had obviously given away his many skills in training, and the Makers already knew he was more than capable. But Anderson was so obviously taken by his sister, so obviously dismissive of Thomas, and he wanted to prove that his place in the Trials wasn’t curious, but intriguing just as Teresa’s was. 

“Having trouble?” Anderson asked, looking down at him. 

It took everything within him to keep the snark from his voice. “No, not at all.” 

“If you’d like to try something new,” Anderson drawled out, lazily, boredom so obvious in his voice. “Click the purple icon at the very bottom of the list.” 

Gasps and laughter rang out from the other Makers, disbelief. 

Thomas scrolled down to the very bottom, eyes locking on the dark purple button, nothing more than a question mark labeling it. He looked up at the Makers, Anderson looking down at him with an eyebrow raised, a small smirk playing on his thin lips. 

Holding eye contact with the man, Thomas clicked the button, looking down only when the screen switched for him to select his weapon of choice. He decided to bring Tavour’s vision to life, selecting dual swords. He tapped it in, then jogged over to one of the many stations and grabbed his weapons, pulling them from the holster. 

The room went dark, blue lasers scanning over it just as they had in the other simulation, the air just as thick with electricity. Thomas’ nervousness was gone, replaced with a hot anger that danced over his skin and fled beneath it, running around his veins and into his bones. He was sick of being treated like a child. He was sick of being doubted and tossed aside. 

The lasers flickered away just as Thomas strolled into the center of the room, his swords being held out at his sides lazily, if only for a moment. It was dark, but in the center of the room sat a ring of light, almost like a spotlight, that allowed him to be able to make out the area around him. 

A low, guttural growl sounded from seemingly everywhere, and Thomas felt his skin prickle, the bits of hair that had grown back on his body rising to a point. He shut his eyes, feeling a distant vibration against the soles of his shoes. Steps, weight being pressed to the floor. It was alive, he thought. And whatever it was, it was massive. 

Thomas turned slowly on his heel, and just as he came back to where he started, something moved in the shadows, crawling into the sparse amount of light. Thomas’ breath hitched in his throat, stomach nearly dropping to the floor as more of the creature came into view. 

It was hideous, covered in hairless purple-black skin, and absolutely massive. It bore wings that drug across the ground as it sludged towards him, an odd beak snapping open and closed. It looked like an overgrown half-bat that had been torn through by maggots, though by the way its beady eyes locked on him, Thomas felt like the thing was never touched by nature. 

“It’s a Shade. That’s what they’ve been calling it,” Anderson spoke, his voice somehow coming from every corner of the room. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” 

No, Thomas thought. Not particularly. 

Before he could respond with something the creature barged forwards, beak open wide and ready to tear a chunk out of him. Thomas dove to the side then scrambled to his feet, turning back only to sweep a sword at the mutt's wing, breaking a slit into the thin skin of it. It screeched loudly, jumping for him, claw managing to drive a gash into his cheek before he could avoid it. 

He swiped a hand over his face, pulling it back, eyes widening at the dark red liquid that stared back at him. 

This thing had cut him, tore open his skin and drew blood. It could kill him. 

Thomas’ nervousness warped and mutated into full-blown panic, and he tripped, falling onto his back. Quickly he began to scoot backwards, the pommel of his swords clicking against the stone floor as his palms pushed him along. The creature—the Shade—kept flicking its head to the side, clawing its way towards him slowly. 

They wouldn’t let him die, Thomas was sure of it. They would be down a tribute, it didn’t make sense for them to even risk such a thing. 

He didn’t have time to think about it, the Shade was advancing. 

He scrambled up to his feet and bolted across the room, grateful that the thing wasn’t nearly as fast as him on its feet. Mutts weren’t uncommon in the Trials, in fact, it would be odd for them to not make an appearance. But Thomas hadn’t seen anything like this. 

It was alien.  

He steadied himself, watching as the mutt turned to face him, head ticking and beak snapping open and shut, again and again as it moved closer to him. He swallowed hard, sparing a glance towards the Makers. Anderson was talking to another man, laughing slightly, attention only half there.

He was breathing hard, heart racing concerningly fast. 

The Shade reared up onto its back legs, wings flapping hard as it howled deafeningly loud. 

Thomas set his jaw, both swords in hand and out at his sides. 

And then bolted towards it, crying out as he did, unsure where to stab or slice, unsure what to do, but determined nonetheless. Crossing the swords in front himself as he came up on the mutt, Thomas pushed all of his strength into his arms as they met the thick skin of the Shade, slicing an X into its stomach. 

The creature screeched, pained, its wings shooting down frighteningly fast and catching him between them, then pinning him to the ground. Claws tore into his sides, deep, and Thomas cried in agony, dropping one of his swords in an attempt to escape. 

The Shade bowed over him, beak little more than an inch from his face, then reared its head back, pushing forward only to screech in his face. Thomas—tears streaming quickly down his face and entire body alight in pain—tightened his grip on his remaining sword and pulled it up, shakily shoving it into the Shades open mouth. 

The screeching came to a halt. 

Hot, sticky green liquid all but poured down the length of his sword, spilling down his arm and onto his exhausted body. 

Thomas was going to die. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

He really, really didn’t want to die. 

Suddenly the weight of the Shade’s head disappeared from the end of his sword, and its claws seemingly vanished from his insides. When he opened his eyes, it was gone. The lasers returned, flicking over the room quickly before vanishing, the room flooding with light. 

“Well done!” Anderson said. “Efficient, I’ll give you that.”

Thomas’ hands fled under his shirt, feeling the…feeling nothing at all, his sides were clean. The floor around him was free of evidence that anything happened at all, no green gooey liquid nor any red of his blood.

He looked up at the Makers. “How…?”

Anderson laughed heartily. “That's confidential information.” He rose from his chair, gesturing towards the doors. “Feel free to see yourself out. We haven’t got all the time in the world, I’m afraid.” 

Thomas left the swords there on the floor—unsullied—and scrambled his way to the door, relief flooding him as they slid open. As he stepped inside he realized that his chest was heaving as sweat was running down his face, partially from the exertion, mostly from the panic that flared in his chest. 

“Tom?” Teresa said quickly, on him in a few seconds, soon joined by Dan. “What happened?” 

They ushered him to his seat, but Thomas didn’t sit. Instead he all but tore the shirt from his body, turning around before Teresa and Dan, voice coming out in huffs. “Do you see anything?” 

Dan and Teresa watched as he gestured over his sides, then both leaned in and scanned the area there. Thomas’ breathing slowed slightly when their faces didn’t contort into panic, though his heart still thrummed in his chest irregularly quick. 

“You’re all good,” his sister said. “What happened?” 

Thomas tugged his shirt back on and slumped into his chair, the others joining him quickly and staring as he leaned against the wall beside him, sucking in deep breaths. “I am never doing that again.” 

Dan laughed, patting his arm. “Don’t think you’ll have to.” 

Teresa’s name was called, and she rose from her chair, giving Thomas one last concerned look before disappearing behind the door. Aris and Rachel were gone, hopefully for a reason that had nothing to do with Dan’s earlier remarks, so Thomas shut his eyes and let his mind wander. 

Lowering himself impossibly further into the chair, Thomas tried to get a grasp on what kind of technology could’ve possibly created such a thing. It was impossible, surely, for a hologram to be able to be physical for such an extended period of time, then to dissolve within seconds. He had never seen such a thing before, and certainly didn’t want to ever again. 

In the other simulation, the one he nearly passed out in, Thomas had been grazed by one or two weapons, but hadn’t felt anything other than a cool breeze brush by. But just a moment prior he could feel the claws digging in, tearing through skin and flesh. Squeezing at his raw insides. 

It wasn’t possible. Thomas knew that like he knew the back of his hand. It was entirely improbable, and yet there had to be an explanation for such a thing. It could’ve been a mental game, possibly, maybe a kind of hallucinogen. But how could they control how long it affected him? And how it affected him? 

Thomas was pulled out from his thoughts by a pressure against his leg, and he looked over to find Dan splayed out over their groups three empty seats. His strong arms were tucked behind his head, eyes shut, chest slowly rising and falling. He reached a hand over to where the tall guy’s shoes pressed against his leg, and began picking rubber from the soles like he had with Darnell just last week. 

Darnell would have a lot to say about it all. Far more than Thomas was willing to listen to, and yet he sat there in the waiting room feeling an odd longing to listen to his friend’s ridiculous rants. He wondered if they would still be so unbelievable with the bits of information he had picked up. If he told Darnell about the thoughts raging through his mind, his friend would punch him in the arm so hard it would bruise. I told you so. 

He sighed through his nose, looking over and finding Chuck asleep against Poppy’s shoulder, head thrown back and mouth open, a bit of drool dribbled down his chin. He looked impossibly younger in rest, every almost inaudible snore making Thomas feel sick. His eyes flickered to Poppy, whose face was almost entirely unreadable if not for the single tear that ran over the swell of her cheek.

Thomas looked to his lap, trying to remember what he had known all his life, trying to remind himself of what he was supposed to think, what he was supposed to feel. 

He couldn’t help but think it was wrong. That the Capitol was wrong.

Looking for a distraction, Thomas peered up and across from him, finding Newt with his head tilted against the wall beside him, eyes closed. His hands were in his lap, fingers tapping together in a steady rhythm, feet occasionally shifting. He was anxious, but hiding it, giving himself away with little movements and an occasional sigh. 

Thomas hadn’t really looked at him properly until now. He had blond hair, like Dan, but it was slightly darker and not quite shoulder length. The spaces behind his ears were shaved down, though the top and back were longer, fluffy like Adam’s hair, but more shaggy, little blond tufts tucked under his ears. His nose bore bunched up freckles, dark against pale-ish skin, and every few minutes he would release a bored puff of air, revealing a small gap between his two front teeth. 

Thomas could see his ribs through the shirt he wore, as well as his sharp shoulders. The neck of his shirt would dip low when he scratched under his collarbone, bringing the prominence of his sternum out into view. He couldn’t have been lying about District Twelve, not when his bones stuck out like that, not when there was a certain haunt to his cheeks, facial structure sharp with it. 

Thomas felt oddly guilty for a moment, like somehow it was his fault that his district was brushed under the rug. That, or guilty for the fact that he had grown up never knowing what it was like to be truly hungry, all while the blond across from him looked like that. 

Newt’s eyes blinked open, but Thomas didn’t look away. Instead, he slumped further into his chair until his foot could reach across and prod at the other’s shin. 

“Yes?” Newt asked quietly, sitting up straight, rolling his shoulders. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “What’s your special skill?” 

Newt considered him for many moments, something shifting in his eyes. He gave a resigned sigh, then leaned forwards in his chair. Thomas sat up and copied the stance, eager. 

“Well,” Newt lowered his voice further, looking around for a moment. Finally he met Thomas’ eye. “I can levitate.” 

Thomas sat back in his seat. “Fuck off.” 

“I’m serious, I can.” 

“Do it then.” 

Newt shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest. “Don’t feel like it.” 

“You’re so full of shit,” Thomas mumbled. 

“How about when it comes time, you check out my score, then we’ll talk about who’s full of shit. Deal?” Newt gave him a particularly smug smirk, eyebrows slightly raised in challenge. 

Thomas deadpanned. “You’re so full of shit.” 

Newt grinned, went to respond, but the door slid open and Thomas’ sister stepped inside, seeming slightly rushed as she walked over and grabbed Thomas’ forearm, dragging him up to stand. He went along with it, slightly worried, glancing at Newt over his shoulder as she pulled him out the door. 

“Guys?” Dan called after them. 

Teresa didn’t speak a word as she pulled him through the gymnasium and into the elevator, nor did she speak on the ride up or on the walk to her room. His concern turned into fear when the door closed behind them, as he was sure she was angry with him, though he didn’t know why. 

And then she was crying. 

Thomas’ heart nearly stopped. Teresa never cried. 

“What happened?” he asked quickly, stepping towards her. 

“I was in the…” She stopped, sniffed. “It’s so awful, Tom. All of it. This is so awful.” 

He swallowed. “It’s okay–”

“It’s not okay!” she shouted. “I can’t do it anymore, I can’t sit here and act like nothing’s wrong!” 

He moved towards her, touched her hand, but she slapped it away. 

“How could you do this?” she barked, pointing a finger to his face accusingly. “Why, why did you volunteer? Why are you here, Tom?” 

“I–I don’t–” 

“You could be home right now, with Jorge, but you’re not,” she spat out, eyes wet but enraged. “No, you’re here. How could you do this to us?” 

He could argue, or try to explain himself, but Thomas knew that whatever he had to say, Teresa already knew. He doubted his ability to speak anyway, not with the way his throat felt as though it was full of rocks, so all he did was stare at her as tears ran down her face, unsure how to help.

She stared back, eyes wet, contorted in anger. Her chest rose and fell roughly. She looked how Thomas felt. 

Eventually she stepped forward, Thomas almost flinching away, and took his face in her hands. “My baby brother,” she whispered hoarsely. “My only brother.” 

She moved away from him and began pulling off her sweaty clothing, Thomas turning around to give her her privacy. Once she was changed, she called out to him quietly, and he turned and found her tucked under the covers of her bed. He went to pull out a few spare blankets from the wardrobe beside the bathroom door, but Teresa stopped him, patting the space next to her. 

Thomas frowned, hesitant, but went along with it anyway, crawling onto the bed and scooting under the covers, feeling nervous and childish. There was a sort of comfort in this, in his only true family, and he felt the tug of exhaustion cloud his mind. He didn’t let himself doze off, however, and instead turned onto his side, facing Teresa. 

Her hair was loose, cascading around her pillow as dark as the night sky. Thomas always wondered if she got that from their mother or father, and who gave him the dark brown hair that didn’t match. It was the same with their eyes, hers a piercing blue, his brown. It seemed like his sister had been born better than him, like his fate was to forever fight to win against her, only to be doomed from the beginning. 

And finally, looking up at the ceiling, Thomas let himself think about what he had been pushing away, ignoring. 

The Trials, their Trials, would be his final opportunity to prove himself to everyone who placed his sister over him, who thought him to be weak and soft where she was strong and indestructible. 

Except, for just a moment, a moment where it wasn’t competition, but just brother and sister laying beside one another, Thomas wondered if he even wanted that. 

But it wasn’t a fleeting question. Not one without an answer, anyway. But he didn’t think about that. 

“Do you remember when Jorge took us to the woods when we were kids?” Teresa asked in a soft voice a few minutes later, taking the turn of Thomas’ head as an answer, her own gaze set on the ceiling. “It was freezing and miserable, and I complained the whole time. I tried pushing you off a cliff so he would have to take us home.” 

“You did push me off a cliff,” Thomas recollected, watching the way the corner of her lip pulled at his words. “The snow broke my fall. Jorge grounded you for like…a month.” 

“Anyway,” she laughed wetly, smile falling. “We saw a doe out there, walking along a few feet away, sniffing the ground and doing deer things, I don’t know.” She sucked in a long breath, shrugging. “I didn’t think much of it, not really. But you…you cried. Not like, sobbed, but you just cried because that doe was there and it made you…cry. I never understood it until a few years later, when Adam’s little brother was born and he cried when he first met him.” 

“Adam cried?” Thomas whispered. 

“Mhm,” Teresa hummed. “Like a baby, he was blubbering. It was disgusting.” She moved onto her side, facing him, hands folded in front of her. “You were just seven then. You didn’t understand the world at all, neither did I. But sometimes, it felt like you did. Like you had this knowledge that no one else did, saw the world in a way no one else did. A part of me hated you for it, but I also never wanted you to lose that. I thought it was special.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” he asked gently, brow furrowed. 

Teresa swallowed, looking at her hands. “I want to go back there. I want to push you off that cliff and watch you cry over that doe. I want to go home.” 

Thomas dropped the act, if only for a moment. A moment where they weren’t competition, just brother and sister. “You will go home, Teresa. We both know it.” 

His sister’s lip quivered a little bit, eyes finding his, blue glossed over as she whispered quietly, “But it won’t be home anymore.” 

Her hand came up and brushed a piece of hair away from his forehead, her fingers soft and gentle and one step away from maternal. Thomas found himself at a loss for words, unsure how to comfort her. It was such an odd, undoing thing, to have a sister. Someone he loved beyond words and yet still held as his one and only rival. 

It didn’t feel like a rivalry, in that moment. Not as his sister ran fingers gently through his hair and studied his face like she would never see it again. No, it felt like what he had always craved from her, what he had sought after for years and hated her for not giving. It felt like she loved him like he loved her, reached the capacity of it, lapped him. 

Thomas’ eyes fluttered shut after a few minutes, and his last thoughts before disappearing out of consciousness were about Teresa. About how dearly he loved her. About how he couldn’t live without her. About the fact that in too short a time they really would be rivals, enemies. 

Hours later Thomas was woken by Starlette, his sister already up and properly dressed by the time a teal hand shook his shoulder lightly. He hadn’t slept as soundly as that in a long time, and his back gave an impressive crack as he stretched his arms above his head. Teresa looked to him when he stood, giving a small smile before departing out the door behind Starlette. 

In the living room sat Tavour and their team, Teresa’s stylist and her team, Vincent, and a few strangers Thomas had yet to meet. He took his place beside his sister on the couch just as Starlette clicked on the screen and the chatter of people came to a stop as Toad made his usual long, cheery introduction. 

He hadn’t really thought much of the score he would receive, but put faith in the fact that the Makers hadn’t only been present for his private session, but also for his days of training beforehand. He couldn’t imagine his battle against the Shade was all that impressive, not with all the odd fake wounds he had received. 

Finally Toad’s long speech and happy chatter came to an end, and he introduced the first district and their scores. Aris and Rachel both received a nine, no surprises there. They had done well in training, and, oddly enough, Thomas sort of liked the pair. Love-eyes aside.

For their own scores both siblings sat up in anticipation, somewhat in sync. Toad spoke their names in an incredibly slow, showy way, and Thomas wanted to hit him for a few moments before finally Teresa’s score swooped onto the screen. A ten. 

The team cheered, raising a glass to her, then turned back for Thomas’ own score. 

For some reason he felt as though it was going to be something terribly, terribly low. Gifting him even more evidence that he was nothing, nothing and no one who would have any sort of chance in the Trials. He silenced those thoughts as his picture came up on screen, a number swooping in. 

A nine. 

A year younger, a point below, the cycle continued as it always had and it always would. But Thomas knew his sister was talented, so he took the pitiful raise of glasses in stride and smiled at his sister when she smiled at him, quickly turning his attention back to the screen to officially figure out who would be a threat to them and who they could brush off. 

Ben—as Thomas predicted—got a nine as well, a clear threat. His fellow tribute, however, scored a six. Dan received a ten, which wasn’t much of a surprise considering his size alone. Mara scored the same, and Thomas felt uneasy as her picture flashed across the screen. If anyone had mastered the dead eyed look Vincent instructed Thomas to take to, it was her. 

On and on the scores went, Thomas only really paying attention to the ones that were cause for concern. 

Gally and Beth scored a nine and an eight, though Thomas had seen them training and felt as though they could’ve done better, and he would certainly not be taking anything by them lightly. The boy from District Nine got a surprising eight, so Thomas added him to the list. He considered Poppy—who got a seven—but he held back, especially when Chuck’s score came out a three. 

A part of him desperately wanted Poppy to stay with Chuck in the arena. Another part of him selfishly wanted the boy to die quickly, painlessly in the bloodbath so he would never have to face the idea of killing him. 

Alby received a four, to Thomas' initial surprise. But Thomas remembered the way the Eleven boy's eyes had seemed magnetized to the archery station. He didn't buy it. His district partner, a small girl who must've been fourteen or fifteen, scored a five.

The Twelve girl got a six, which was surprising considering how jumpy she seemed to be. And Thomas watched in curiosity as Newt’s face popped up on the screen. He expected a possible seven or eight, for all of the blond’s smugness. 

Except when the score swooped onto the screen, it was an eleven. 

Could he really levitate?

Thomas internally rolled his eyes as his hackles rose, and he imagined his sister felt the same based on the way she sat forwards, tense, the group of people around them falling into murmurs and gasps of shock. Newt had plastered the word threat on his forehead, and if ever he had the opportunity to hide away from everyone else in the arena, he had shredded it to pieces. 

But, a score that high had to be earned, and somehow Newt had done that. Had the blond lied to him? Played an insincere hand in trying to get Thomas to underestimate him? If that was the plan, why would he have gotten an eleven? Wouldn’t he have wanted to aim lower? Thomas was at a loss. 

They were quickly herded off towards the dining room, a rich dinner awaiting them, and yet Thomas had almost entirely lost his appetite, especially as the group around them—even Vincent—kept on with a conversation about the boy from an outlying district, scoring a number that high? He was growing bitter, he could feel it, and ate his dinner with the full intent of leaving as soon as he could. 

Teresa seemed to have the same idea, so while their teams went on with their curiosities, the brother and sister retired to their chambers. Thomas followed Teresa to her room, not thinking anything of it, but as they arrived at her door his sister turned around, looking everywhere but his eyes. 

“Not tonight, okay?” she said quietly, then quickly scurried inside of her room. 

Thomas felt empty as the lock clicked, and a part of him wanted to argue, to bang his fist against her door until she relented. It didn’t make sense, considering they had just napped in the same bed an hour ago. Thomas sucked his teeth, dropped his head, and made his way back to his own room, feeling abandoned. 

He walked through his doorway and pulled off his disgusting clothes, replacing them with a loose pair of pants and a soft shirt, then collapsed onto his bed facedown. He was alone, so no one could hear the groan he gave into the duvet, nor the whiny, childish noises that came after. 

Everything felt off. He didn’t know how so much could’ve gone on in just a week—not even—but it was as though his entire perception of the world had tilted. Jorge’s words floated around the air, circling Thomas’ head and refusing to be ignored for another moment. He closed his eyes, trying to will them away, but they didn’t relent. 

“Nothing is as you believe it to be.”  

What was he referencing? What was Jorge—who was born and raised in District Two—trying to tell Thomas? Did he know something Thomas didn’t? Was it related to the discoveries Thomas had made throughout the past few days? If nothing was as he believed it to be, then what was it?

How did Thomas even think of the world? He’d never given it much thought, not really. It was his sister and Jorge and Darnell and his district and going into the Trials, bringing pride onto his makeshift family and proving to those around him that he was capable. It was the Glade, the Creators, those who brought up this country from nothing and still gave the districts life and the opportunity to earn forgiveness after they had dared to rebel. 

But it wasn’t what he believed it to be, as Jorge had told him, so what was it? 

It was those in the outlying districts, starving and suffering because they weren’t useful enough. It was twelve-year-olds being chosen and slaughtered. It was being stripped of your humanity, your identity, your tongue, then working for the people who mutilated you. 

It was everything Darnell had been trying to tell Thomas for years, the things Thomas listened to like a fairytale before bed. Imagined. False.

Darnell, who had been outcast by everyone around him except for Thomas. Darnell, who was widely hated and often belittled or completely ignored by others. Darnell, who was different. 

Thomas hadn’t ever wanted to be different, he didn’t want to be outcast and called crazy. He just wanted to be by his sister's side and be thought of as an equal to her—not her annoying little brother who kept to her heel—just her brother, her best friend. He wanted her faith, Jorge’s faith, and to be seen as a Victor. 

He didn’t think about the fact that he couldn’t have all of that at once. 

So his thoughts made their way to Newt, the Twelve boy who somehow managed to receive a score higher than the rest. Sanctimonious Newt, walking around with his word of never killing another person like he had the choice. Originally Thomas just assumed the blond would die in the first few days, but with a score like that he was beginning to doubt everything Newt had said. 

It was driving him up the wall, not knowing a single thing about the blond that served as useful. He didn’t know if he could fight or what weapon he chose to wield, and he needed to know. It was clawing at him, the unknowingness. And honestly Thomas was bound to find out anyway, so what was the point in concealing it? 

Hours of his mind reeling later the quiet whoosh of his door sounded, and in stepped Bee. He shot up the moment he heard her presence, beckoning her inside and patting the space of bed next to him. She seemed hesitant, but followed his request, slowly creeping over to the bed and settling on the very edge as she had a night prior. 

Thomas frowned. “You can sit beside me.” 

The girl pursed her lips. 

“Oh come on,” he huffed, reaching forwards and gently grabbing her arm and pulling her more towards him. “I don’t bite.” 

Bee went with it, eventually moving to sit in front of him, legs crossed beneath her. She seemed less frigid, but he could tell she was tense, almost as if she was awaiting something bad. 

“Did you see the scores?” Thomas asked, raising an eyebrow, trying to ease the discomfort his new friend seemed plagued with. 

Bee nodded. 

“Did you see the guy from Twelve?” 

She nodded again. 

“It’s unbelievable. I mean, I know him—or, I’ve met him—but I’m telling you there’s absolutely no way a guy like that could’ve possibly gotten an eleven. It’s just… wrong.” He ran a hand over his mouth, his displeasure with the situation growing more visible. “Have you seen him? Overheard anything?” 

Bee gave a small smile, making a gesture for him to give her his arm. He complied, and slowly she began tracing letters into his skin. Thomas focused on the feeling, the shapes she was making out until she’d formed a sentence. 

Y-O-U, a pause, then, L-I-K-E.

You like?

He considered her questioning expression for a moment, then shrugged. “He’s alright, I guess. Kind of egotistical.” 

Bee raised an eyebrow, looking him over. 

“Shut up,” he muttered. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is the fact that he—who said he’d never kill anyone, by the way—got an eleven. An eleven!” Thomas huffed, throwing his shoulders up then dropping them again. “I don’t know, I mean…he seemed okay. But now I think he was just lying to me.”

Be grabbed his hand and squeezed, and Thomas gave her a small smile. 

“He kind of reminds me of my friend. All morals and weird theories. Like those protesters from Seven a few years ago, trying to stop them from cutting down that giant tree.” 

N-A-M-E, she traced. 

“Darnell,” Thomas uttered. “He’s annoying. Kind of. I don’t know, I never really cared. He’s pretty much my only friend you know, outside of Teresa.” 

He didn’t know why he was telling Bee this when he should’ve been avoiding making himself look like an idiot, especially after last night, but he didn’t, and she gave him a pitying expression in return. 

“No, not because I’m some loser,” Thomas mumbled. “I just don’t like most people. And I never really needed anyone else except for him and my sister. And if I’m being honest I didn’t really need him either, he just kind of stuck around. Not that I minded, really.” 

Bee’s saddened face didn’t let up. 

Thomas got slightly anxious, patting his knees a few times. “Can we go for a walk or something?” 

She shook her head. 

“Oh come on, no one’s awake right now and you know it.” He sat forwards slightly, whispering as if to play into the part. “We could rebel a little. Surely there’s somewhere safe we can go.” 

She snorted, rolled her eyes, but when she saw Thomas’ expression all the more eager Bee only rose, gesturing for him to follow. He got up quickly, taking to her heel as she led him out of the hallway and into the living room, through the dining room, and then out a door he’d never been through that led to the main hallway. Thomas walked forwards first, checking for Keepers, and when none were there the pair jogged into the elevator. 

They made it to the sixth floor without stopping, but then the machine slowed its rise as they reached up to the seventh floor, and Thomas’ stomach dropped. He didn’t know if they would get in trouble for being out so late, or if he would be in trouble for talking to Bee, or she would get in trouble for talking to him, but he didn’t want to find out. 

The doors slid open and they were greeted with the sight of the District Seven boy, Gally. He was clearly intoxicated or something, though when his eyes found Thomas’ he resumed his expression of emotionlessness. He then turned to the array of buttons, frowned, then turned back. 

“Which is three?” 

“What?” Thomas breathed, nervous. 

“Three,” drawled Gally. “Which one is it?” 

“Uh–” 

“Nevermind. Do it myself,” the tall boy grunted, slamming a finger into the eight button and then proceeding to lean back against the wall, either ignoring Bee or having completely not noticed her. Thomas wondered if he should correct the other, but chose instead to sit in silence, then watched as the guy got off on the wrong floor. 

Once the doors slid shut behind Gally, Thomas and Bee both breathed sighs of relief and rode the elevator all the way up to the twelfth floor, where the girl led them through a few doors, up a short flight of stairs, then out onto the roof. 

“Woah,” Thomas breathed, looking up at the night sky and the sea of stars that looked back at him. They were dull with the city's lights drowning them out, but still there, close enough to see and yet so, so far away. 

The rooftop was covered in odd plants sitting in odd pots, as well as random pieces of furniture and rugs, all colourful, none matching one another. Bee led him towards an area further back, out of view, but froze as she turned a corner. 

Thomas leaped out in front of her, only to find Newt lounging on a chair in front of him, looking equally as startled. Thomas tried to make himself bigger, concealing Bee as much as possible, but outside of that no one moved, all three of them still and silent. 

Newt was wearing pajamas, hair in a kind of disarray, a book perched on his lap that Thomas couldn’t quite see. He didn’t look like someone who would score an eleven. 

With that thought, Thomas spoke. “So, you can levitate.” 

Newt immediately grinned, to Thomas’ surprise. “I told you.” 

They fell into an awkward silence again, though this time Newt tried looking around Thomas to spot Bee behind him, causing him to puff up his chest further, spreading his limbs out slightly. The blond gave an amused smirk, then turned his gaze down to the book.

“You and your friend can have a seat, if you’d like,” Newt hummed casually. “Plenty of space to go around.” 

He didn’t move, but Bee did, carefully, slowly. She then made towards a fluffy sofa on the opposite corner to Newt, and Thomas followed after a few moments, settling beside her on the couch that seemed to resemble a yellow cloud. 

They got comfortable, but both of their gazes were set on Newt, who looked up when he noticed their staring. Thomas didn’t trust him, but there was also little reason for him to tell anyone about this. He hated the Capitol, supposedly, and probably didn’t agree with what had been done to Bee. Nonetheless, Thomas felt nervous.

“I’m not going to rat you two out, relax,” Newt said into the space between them. “Do whatever it is you’d like, my lips are sealed.”

The pair kept watching him for a moment, then turned to each other. Bee raised an eyebrow, and Thomas shrugged, soundlessly assuring her it would most likely be fine. She seemed to trust him enough, and let her shoulders relax if only slightly. 

For a minute or so, Thomas and Bee just stared up at the night sky, amazed by it and simultaneously unsure of what to say. He just wanted to escape, to be somewhere else, he didn’t really know what sorts of things Bee would’ve liked to do, or if she even wanted to be up here. 

She led him here, however, so he figured she must’ve known the spot well enough. 

He looked over, watching her watch the night sky, and something inside of him broke in two. Bee was a person. Someone who stared at the stars in awe and smiled up at them, her face decorated in moonlight. But to the Capitol she was something else, a prisoner, an Avox. Not a person but not an object either, just a thing. 

Stripped of her identity, stripped of her life and her loved ones. What if she had a family out there somewhere? Siblings, maybe. Parents. Aunts, uncles, cousins. People who missed her. Did they know where she was, what she had done?

Bee broke her eyes from the world above, looking at Thomas and frowning a little, questioningly. 

How could someone like her deserve this? How could someone so gentle be given such a violent hand? Somewhere deep inside Thomas didn’t believe anyone deserved such a fate, and another part of him thought that, if he could, he would take her away from this place no matter what crime she had committed. 

“This shouldn’t have happened to you,” he told her seriously. 

She smiled softly, taking his wrist. 

T-A-L-K

And he did. He told her about his days with Teresa, Hank, and Adam. He told her about Jorge’s rivalry with the cat Carmichael. He told her the story Teresa told at lunch that day, and she laughed freely, openly, like she wasn’t afraid to be present. 

There was two days before the Trials began, and he couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to Bee when they weren’t in motion. Who did she work for? Were they good to her? And despite the fact that it was all he wanted to ask, he didn’t. 

Because she looked happy, and he wasn’t going to be the one to take that away from her. Not after he had spent days trying to get her to be comfortable around him like she was now. So he just kept telling her stories, trying to make her laugh. 

It was only an hour or so later that she took his wrist, spelling out that she had to go and for him to wait a few minutes before following her. He agreed, admittedly a little upset their time came to an end, and watched her turn the corner, calling out one last little goodbye to his friend.

When he heard the door shut from around the corner, Thomas leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees and face in his hands. It was as if someone had gutted him, hollowed him out and left him there to rot. He wanted to…well, he wanted to save Bee. Chuck, too.

And he couldn’t. 

Enough time passed and Thomas rose, stopping short when he realized that Newt was there. He had forgotten about the blond’s presence, and stared at him awkwardly for a moment until the other looked up. 

Thomas remembered the score of eleven, the amazed voices of those at the dinner table. 

He wanted to make a snarky comment. 

He didn’t get the chance. 

“Why are you talking to that Avox?” 

Thomas reared back, repulsed. “She’s not an Avox, she's a person. She’s my friend.” 

“I know she is, but I have to say I’m a little surprised you do.” Newt closed his book, placing it in his lap and leaning forwards. “You’re not, you know, bugging her, are you?” 

He scoffed. “You’re an asshole.” 

The other gave him a smile, and Thomas rolled his eyes and walked around the corner, making his way back to the elevator and pressing the button to his floor. As it descended he couldn’t help but wish he had cornered Newt, made him tell Thomas about all the other things he knew about the Capitol and Twelve.

Thomas didn’t know much about any of the districts, really. He knew the purpose they served, but very little more than that. In fact, this past week had been the first he had ever met someone from another district in person. An odd thought, seeing as how there were so many people with different lives and he knew nothing of any of them. 

When Thomas crawled into his bed he had no expectations of being able to fall asleep, so he only stared up at the ceiling, mind a mix of spinning and idle all at once. 

Bee returned some time later, however, slipping through the door and making her way to Thomas’ bed, taking her spot beside him as she had the night before. He smiled at her, and she returned it, offering him her hand. 

He took it, mind venturing to a world where he could fix what was broken. 

Chapter Text

The beginning hours of the morning were spent with Thomas pacing across his room in a steady rhythm, a nightmare pulling him out from sleep far earlier than he would’ve liked. He didn’t remember the content of it, only that there was a panic planted behind his sternum that refused to fade, and though pacing usually cleared his mind, it seemed to do nothing more than ignite the urge to run until his legs gave out.

Whether the nightmare had jolted such thoughts loose or they had just been sitting half-idle for too long, Thomas didn’t know. What he did know, however, was that everything in the world was wrong, and no one was doing anything to put a stop to it. 

Every year children were rounded up and made to fight to the death. Living, breathing, real people were being mutilated and forced into becoming slaves. An entire district—likely multiple districts—was being starved and neglected. The Creators had built a world without suffering, a world of eternal peace, one where its population wouldn’t have to fight to survive on a daily basis. 

And the Capitol people lived in that world, the Elite districts lived with a taste of it, but the rest? They were suffering. Suffering for a rebellion that happened a century prior. 

Newt had been right about everything. Darnell had been right about everything. The Capitol kept the Elites happy, ignorant. Gave them academies so they didn’t have to risk their weakest from being savaged in the Trials. Ensured they were fed and housed and safe. 

The other districts—the ones who just weren’t crucial enough to make the cut—were kept weak. If not weak, then abused, at least that’s what he thought. Why else wouldn’t they have stood up to fight against the Capitol? 

That boy standing beside his best friend in a sea of bodies a week ago, that wasn’t Thomas. Jorge had been right, Thomas didn’t understand the world and it was that ignorance that landed him where he was, in the Tribute Centre, burning a hole into the floor as his heart rate sped higher and higher. 

Of course he resented the fact that everyone thought the world of his sister. Of course he resented the fact that everything came naturally to Teresa, like she was born to be perfect, born to be stared at in awe. And of course Thomas wanted to prove himself, of course he wanted to be more. But how could he have ever put himself in such a situation?

He didn’t want to hurt Teresa. He didn’t want to prove himself if it meant he had to live a life without his sister. He would live forevermore as a burden, the runt of the litter. In fact, he would take a job as a Bagger or a Slopper if it meant that he had his sister to return home to. 

But he couldn’t have that anymore, could he? The only options left for Thomas were to die, or to watch his sister die. 

What if it happened? What if he and Teresa eliminated—no, killed—all of the other tributes, and ended up alone together. If he got an advantage over her, if she was at his mercy, could he do it? Could he end his sister’s life? Could he look her in the eyes and watch as the light he had loved faded away? 

He stopped his pacing, staring at the closed door a few feet to his right. He thought about it opening, imagined his sister walking through and greeting him with a bright smile, pulling him into her arms and then pulling off and punching him in the shoulder. She would then leave and he would follow, and they would play cards or talk or go for a walk.

An opportunity like that would never present itself again, not after this. No, one of them would go home and walk into their house to pack up their belongings into their section’s Village. Jorge would move in too, eventually. Their days would be spent bathed in riches and missing a third.

Thomas hadn’t ever grieved anyone, hadn’t ever lost anyone. He had never met his parents, and rarely wondered about them let alone grieved them. But he imagined it to be a sickening thing, something he never, ever wanted to experience. 

“Hey,” Vincent hummed, stepping into Thomas’ chambers. He hadn’t even heard the door open. “You alright kid?” 

Thomas glanced towards the window, realizing that the sky was lit with an early sun. His eyes fell back to Vincent, and a part of him wondered how much of the world the older man knew of, how much of it he disagreed with. He swallowed away the panic, the anger, and straightened up. 

“Yeah, fine.” He sniffed. “Everything okay?” 

The older man studied him for a few moments, then began slowly walking into his room. “Peachy. I was just coming to let you know that you’ve got to spend a few hours with me.” He paused, running a calloused hand over Thomas’ nightstand. Tough skin against smooth plastic. “Won’t be for long. You’ll have the rest of the day off.” 

As Vincent turned to face him fully, Thomas’ eyes ran over the scar that cut through his face. He wondered how the man got it. He wondered what the man thought whenever he looked into the mirror. 

“Does it ever get better?” The words spilled out from his mouth before he could stop them, and he prepared himself for Vincent’s hardened glare. 

But it never came. Instead, the man sucked in a small breath, eyes trailing over Thomas’ rumpled bedding. “For some, yes. They return home and live the lives they have always wanted to. Those whose ghosts don’t follow.” 

Thomas watched as the older man reached down, pulling a corner of a red, plush blanket between his fingers. 

“For the rest of us, it’s a shadow. Though instead of vanishing come dark, it swallows you whole.” His face was almost soft, Thomas thought. Though his stoic expression made a return in the blink of an eye. “Be ready in fifteen, I’ll be waiting in the dining room.” 

Thomas called out before the other could make it through the door. “Vincent.” 

The man turned slightly, expression questioning. 

“I’m sorry.” 

Vincent turned fully, shaking his head. “It’s Vince. Now hurry up.” 

Thomas readied himself in record speed, showering and dressing in less than ten minutes before jogging out to the dining room, though he found it empty. Food dressed the table, however, so he sat down and filled his plate handsomely. 

As he ate his eyes flickered around the quiet dining room, landing on some odd paintings that didn’t seem like art as much as paints splattered onto canvas’ and left out to dry. It wasn’t long before his mind returned to Vincent—Vince—and all the mystery that surrounded the man like a thick fog. 

He wondered if he had volunteered like Thomas had, wondered if he expected glory, wondered what he got instead. The shadow that Vince described, all-consuming and suffocating, wasn’t the life of a Victor that Thomas had been expecting. A part of him was disappointed. The rest of him wasn’t surprised. 

Just a few days ago Thomas would’ve quickly said that anyone who didn’t wish to participate in the Trials was missing the opportunity of a lifetime. And even then he knew that the other districts didn’t have academies, even if he didn’t know the extent of his own privilege. And now, as he sat looking around at the plates upon plates of heavy food, all he could think about was the lives ruined, taken. 

Vince’s, so it seemed. Chuck’s. Chuck’s mother’s, and his father’s. Thomas thought about the agony that would’ve filled them as their son—their only son—nervously stumbled onto the stage. He remembered seeing it himself, not batting an eye other than to be grateful it was one less tribute to worry about. 

He was sick with himself. Repulsed by himself. If Darnell had been there beside him, Thomas would’ve gotten down on his knees and apologized endlessly, begging for the boy to tell him how to fix what was wrong with the world. And Darnell…well, Darnell would tell him that he had done it to himself. 

And he would be right, Thomas knew. Not only had he done this to himself, but he had fought for the opportunity. Teresa took to the Elite way of life like it was breathing. Thomas could study the history of every weapon, learn every strategy known to man, train until his heart exploded, and he would still never be able to pull one over on his sister. To her, it was natural. She just knew.  

But Thomas? No, he had to spend hours in the backyard, Jorge and him fighting with dull swords in order to capture just a dot of what his sister had been born with. And he had done it, done well enough. And he could argue with anyone about his chances, about how he was just as good or just as capable. But he wasn’t. 

If it came down to it, Thomas wouldn’t be able to beat his sister in a fight. And even if he did beat her, Thomas would never, ever be able to kill her. 

“Eat quick,” Vince said, stepping into the room. “And while you do that I’ve got a few things to tell you.” 

Thomas nodded, shoving a fork full of bacon into his mouth. 

“Interviews are tomorrow evening, but you’ll have to meet your stylists a bit before noon.” Vince checked the watch on his wrist, shrugging to himself before continuing. “If you’re anything like your sister I assume you’re more than prepared for it?” 

“Not really,” he answered. “I mean, I know how to act, just not so much what to say.” 

Vince licked his lips, looking around the room briefly before leaning forwards on his arms. “Look, this whole act you’ve got going on has really captured people’s attention. They know Teresa enough from her little speech at the choosing.” Speech? “They want to know who you are, what you’re like, all of that.” He leaned back again. “And what I want, is for them to love you.” 

“Love me?” he questioned. 

“Love you,” Vince parroted. “I want them to be obsessed with you. I want them to be willing to do anything to keep you alive.” 

Thomas swallowed a bite and frowned, amused. “I thought Mentors weren’t allowed to have favourites.” 

“We aren’t, me especially,” the older man said. “Look, all kinds of rumors have already surfaced. You two are siblings, it was bound to happen from the start. And if you want to get out of that arena alive, you’ll do the smart thing and play into it.” 

Did Thomas want that?

“What am I playing into?”

“There’s a rivalry between you two, whether you face it or not. I know it sounds morbid, immoral, maybe, but it’s the exact sort of thing that’ll work beautifully with audiences. You’ve got to keep this act up, but this time I want you to show the public that everyone is wrong for betting on your sister. Show them that they chose the wrong horse.” 

Thomas considered it a moment, the food he had been chewing seeming to turn to ash in his mouth. “And if I die in there?” 

“Everyone loves an underdog, Thomas. If you prove to them that you’re just that, they won’t let you die.” Vince sat back, eyes steady, as if he had enough faith in his own word for the both of them. 

“How could I be an underdog?” he asked, frowning. “Wouldn’t that be someone from the outlying districts? Newt?” An eleven. Ridiculous. 

“I’ll be blunt here, kid. No one cares about those tributes. Twelve’s only Victor died years ago. Nine, Ten, and Eleven have four between them, and the rest have a handful each. One, Two, and Four are the only tributes Gladers focus on, the rest are just…” 

“Filler?” Thomas asked, feeling a sick twist in his gut. 

“Something like that,” Vince shrugged. “Don’t get me wrong, they can be tough, ‘specially the little shits from lumber and livestock—grow ‘em big there.” He chuckled slightly, then fell back into a more serious state. “But they aren’t raised killers. They’re raised to live long lives, and they don’t know what to do when that’s taken from them. Just because you can hurl two ninety-pound calves over your shoulders doesn’t mean you can kill a person.” 

“Chuck,” Thomas said quietly. “Chuck can’t do either. He’s from Ten.” 

Vince looked down at the table. “Shame, that one.” 

“Is that what he is? Filler?” he questioned. 

“Thomas…” 

“I know the other districts don’t have academies, and I know we’re never supposed to speak of it, even though everyone knows.” He huffed out a warm breath. “But how is it fair that someone like Chuck is thrown in here with others like me, like Teresa. He doesn’t stand a chance and everyone knows it.” 

“The Trials haven’t been fair since the very first one, they aren’t meant to be,” Vince answered calmly. 

Thomas felt his blood turn hot. “So you’re telling me in over almost a hundred years in the districts, the Capitol, no one has once batted an eye at a single twelve-year-old being stuck in one of those arenas? Not one person has thought to themselves that maybe this wasn’t okay? That maybe they’re murdering children, maybe they’re–” 

Bee walked in then, slowly enough that Thomas knew she had been listening. Suddenly he righted himself, realizing who he was talking to and what he was talking about. 

“I’m–” His gaze dropped to his plate. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I–I don’t know what I’m talking about. I didn’t sleep much.” 

Vince stood up from where he sat across the table, walking around it to come up to Thomas’ side. The older man looked down at him for a few moments, and Thomas was entirely sure he was going to get an elbow to the stomach or a swift slap across the face. He tensed for such a thing, freezing further when Vince’s hand wrapped around his forearm and pulled him to stand in one quick motion. 

His surprise only grew when the man pulled him against his chest, embracing him tight.

“A tribute from Eight was chosen at the age of thirteen, and she was blind. Her district rose up in a riot when she died in the bloodbath,” Vince whispered fervently into his ear. “Three thousand of her people died. Less than a hundred Keepers died killing them.” He squeezed Thomas tighter. “Three years ago Ten and Nine found a way to communicate, and they tried to riot too, tried to overthrow their mayors and enforcement to reach out to the other districts.” 

Thomas shuddered. “How many died?” 

“More than you want to know, but that’s not the point,” Vince replied. “They were successful for all of an hour, Thomas. And in that hour they managed to reach One. Can you imagine what One said back to them?” 

He found his hands clutched into the back of the older man’s shirt. 

“Rile people up, they get angry, irrational,” Vince said, pulling away and grabbing Thomas’ shoulders, keeping his voice low. “They riot, they die.” He leaned into Thomas’ ear. “Without a steady cause, a steady leader, they’re nothing more than a few obnoxious flies. And the Capitol had no qualms swatting them away.” 

Thomas swallowed as Vince moved back again, eyes bearing into his own. “Will it ever change?”

Vince dropped his arms, looking Thomas over. “It could, but it needs a push like no other.” 

And the conversation ended there, Vince acting as if it had never happened as he led Thomas out from their floor and down to the basement, where they found an empty room and discussed etiquette for the interviews. Vince asked him questions the host would ask, and he answered as he saw fit, then the other corrected what needed to be corrected.

But Thomas’ mind wasn’t truly in it, not really. He was thinking of everything he learned, as he had been for days now, but Vince had planted a seed in the back of his mind that grew endlessly as the hours passed. Riots. Districts had rioted against the Capitol and failed, but what if they hadn’t? What if they unified as one? 

A heart may power the body, but it can’t do so alone. 

The body needs the heart just as much, Thomas realized. 

But…did the districts truly need the Capitol? What did it provide, exactly? It governed them, controlled them and kept order, that was important. But so did their mayors, and surely they could work just the same with or without taking orders from the Capitol, from President Janson. 

Though Vince had been right in saying it’d be nearly impossible to turn the Elites—maybe even Three and Five—against the Capitol. They’d turned their backs on the other districts before, even Thomas had never thought of them as anything other than…the other districts, the lesser districts. He figured they were just weaker in mind and body, never imagined why they may have been. 

The Capitol followed the Creators’ word, and the Creators had built their country from the ground up after years and years of sickness and constant death, so Thomas had never before imagined that they would do anything to harm their very own people. What they had done to Bee, how could that be the Creators’ word? That was beyond cruel, against humanity in a way Thomas hadn’t even thought possible.

After what could only be a few hours, Vince dismissed Thomas entirely, giving him the day all to himself and hopefully Teresa, should she have finished with Starlette. He jogged back to the elevator, waiting impatiently as it quickly climbed the short distance. 

He searched every room on their floor for his sister, but she was simply nowhere to be found. He assumed she might be learning how to properly walk in whatever ridiculous outfit they would glue to her, but felt disappointed that he was losing so much time that could’ve been spent hanging out with her. 

Before he could be entirely brought down, he saw the shape of Bee disappearing behind a door. Feeling a burst of energy, Thomas entirely ignored the sign on it that stated it to be a restricted area and sped after the girl, bursting inside theatrically. 

Bee jumped comically as he did, as did another person who had accompanied her inside the room. There were machines lining the walls, and the pair were folding clothes on the counter. Though now they had spun around and were staring at him with wide eyes. 

“Sorry,” he grumbled to the Avox guy he had yet to meet. It was a man with shaggy brown hair and scars all over his face, one splitting his lip almost in two. 

Bee gave him a glare, moving forwards and grabbing his forearm, quirking an eyebrow questioningly. 

“Was wondering if you wanted to go to the roof again,” he explained. “I’ve got nothing to do today and Teresa’s not around.” 

The girl frowned, and the scarred guy reached an arm forwards, pulling her away from Thomas. She turned back, made a few odd gestures with her hands, and the guy seemed to instantly relax. It made Thomas’ stomach swoop uncomfortably, thinking of why the man seemed so off put by him. 

She began tracing along his wrist. 

R-I-S-K

“Can’t you just tell them you’re mopping up there?” he asked. “It looked pretty…in need of mopping…last night.” 

She fixed him with a glare. 

“C’mon, don’t be boring,” he teased, poking her upper arm. “If someone comes up I’ll just tell them you’re there to rub my feet.” 

Bee cringed, turned to exchange a look with the other man, then turned back and grabbed his arm in an annoyed fashion. 

M-E-E-T

“Okay,” he hummed, then turned to the scarred man and offered his hand. “I’m Thomas by the way, sorry for scaring you.” 

The second the door shut behind him, he came face to face with an incredibly odd looking man. He appeared to be waiting for him, freezing Thomas in place with a thin smile. His hair was thinned down to the scalp, the top of it entirely bald compared to the scruff along the sides, and he somehow towered over him, slim frame almost leaning forwards to accentuate that fact.

“Er… hello,” Thomas said quietly. “Can I help you?” 

“What was it you were doing in that room?” the man asked, cocking his head. 

Thomas felt his gut spin, jaw setting. “Thought it was a bathroom. Sorry, I’ll–”

He had turned to walk off, but the man grabbed his wrist with a fierce grip. “Walk along these corridors with caution, boy. You never know what lies around each corner, one wrong step and…” 

As he trailed off Thomas ripped his arm free, rubbing at it with a scowl. “And you are?” 

“Randall,” the man informed him, chin held high as he straightened up. “Randall Spilker.” 

Atrocious name, but Thomas didn’t say that. “Right. I’ll be on my way. Sorry for the inconvenience.” 

The man—Randy Spiller or whatever—certainly wasn’t from any district, nor was he among the Gladers. No, he hadn’t been painted up or wearing clothes colourful enough to blind a person, so he must’ve been among the elite of the elite, those who thought they were too good for their very own customs. A Sponsor, possibly.

Who Thomas had just been blatantly cold to. It didn’t matter, there would be plenty more. 

He shook off any thoughts of the strange interaction and stepped into the elevator, clicking the shiny button to the twelfth floor a few times too many, then rocking on his heels as the door slid shut. An anxious excitement coursed through him, and it made his chest swell all the more, as such a feeling had abandoned him over the past few days. 

He thought of all the things he and Bee could do. Maybe she could teach him some of that weird gesture stuff she was doing to communicate with that man. Jorge had a friend who couldn’t hear back home, but he used a watch that projected a hologram, writing words into the air for him. 

Maybe Thomas could get Bee one of those, though they would probably take it from her. Maybe when he came back he could…

Thomas’ mood dipped slightly, but he ignored it, instead looking up as the elevator beeped and the doors opened to release him onto the top floor. He skipped along the place, ignoring a few weird looks from Avoxes who knew he wasn’t meant to be up there, but he only gave them greeting smiles and breezed past carelessly. 

When he stepped through the doors, warm summer air embracing him, he quickly made his way over to the same slightly-out-of-view area they had visited the previous night. Newt wasn’t there—disappointing, as now Thomas would have to wait for Bee alone—but the place looked far more attractive in the sunlight. Chairs colourful and potted plants seeming all the more lively, Thomas took a seat on the couch. 

He tapped his foot against the marble ground, starting a random rhythm, eyes glued to the area Bee would walk in from. He quit his movement, then brought his hand to pick at the skin on his lips, eyes still watching. He dropped his arms, smacking his hands against his knees in boredom. 

A glimpse of neon orange caught his eye from a few feet away, behind a pink vase holding a bright blue flower. He pulled himself up and walked over, plucking the orange ball and squeezing it lightly. It seemed to be some kind of foam, malleable but only with a generous amount of pressure. 

He took his find and moved to the middle of the little area, laying out over a shaggy red rug and tossing the ball up into the air, watching as it fell back to him and catching it. Again and again. Then again. And again. 

He sat up, frowning. 

Where was Bee? Surely she should’ve shown up by now. The walk—or elevator ride—was no longer than a minute or so and it had already been around five or six. Seven, if he counted the time it took to have that strange interaction with that weird man. 

He squeezed the ball as hard as he could, otherwise falling entirely still, trying to pick up on any indicating sounds that she was close. Nothing, only the occasional ding of a wind chime he couldn’t see, and the gentle touch of the wind. 

He threw himself onto his back, huffing. 

He wondered if Teresa was back on their floor, looking around for him and being upset when she found him gone. Maybe he should’ve left a note or something, or maybe he should’ve waited for her to return and then brought her to meet Bee. He was certain they would get along. 

But would Teresa understand? Or would she be sure of the Capitol’s ways, of their laws and their word. Would she get Bee in trouble? 

If Thomas told her everything he had learned, everything that Vince had told him, that Newt had told him, all of it, would she turn to his side? Would she trust his judgement? Or would her face contort in disgust, her eyes telling him all he needed to know of what a disgrace he had become?

Such a thought scared him, but not because he would be seen as a traitor, not because he would be seen as different. The only thing he feared now was her pulling away from him entirely. If anything, Thomas had become more and more certain that the way he was starting to see things was the right way, and Teresa was the one misinformed. 

Footsteps, so soft he almost couldn’t hear them. 

Thomas rose from the ground just as Bee stepped around the corner and gave him a small smile. He plopped straight back down, and she followed, popping to the ground. He then scooted a few feet away and tossed her the little orange ball. She caught it, examined it, then threw it back. 

“Can I ask you some questions?” he said, throwing.

Bee nodded, catching. 

He figured he had to ease into things, seeing as how the majority of questions he had for his new friend were a bit invasive, to say the least. He thought for a moment. “What’s uh–what’s your favourite colour?” 

She held the ball close to her chest, examining their surroundings. It took her a few moments, but she pointed to one of the chairs. It was a deep purple, almost black. As he looked at it the ball hit him in the side of the head, and he laughed, crawling for it as it tried to roll away before settling once more. 

“Alright, what’s…wait, how old are you?” 

She held up ten fingers, put them down, then held up nine. 

The ball fell from his hands, rolling into the pit of his lap. “You’re nineteen?”

Bee nodded, gesturing for him to throw the ball back, but Thomas was busy gawking at her. 

“You’re only nineteen? How are you only nineteen? How long…how old were you when they took you?” 

She held up a finger. 

“One?!” Thomas was full on panicking now. 

She laughed— laughed— and shook her head. 

He breathed out a sigh of relief. “One year. You’ve been here for a year?” 

A nod. 

He picked up the ball, went to throw it, but instead fell backwards, holding the toy over his head and squeezing the life from it as the shag of the rug made his back itch. 

She was only two years older than Thomas was, and she was living to serve the Capitol as a payment for her crimes. She would’ve been Teresa’s age when she was arrested, sentenced. Thomas pictured Teresa with her hair slicked back, malnourished body shoved into an odd white outfit that didn’t look anything like clothes a person would wear. A collar around her neck. 

Bee moved to sit next to him, watching him with a small smile. 

“Did you kill someone?” 

She paused for a moment, a crease forming between her eyebrows. For a moment he worried he had offended her, but then she only shook her head. Mouthing, no.

“Did you steal something?” 

No.  

“Burn a building down?”

She snorted. No.

He sat up and turned his body so they were face to face, knees lined up. He chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment, looking down at the ball, then back up to her. “Was it treason?” 

She lowered her head and nodded, seeming afraid of his reaction.

He swallowed. “Bee, I uh–I’ve been thinking about things recently.” He squeezed the ball, watching it morph out of shape, then released his grip, allowing it to round out again. “All these years I’ve thought of everything the same way, like, well you know…the Trials and the Capitol, the districts, all of it.” 

She reached a hand out and he let her take the ball. Her eyes flicked up to his face.

He watched her squeeze it just as he had. “I thought that we were going by the Creators’ word, that the violence was necessary to keep the peace, that we were paying blood for blood. I…I celebrated with them every year, watching as all of these people—these… kids— were killed. I placed bets with Teresa. I made jokes.” 

She placed the ball back into his hand, and he let it rest there, gentle. 

“And now I’m seeing things differently, and not just things now but things…always, if you know what I mean. Everything I’ve ever done, all of these things I’ve been ignorant to. Am I…” He closed his eyes. “Am I a horrible person? I feel like I’m a horrible person.” 

He didn’t open his eyes, only felt Bee’s fingers trace against the thin skin on his wrist. 

K-I-D

He opened his eyes and looked up at her, a bit confused. 

She pointed to his chest, mouth moving with silent words. 

You’re a kid.  

“So were they,” he whispered. “All of those kids, twenty-three each year over the last ninety-eight, they were kids too. The ones I watched die were kids. That can’t be an excuse for this, Bee.” 

Chuck was a child, that was obvious to anyone who looked at him. He walked like a child, talked like one, laughed and smiled like one too. And maybe Thomas didn’t have much of his baby fat anymore, nor did Teresa or Dan or Aris or Rachel, but that didn’t make them adults. They were young too. Young now, and young as they began training to kill.

Thomas could go on as he has, pretending the Trials were glorious and honorable. And he could take Bee’s words and hold them close to his heart, tell himself that all of the years he spent laughing along when kids died in front of him on screen were out of his control. He could say that he couldn’t help but think that way, but Darnell didn’t think that way. 

Darnell knew what was wrong and he told Thomas time and time again, and Thomas directly chose to ignore him, label him as crazy or gullible and pretend like the words had never met his ears. But they had. He was aware of the possibilities of what the world could really be, but he chose ignorance instead, chose to follow the crowd. 

And now Thomas was going to lose either his sister or his life, and the two had truly become synonymous. 

“Maybe this is how I repent,” he told Bee. “Maybe this is the only way I can make things right, by giving my life in that place.” 

She shook her head, mouthing words he couldn’t make out.

“I’m going to die anyway, Bee, you know that. Everyone knows that,” he mumbled. “At least now I can do it with purpose.” 

She grabbed the sides of his face, mouthing words again, slowly. 

Make them see.

He frowned. “What?” 

Make them see. She licked her lips. Make them see like you do.  

The squeal of hinges pulled them out from the intense bubble that had formed, and the pair watched as Newt came into view, a book under his arm and a skeptical look on his face upon seeing them. Bee’s head instinctively bowed, guilty though she’d done no wrong, and Thomas nodded to the newcomer. 

“Hello.” 

Newt’s lip pulled at the corner. “Am I interrupting?” 

“No, no,” Thomas insisted, feeling civil. “Plenty of space for everyone.” 

There was indeed plenty of space on the entirety of the rooftop, some of which was private and tucked away from Thomas and Bee, and yet Newt chose to place his book down on a couch and stroll over, folding his legs under him a small space away from Bee and Thomas. He was wearing a tank top and pants that looked a few sizes too large, both as black as his district colour. 

“I’ve grown bored of books,” Newt told them, shrugging. He turned to Bee. “What’s your name?” 

Thomas turned to the girl as well. “Your actual name, this time.” 

She gave Newt a wary look before grabbing Thomas’ arm, slowly tracing along his wrist. More careful than she usually was, and he knew that this was important to her, so he shut his eyes and focused on the lines she carefully wrote. 

B-R-E-N-D-A

Thomas’ lips parted slightly. “Brenda.” 

She looked up at him, eyes big, mouth agape. 

“Bet you haven’t heard it aloud in quite some time,” Newt said gently. “It’s a pretty name. Brenda.” 

Brenda. Familiarity rang in that name like a bell in Thomas’ mind, the sound clear and upfront, and yet locked away far beyond his reach. It was hidden behind a fog, one that he couldn’t navigate despite his efforts. He must’ve gone to school with a girl sharing the same name. 

Brenda poked his side, pulling Thomas out from his daze, Brenda’s eyes crinkled in a small smile as she gestured between them. Newt gave her an odd look, and she rolled her eyes, repeating the gesture. 

He snorted. “Oh, I’ve been telling her about you.” 

“Is that so?” the blond hummed. “All good things, I’m sure.” 

Brenda nodded enthusiastically. Covering the side of her face Thomas could see as she mouthed something to the blond that made him grin. 

Thomas shoved her arm. “Stop that–what’re you saying?” 

She feigned innocence and snatched the little orange ball from his hands, gesturing for them to move out so they could play catch properly. And they did just that, Thomas telling stories about his life in District Two, about Jorge and Teresa and anything else he could scrounge up. Newt played along too, telling them a story about a friendly wolf that lived in their section for a few months that no one wanted to harm. 

Brenda laughed and she smiled, making many comments with little more than her facial expressions. If Thomas thought she seemed more herself the previous night, she must’ve truly blossomed after hearing her name spoken aloud. Seeing her as herself, and not the quiet, subdued servant, summoned a warmth behind Thomas’ sternum. 

Knowing that he—with all of his mistakes, all of his ignorance—could make her feel even just slightly comforted in a life of discomfort made him feel right. Like he could make up for some of his wrongdoings, like he could be a good person, just this once. 

And Newt, well, when that eleven popped up on screen Thomas’ perception of the boy had completely warped. Suddenly he wasn’t the golden Newt who wouldn’t kill and thought himself above the rest of them. He was just as guilty as the rest of them, to Thomas. Maybe even more so for trying to hide it. 

But there, on the rooftop, Thomas realized that the blond really hadn’t changed at all. In fact he was smiling in a way Thomas hadn’t seen before, unburdened and carefree, like the three of them lived a normal life, a safe life. Like two of them weren’t about to be sent to their possible deaths, and the other wasn’t to live a life of mistreatment. 

Oddly enough, it had a weird effect on Thomas. Like suddenly his problems didn’t matter anymore. The layers upon layers of stress that had been winding around him over the past few days were starting to peel away. As though Newt smiling, laughing, was a sign of things being okay, if only for a little bit. 

“Just a year?” Newt asked Brenda many hours into their day, passing the ball her way. 

As the ball toppled into her lap she nodded, then tossed it to Thomas.

He caught it, frowning. “And they really won’t ever let you go?” 

She nodded again. 

He threw it to Newt with a scowl. “That’s bullshit.”

The blond caught it but paused, staring down at the orange ball with a furrowed brow. Thomas could see his own anger at the injustice reflected back at him through the conflict dancing in Newt’s expression, and his elated mood shrunk further. They couldn’t help her. He wasn’t sure anyone could. 

Seeming to sense their clouded minds, Brenda let out a soft sigh and crawled over to where Thomas sat, laying on her side with her cheek squished against his thigh. One of her hands reached out to the rug under them, her fingers carding through the soft material. 

Thomas was upset with himself for not being able to communicate fully with his friend. He could know so much more about Brenda if he could do the odd gestures she and the other man had done earlier. He wondered how much she would be willing to share if she could. 

Newt placed the ball aside and flopped down onto his back, eyes dancing around the mass of blue sky dotted in fluffy clouds. Thomas wondered what was going on through his mind. If maybe it was something along the lines of what was going on in his own. Did he want to save Brenda too? Did he think that maybe they could? 

Unlikely. Thomas knew it wasn’t possible. 

But he thought if anyone, Newt, who seemed to know so much more than he ever had, could figure something out. 

Just as he went away to break his stare from Newt, the blond’s hand slid down his side, his left leg coming up to a bend. Nimble fingers started to press and massage around his knee, face pinching just slightly every few seconds, as if he were in pain. 

Forcing himself to look away, Thomas thought of the slight soreness in his own body. Aches along the backs of his legs and a tightness in his core. Thomas wondered if Newt had been sore from the private sessions the day prior. He must’ve done something extravagant to earn such a score. 

He wanted to ask. He didn’t. 

But his eyes did snap back to the other boy, following his fingers for a few moments before flicking to his face, to the micro-expressions that fluttered through. His eyes were shut, but every little while Newt would hit a seemingly particularly sore spot and hiss just under his breath. The spot just below his knee cap seemed to be the worst of it. 

“Can I help you?” 

He looked back to Newt’s face, finding one of his eyes squinted open. 

“Sorry,” he said quickly. “You okay?” 

“Fantastic, thanks for asking.” Newt sat up. “And you?” 

Thomas looked down at Brenda where her head rested on his legs. Her eyes had long been shut, fingers still woven into the shag rug, unmoving. Her brown hair was still perfectly slicked back into a bun, but one strand from the fringe had fallen out of place and laid over her forehead, dipping across one of her eyebrows. 

Thomas imagined Brenda with her hair down entirely, wearing normal clothes, laughing freely in a lush field somewhere. No collar. None of the Capitol people there to order her around or hurt her. He imagined them all in that field. Teresa, Chuck, Newt—hell, all of the tributes—somewhere far away, safe. 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly, eyes still running over Brenda’s face. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Depends,” Newt murmured. Thomas looked up. The other smirked. “Go on.” 

“All of that stuff you said, did you mean it?” 

Newt frowned. “As in…?” 

“That you won’t eliminate anyone,” he elaborated. “That you’d rather them…” 

“Kill me?” Newt straightened up. “Say it like it is, Thomas. It isn’t a game.” 

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “Did you mean it, that you won’t kill anyone?” 

Newt looked at him for a long moment, as if he were contemplating something. Since Newt had joined them on the rooftop, Thomas had begun to wonder if Newt really was as genuine as he acted. It wasn’t uncommon for tributes to gain another’s trust to lower their guard. Keep your friends close…

“I meant it,” Newt said. 

Thomas couldn’t help himself. “That could change. I mean, you never really know what you are or aren’t capable of until–” 

“I do,” Newt cut in. “I know.”

“But–” 

“No buts.” Newt crossed his legs beneath him, resting his elbows on his knees and sitting forward, gaze intense. “Thomas, if I went into that place and killed someone, I would die either way.” He let the words sit in the air for a moment before speaking again. “I would sooner sacrifice my body rather than my soul.”

Thomas looked down at Brenda again, sighing through his nose. “So if you and I…” 

“Do it quickly, is all I ask,” Newt answered. “I’m not scared to die, not really. But it’s not like I’m exactly keen on suffering.” When Thomas looked up, Newt was watching him intently. “Could you?” 

“Could I…?”

“Kill me.” 

The answer was on the tip of his tongue. An instant and certain, yes. Thomas may have come to the conclusion of being unable to end his sister’s life, but that was his sister. The others didn’t matter. Or, they hadn’t mattered. Honestly he hadn’t given it much of a thought. 

But he had to now, didn’t he? Newt had asked. 

He let the image play in his mind. He and Newt fighting, both going for the throat, both desperate to win. Thomas would come up victorious and that was that. Except, Newt wouldn’t fight him. No, Newt would go down when Thomas pushed him, and stare up at him with that ridiculous, egotistical moral defiance. 

Fighting for your life, killing to live was one thing. Anything else was nothing short of a slaughter. 

“Do you have a family?” he asked instead of answering. 

Newt let the subject pass. “No. I just popped up into existence a few years back.” 

“Okay.” Thomas rolled his eyes. “What’s your family like?” 

“I was raised by stray dogs, actually,” Newt told him with a serious expression.

Thomas’ responding laugh was cut short by Brenda’s head shooting up, frame going tense. When Thomas looked up at Newt in concern, he found the blond staring towards the entrance. Half a second later the three heard the doors fly open, heavy footsteps pouring out onto the rooftop and quickly heading their way. 

Brenda and Thomas were up in an instant, Newt crawling backwards until his back hit a couch. A group of four Keepers rounded the corner, and Thomas subconsciously tucked Brenda behind him, straightening his shoulders and setting his jaw as the four came to a stop in front of him. They were in full uniform, mesh masks and all, Launchers unclipped in their holsters. 

Thomas knew it was bad. If someone were coming to fetch him or Newt they would send an escort or one Keeper. But now there were four Runners standing before them, and his stomach dropped to his feet. 

He puffed up his chest. “Hello. How can I help you?” 

“Step aside,” the Keeper closest to him said in a husky voice. 

The Keeper went to move around Thomas, but he sidestepped and blocked Brenda from his reach. “I’m still in need of her…er assistance, actually. Just a few more minutes.” He looked to the other three Keepers. “You guys can go off somewhere else. Fight crime.” 

“Step aside,” the man hissed again, slowly pulling out his baton. Thomas thought of Jackson and the way it had shook his entire body. It was electric like the Launchers. 

He licked his lips, glancing down at it. They couldn’t hurt him, not with the Trials so close. “Can I take a message?” 

And then there was a shove of something firm against his side, and then a rapid clicking sound that was instantly followed by a shot of electricity running through every nerve Thomas had. He jolted, but otherwise his every muscle seized and he couldn’t move. A tear fell down his cheek as the woman pulled the baton away, and he collapsed as another Keeper grabbed Brenda by the arm. 

He twitched, feeling pain everywhere, but forced himself to rise nonetheless, limbs stiff. “Hey! Get away from her!” 

He chased after them, body fighting his every movement. His hand caught on one of their belts, but before he could tug them back a hand struck his face and sent him wheeling onto his back. When he looked up, a Keeper stood over him, Launcher pointed at his chest. 

Suddenly a body blocked them from his view. Newt. 

“Wouldn’t want to be the reason he can’t attend the interview tomorrow, would ya?” Newt put a hand on his hip, and Thomas could picture his smug expression. “He’s a dolt. Don’t let it get to your head.” 

A tense moment passed before the Keeper turned off. Thomas scrambled to his feet immediately. “Brenda!” He made towards them as they dragged her away, her mouth opening with mute pleading before she disappeared. “No!” A hand caught him by the back of his shirt, tugging him back just as the doors around the corner slammed. 

For a minute, he could only stand there, staring at the space she had been dragged across. It was only minutes prior that her head was resting against his leg—his thigh was still warm from where her cheek pressed against it—and now she was gone and Thomas didn’t do anything at all. 

How could they have known? How could they have possibly–

Thomas rounded on Newt, voice venomous. “You told them?” He grabbed the collar of the other’s shirt. “You told them, didn’t you? How could you do that? Who knows–” 

“I would never do that.” 

“–what they’re going to do to her.” Thomas was breathing hard, anger and pain roaring inside of his chest, nowhere to go. “How could you do that? How? She wasn’t doing anything wrong. She wasn’t.” 

“I didn’t tell anyone.” 

“You let them take her!” he shouted. 

“I couldn’t have stopped them, and if I tried it only would’ve made things worse for her.” Newt put a hand on Thomas’ wrist. “They can’t punish us. But they can punish her.” 

He let go of the other, shaking off the contact and turning back to where they had taken Bee, the slam of the door still ringing in his ears. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t…” 

“It isn’t your fault,” Newt told him gently. 

“How can you possibly know that?” Thomas half shouted, turning on the other. “You…you can’t! I don’t…who knows what’s going to happen to her, who knows what they’re doing to them!” He took a step back, realizing he’d been yelling in the other’s face again. “I…their tongues are cut, Newt. They…they treat them like…” 

“I’ve heard all of the stories, I know,” Newt said. “But all we can do is not make it worse.” 

“Right,” he muttered. 

But that wasn’t all they could do, it wasn’t possibly all they could do. People were suffering in the Capitol and the districts alike. In fact, the entire country was practically running on the torment of its people with the exception of the few who ate practically five meals a day and made it their lives work to wear every colour all at once. 

His head had been down his entire life, feet stepping into the path of those before him, never questioning, never looking. He couldn’t go on like this, couldn’t turn a blind eye once again and hope things worked themselves out because they wouldn’t, and they hadn’t. He had to fix this. 

“No,” he whispered. Newt looked up at him, frowning. “No,” he repeated, loudly this time. “Newt, we can do something. We can.” 

The other cocked an eyebrow. “What?” 

He moved quickly, grabbing Newt’s forearm and all but dragging him to the cloud-shaped couch he and Brenda had relaxed on the night prior. He sat down sideways, pulling Newt to copy the stance across from him, and leaned in close, voice a whisper. 

“The districts have been rioting,” he told the other. “It never worked out, but that was because they were working alone, because it was impulsive–but what if it wasn’t?” 

“I’m not following.” 

“We outnumber them by millions, Newt, millions. ” 

Newt’s eyes shot wide, hand coming out to shove Thomas’ shoulder. “You could be killed for saying such things.” 

“They’ve already killed me,” Thomas muttered. “I’m already dead.” He thought of Brenda. “We have to make them see. Make them see that this has gone on for too long. Make them see that we aren’t powerless.” 

“We are powerless, Thomas. Don’t be daft,” Newt whispered. “You’ve had it well, more than well, but the rest of us are weak, starving. We’re barely making it day to day. We’re in no shape to be rebelling against anyone.” 

“Exactly,” he hissed. “They think all of the districts either won’t fight, or can’t. They’re blind and we can convince them, even the Elites, I know we can. They don’t know how bad it is. But if they did know–” 

“Thomas.” 

“–then maybe things could change–” 

“Do you seriously think for one second that you’re the very first person to think such a thought?” Newt spat, causing Thomas to stutter quiet. “Do you think, in your heart of bloody hearts, that no one has tried?” He lowered his voice. “The Capitol knows everything. They control everything. There is nothing we can do.” 

Thomas swallowed, blinked. “But we can, I know we can.” 

“Stop, please,” Newt breathed. “You have a heart, it’s admirable. But you’ve grown into it far too late. The day after tomorrow is the beginning of the end for us.” 

“It’s my fault,” he murmured. “I have to make it right.” 

Newt was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching Thomas’ face until he found whatever it was he was looking for. He sighed. “One day I believe the world will change for the better, someone will change it. But that day won’t be within our lifetime, it’s just not possible.” 

“You’re wrong, Newt,” Thomas murmured, then rose from the couch and walked away without so much as a glance towards the other. He jogged inside and towards the elevator, clicking the button to his floor many times, teetering on the soles of his feet anxiously as it began to carry him down. 

There was power in the Capitol, power that bled out from the walls and the floor, power that overwhelmed their entire country. It was a fact, and Thomas was more than aware of it. They ruled with fear, instilled it in everyone, even their own people with the threat of being mutilated should you disobey. But that could be overcome, be overthrown. 

And Thomas was going to fuel that flame that lived inside everyone, the flame that burned endlessly, that want for more, that…that hope to have a life worth living, to be freed. Newt acted like his time was over because of the Trials, but if anything he was given the perfect platform to plant whatever image he deemed necessary inside the minds of anyone and everyone. 

And maybe Brenda could be freed. Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe she was okay. Maybe Thomas could save her. 

Thomas stormed into the dining room upon hearing voices, immediately walking in on Starlette and Vince and…no one. 

“Where’s my sister?” he asked. 

“So good of you to join us,” Starlette said happily. “Do sit.” 

Vince gave him a small smile. “Teresa is off somewhere, but I’m sure she’ll return soon.” 

Thomas didn’t want to sit. There was so much pent up energy running free inside of him, begging him to do something now. To fix it now. He wanted to break down every door in the entire city until he found the one Brenda was being kept behind. 

But he couldn’t, Newt was right. She could be punished for his actions. 

Has she already been? 

So he sat roughly in his seat, not sparing a glance to any of the food laid out before him. His hands were shaking. His foot bounced. Every time he blinked he saw flashes of Brenda being dragged away, the terror etched onto her face seared into his memory. 

His attention broke from his mind when an Avox girl he hadn’t met bent down to pour his water for him. He swatted her and her pitcher away, taking it from her grasp and pointedly staring into her eyes as he filled his own glass, then roughly placed the pitcher down onto the table. She seemed scared, and that only made him all the more upset. 

He sipped from his glass as she scurried off. Vince and Starlette were staring at him, the former blank, the latter appalled, and it only fed further into Thomas’ anger. How could they just sit there while Brenda was off somewhere unknown, hurt or worse. 

He rose from the table and made off towards his room, quickly stepping inside and dropping onto his bed. 

Hours passed, he was sure. But he couldn’t fall asleep nor could he stray from the line of thought that had intertwined itself around him, suffocating him. He couldn’t stop thinking about Brenda, and every time he swallowed and tasted the sting of metallic the baton had left him with, it only worsened. He should’ve fought harder, should’ve done more.  

And where was she now? What was being done to her because of his actions, because of something he had done. She’d been cautious around him at first, careful, not just out of fear of him but out of fear for what might come of it. And he had been stupid enough to push her, and now she was in danger, and there was nothing he could do. 

One thought kept reappearing, breaking through the surface every once and awhile. 

What if Brenda was dead? 

Her blood would be on his hands, her death would’ve been caused not by whoever had done the deed, but by Thomas. She had been his friend, and he killed her. 

Dan was his friend too, sort of. Mara, to a degree. Aris, Rachel, Chuck. Newt. 

And Teresa was his sister. 

There could be a point that one or more of them may die, and their blood could fall on his hands as well, and not just by his distant actions. It wouldn’t just be a corpse he created, but the end of a person he once knew.

But even if he didn’t know them, even if it was Alby’s blood on his hands or Gally’s or Poppy’s, they were still people with lives and families. And he would steal that from them, from their loved ones. To eliminate was simple. To kill…

If Brenda was dead, if they had killed her, it would hurt Thomas. But if he hadn’t known her, would he have cared? Or was she just another pawn in the big picture. No. No she would still be a person. A person who should never have died, just like the hundreds of tributes who died in the Trials. 

Newt and his obnoxious moral high ground didn’t feel as odd in that moment, it didn’t feel as out of place. Thomas could kill to save himself, he knew he could, he could feel it. But he didn’t know if he could just kill someone, just to secure his possible victory. If he were faced with Newt in that arena, and the blond stood without a weapon, ready, Thomas wouldn’t drive a sword through him. He couldn’t. 

But if he and Dan were wrestling as they were in training, fighting, he could let the pain inflicted upon him drive his survival instincts to do whatever necessary to ensure his life. 

Couldn’t he?

Footsteps sounded, and Thomas realized that the sun had fallen and his room was almost entirely dark outside of the city lights coming in from the window. He sat up as his door slid open, hopes high, but then a different Avox came in, the scarred man he had seen with Brenda earlier on in the day. 

Before he could register a single thought his hands were clenched in the scratchy fabric of the man's outfit, and he had him pinned up against the wall. The man was taller than him, and despite him being rather lanky he could’ve certainly shoved Thomas away. But he didn’t. His breath only caught, eyes flickering between Thomas’ own. 

“Bee,” he breathed out, feeling frantic. “Brenda. Have you seen her?” 

The man slowly shook his head, worry warping his features. 

Slowly he released him, straightening the crumples he had left in the man’s clothing. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. And I’m sorry they…they took her. I don’t know why or…well I do know, but I didn’t mean for it to happen, I didn’t.” 

The man sucked in, eyes cold and locked on him, a pile of crumpled towels on the ground Thomas didn’t remember knocking out of his hands. 

“I’m sorry, you have to know that,” he told the scarred man. “If you see her, can you tell me? Please?” 

He didn’t get an answer, the man only turned on his heel and walked out. Thomas was worried he would get in trouble somehow for doing so, so he bent down and picked up the towels, folding them back up and placing them inside the drawer he’d watched Brenda place them into a while ago. 

He looked back to the rumpled covers of his bed and sighed, knowing Brenda wouldn’t be making an appearance to soothe him to sleep. He wished he could go to her, help her, free her. He hated that he didn’t know where she was, or if she was safe, or if they were hurting her. What more could they even do? 

He stepped out from his room and made his way down the hall. His sister’s door didn’t open yet again, so he gently knocked on it, once, twice, a third time. But it didn’t open. Light fled out from under the door, so she was awake. 

“Teresa,” he called quietly. “Teresa, I need you.” 

He waited for something, anything. He wondered if she fell asleep with her lamp on, and he wished he could go inside to turn it off for her. Then he wondered if she was ignoring him, if she didn’t want to see him. She couldn’t do that here, however, not under these circumstances. 

He knocked harder. “Teresa!” 

Nothing. 

He could feel the prickly heat begin again, behind his eyes this time, making them sting. He banged on her door as hard as he could, foot coming up to kick it a few times until the thing was shaking with the abuse he was putting it through. She couldn’t ignore this, couldn’t ignore him, not tonight. 

“Thomas,” he heard right against the door. “Please go.” 

Immediately his nerves calmed, he quit his banging. “Please can I come in?” 

“No,” she called back. “Go to bed.” 

“I can’t,” he muttered. “You know that.”

“Thomas, you’re an adult,” she said softly, though it didn’t lessen the sharp pain her words struck in him. “Lie in your bed and close your eyes.” 

He sucked in a shaky breath. “Teresa, please.” 

“Go, Tom.” 

Soft footsteps receded from the door, and Thomas pushed his forehead into the cool surface, wishing he could tell his sister all that had gone on. Even if Teresa wouldn’t understand. Even if it left him to be faced with her anger. He just needed to speak of it. Apologize to someone because he couldn’t tell Brenda he was sorry. 

And he was. The guilt had seeped all throughout him, and if he tugged at his skin it would peel away as if it were infested with dry rot. Beneath it would lay black tar where his flesh once sat, gnarled and hollow sticks for his bones. Rotten. The Trials hadn’t even begun and he was already a monster. 

He was tired. His decayed body was exhausted. Slowly he slid down his sister’s door until he hit the floor, and leaned his head against the half-inch of frame. It hurt, pressed against his temple, but he shut his eyes anyway. He imagined that his sister was beside him, breathing evenly. It wasn’t enough, but he fell asleep nonetheless. 

When morning came he was woken by the slide of the door, leaving him to drop onto his back, vision overtaken by his sister standing over him with a displeased look on her face. 

He pulled himself up to stand, starting towards his room without uttering another word her way. 

Thomas stepped into his room, expecting to find Brenda inside somewhere, cleaning up one thing or another. But it was empty, finalizing. He splayed out on the cool bedding, shutting his eyes, letting the image of those Keepers dragging his friend away play again and again in his mind. He had to make it right. He had to fix what he had broken. 

“You have a remarkable face,” Sparkle—a name he had recently learned—told him, her long black braid swinging over her back as she dotted the covering-cream over his moles. “A little filler here,” she poked his cheek. “There.” His chin. “And you’d be perfect.” 

Torch hummed in approval. “Need a little meat around your middle, though.” 

Thomas looked down at his own stomach as the man painted with red vines poked a finger onto it, seeming displeased at the hardness. Sparkle watched him do it, pausing her efforts to judge his body further. 

“Possibly a little colour, no?” she offered. 

Thomas gave a smile he hoped looked genuine. “I’ll think about it.” 

All morning he had distracted his mind by studying Torch and Sparkle, studying their every little comment and the way they held themselves. They were entirely comfortable, he found. Straight spines but relaxed laughs and chuckles. And as they tormented his body once more via hair removal and skin scrubbing, it seemed almost routine.

He wondered if they could even process the depths of the Trials, the depths of death. Their entire world—even the districts—was wholly desensitized to killing, and honestly he couldn’t blame them for being so hollow about it all. Thomas had been watching people die his whole life, and he certainly never cared. 

But the Capitol people made a habit of learning about the tributes, getting their lives stories to deem whether or not they deserved to live, deserved Sponsors and deserved their bets. Thomas had never cared for the interviews. Neither did Teresa. None of the districts did, not really. 

Thomas thought that the people of the districts, whether subconsciously or not, found it easier to know nothing of the tributes. The people of the Capitol, however, liked to attach themselves to tributes. They liked to ask and to learn. 

He felt sick. 

Tavour walked in and waved the other two away, looking over Thomas with a sharp smile. “Ravishing.” 

He was stark naked and stripped of the little hairs that had attempted growing back since the last round of abuse, any blemishes painted over entirely, red patches of irritated skin growing brighter by the minute. So he didn’t quite understand what exactly Tavour was complimenting. 

“Ah, thanks,” he mumbled. 

Their lip quirked slightly as they handed Thomas soft undergarments. “How are you finding your time here?”

He pulled on the underwear, uncomfortable with how tight they were. “It’s been okay.”

“Mm.” Tavour stepped back and retrieved what he assumed to be his outfit, returning and gesturing for Thomas to stand in front of the mirror. “Nervous?” 

“For the interview?” He laughed a bit. “Not really.” 

Tavour began dressing him, starting with pants that were the colour of blood. “Confident?” 

“Something like that.”

“I find that the people respond to a certain…” Their eyes climbed over Thomas, slowly. “Charm.” 

“Charm?” he repeated, pulling the black button up over his shoulders and putting his arms to his side as Tavour moved forwards to button it up.

“This may come as a surprise to you, but you aren’t all that rough on the eyes,” Tavour said with a silky voice. “There isn’t anything audiences love more than a person of pure beauty. Especially from the districts. Beauty that grows naturally is unlike any other, even if we won’t admit it.” 

Thomas’ face reddened. “Oh.”

“Uuve has been trying to explain such things to your sister, but has been unsuccessful, thus far.” They stepped back, plucking up a matching red jacket. “She is very sure of herself, doesn’t think she needs anything but her mind, her strength.” 

“Sounds like her,” he muttered. "I’m confused though, confused about what exactly you mean.” 

“About?” 

“Er… natural beauty. How it could help us.” 

A smile pulled on Tavour’s lips, a pink tongue flicking out to swipe over perfectly white teeth. “When you watch the Trials in your home, what do you look for in a Victor?” 

“Strength,” Thomas answered. “Not physical strength necessarily, but more of an ability to survive anything. Tolerance.” 

“Certainly, but what about physical characteristics?” the other hummed. 

“I’m not following.” 

“It may be possible that in the districts you’re more focused on the ability of the tribute, and not so much the gain their victory may bring.” Tavour ran soft hands over Thomas’ back, smoothing out the fabric further. “All I mean is that you may benefit from…showing off, so to say.” 

“Showing off?” he asked. 

“Be pretty, be inviting, they’ll eat it up.” They took a step back. “I know I certainly would.” 

Thomas’ cheeks were burning now, an odd swoop in his gut. “Ah, I’ll uh…I’ll think it over.” 

The suit this time wasn’t intricately embroidered, but was instead tightly fit around Thomas’ form. With every movement he could feel the fabric pulling against his skin, and it made him feel slightly nauseous, but he endured nonetheless. Tavour put some final touches on, though this time instead of painting thin black lines over his waterline, it was gold.

When Tavour finished up, Thomas looked at himself in the mirror and felt as though he couldn’t truly see himself. No moles or blemishes or textured skin. Just smooth. Like plastic. 

He felt alien, in a way. He wondered if Tavour or Uuve or Sparkle or Torch felt alien too, he wondered if their humanness disappeared from inside them after enough time passed. They cut away flesh or pumped foreign substances into their skin to perfect themselves, how long until they were more artificial than animal? 

That would certainly explain their lack of empathy. 

“You’ve got incredible bone structure,” Tavour said absently, examining Thomas as they clicked the collar onto his throat. “Like a statue, carved from stone.” 

“Thanks,” Thomas mumbled, eyes darting to the ground. “You…I like the way you look too.” 

Their lip quirked. “I know.” 

Starlette arrived shortly after, screeching as she laid eyes on Thomas. After she circled him what must’ve been a dozen times she finally seemed to have seen enough and led him out from the room and down many hallways, ranting and raving the entire way. 

“Four just got a new stylist, you know,” she chirped. “And—well don’t tell anyone I said this—but she’s apparently been a nervous wreck this whole week. Who knows what she’s going to be sticking that poor child in.” 

Over the past week and a bit Thomas had learned that when Starlette spoke, she wasn’t speaking to have a conversation, she only wanted to hear herself talk. It was quite interesting how long she could go on endlessly without any external input at all. 

“And well, I mean of course I feel just awful for her, but then again really she’s the one who wanted the job, so who’s fault is it really?” Starlette paused for a moment, then squealed randomly. “I can’t believe this day has finally come. I mean, every year is tormenting, knowing this is coming up. How do I even get any work done?” 

Thomas wasn’t even looking at her, just watching in the corner of his vision, following her steps. An odd feeling sat in his chest, intensifying with every word she spoke. 

“I think they should hold the Trials bi-annually, really,” she went on, running hands over her latex dress. “Double the festivities, though I suppose that’d be far too expensive.” 

Thomas scoffed. An accident, really. 

She frowned, looking back at him as they walked. “Hm?” 

She was excited for the Trials, which was fair, he supposed. It wasn’t long ago that he himself had been anticipating this year's tributes, imagining the upcoming arena. But somehow it felt worse that Starlette was excited, especially considering neither she nor any of the Capitol people ever had the opportunity—no, the concern—of being chosen. 

She was excited for the way they’d dress and show off the lambs before slaughter, excited to watch it happen safely in her cozy home. He wanted to hit her, sort of. He wouldn’t ever do it, of course, but he imagined such a thing would feel fantastic, knocking sense into the senseless. 

“Nothing,” he mumbled. “Just nervous.” 

“Ah, you’ve absolutely nothing to worry about,” she assured. “You and your sister are certainly the most promising out of the rest. They’ve been interested in Teresa’s progress for years.” She crossed through a door, him close to her heel. “You too, I’m sure.” 

He swallowed a bitter taste. “Right.” 

Around twenty or so minutes later Thomas was left in a room with his sister inside the most massive building he had ever seen. He could hear a crowd in the short distance, the rumble of their chatter shaking the walls ever so slightly. It was admittedly unnerving, though his mind was now occupied with being able to talk to his sister. 

“Sorry I was gone yesterday,” he said softly. “I was…I made a friend.” 

“Oh right,” she replied, examining the red paint on her fingernails. “It’s alright though, nothing to worry about.” 

She was dressed in a black dress, red lines that looked like vines painted over the skin on her arms and chest. He wondered if she had tried to argue her way out of wearing the dress. He assumed she had, especially considering how tight it was, how much skin it revealed. 

Teresa didn’t like when fabric laid flat against her skin, Thomas knew because he’d heard more than enough of her fits when Jorge would try and convince her to wear something more formal for his dinner parties. So he imagined she was quite uncomfortable. 

“You look nice,” he commented. “Very Capitol-like.” 

“Well, that’s the dream, isn’t it?” 

He huffed a short laugh. “Oh yes.” 

The door squeaked open and in stepped Vince, clothes just formal enough to pass. He shut the door gently behind him and began pacing in front of it, not sparing as much as a greeting before he was talking strategy.

“You two understand this, yeah?” the older man asked, brow pressed. “The goal here is to gain a sort of favouritism. To make the others look like a bad bet, make them look like losing dogs. They already know you’re strong, capable, so you’ve got to make them like you.”

“Easy,” Teresa said sweetly. “Everyone likes me.” 

“You aren’t the only tribute crowds have shown interest in,” Vince said quickly, stopping to meet Teresa’s eye. There was a sort of hostility on his face that made Thomas feel slightly uncomfortable, but also brought him a slight amount of pride. The man began pacing again. “There’s potential in quite a few this year. You’ve got genuine competition.”

“We’ll win them over,” Thomas said. “Is there anything specific you want us to do?” 

“You refused the rivalry bit, so not anything life changing.” Vince stopped, sighed. “You’ve just got to be alluring, likeable. Act like the crown is already atop your head, and make them believe it too. Make them believe that you’re more important than the rest.”

Thomas wondered if their lives were more important to Vince, he supposed they would be, considering they shared a home district. Thomas wondered if the Capitol people thought his life would be more important than, say, Newt’s. All because of the differences in their districts. All because they couldn’t choose where they were born. He wondered if anyone put a bet on little Chuck. 

Had they seen him for the first time and made the immediate assumption he would perish in the bloodbath as Thomas had? If he lived past that point, would Sponsors even bother to try and help him? Or would they think of him—the filler—as nothing more than a waste of money. 

Questions he had already asked himself. Questions he already knew the answers to. Thomas felt nauseous. 

“Alright come on, you two,” Vince said, checking his watch. “When you’ve finished you’re to return to this room to watch the remainder of the interviews. Got that?”

“Got it,” he and Teresa said in unison. 

Vince looked up at them. “Don’t–don’t do that.” 

“What?” she asked. 

“Talk at the same time,” the older man replied. “It’s unsettling.” 

He hadn’t been truly nervous about the interviews, figuring it really wouldn’t be all that big of a deal. But as Thomas stood behind Rachel and Aris, the remainder of the tributes lined up behind him, his gut was clenched so hard it hurt. There was a screen up on the wall displaying the host, Toad, as he went on in his introduction. The camera had panned out, revealing a large crowd of people of all colours.

Not skin colours, colours. It was like a sea of rainbows. Oddly it terrified him, knowing that these were the very people who may just watch him die. Would they laugh? Cry? He supposed that’d be up to how his interview went. 

Aris was leaning on the wall, the back of his head rested against it as his fingers worked themselves. Thomas felt slightly relieved that he wasn’t the only one plagued by nerves. 

“I like your dress,” Rachel said to Teresa, reaching forward to smooth out a strap. “You look…scary. But in a good way.” 

His sister grinned. “I’m glad.” 

Thomas’ eyes rolled so hard he worried for a moment they may have remained that way. He didn’t have much of a mind to listen to their conversation as it went on, however, as Toad’s introduction was obviously coming to an end and it’d only be a few moments since the first name was called onto stage. 

He turned around on the spot, ignoring an odd look from the District Three boy—Ben—as he craned his neck to see if he could spot Newt at the end of the hall. He wondered how the blond would go about his interview, what strategy he had discussed with his Mentor. Thomas supposed it wouldn’t matter much, considering his score. 

Maybe Sponsors would take an interest in him because of it, despite his district’s lack of Victors. 

Finally, Rachel was called to the stage. She gave them a nervous smile before taking off, and the moment she disappeared behind the curtain and reappeared on the screen above their heads, the crowd went into an absolute uproar. She wore a poofy yellow dress that reached just down to her knees. Her hair was done up in intricate braids. She looked pretty. 

Toad was an odd looking man, though not any more than every other Glader. His long hair was lime green, matching his suit, and he was just as short and stout as his name implied. His eyebrows, eyelashes, and even the small patch of hair on his chin were painted the same shocking green. Why someone would choose such a thing for themselves, Thomas would never know. 

Toad put Rachel through the usual introductions, where Thomas learned that she came from a massive family with three siblings. Her father was a Victor, two of her siblings had died in the Trials, and Rachel had been attempting to volunteer every year since she turned fourteen. At home she had a cluster of friends, and she cried while reciting a few of their names. 

“I must ask, what’s been your favourite part of the Capitol?” Toad questioned once she calmed down. 

Rachel grinned wide. “Why, the people of course!” she giggled at the awe that went through the crowd. “I’ve never seen so many beautiful colours and outfits, it’s enchanting!” 

Thomas scoffed at that, his sister jamming an elbow into his side as she herself snorted. Out of everything the Capitol offered, the style was the very last thing he’d point out as a favourite. 

Her interview went on, and as it did Thomas began to understand Vince and Tavour's words more and more. Allure them. Be inviting. Make them like you. That was exactly what Rachel was doing, and doing surprisingly well. With her every answer the crowd was cooing disgustingly, especially after a few sly jokes and winks and cheeky grins. Thomas felt utterly repulsed. 

It came to an end, and Aris followed after. His interview was somehow worse than Rachel’s own, as he practically spent the entire time gushing about his gratitude to the Capitol, to the people for the very opportunity of being forced to fight to the death against twenty-three other kids. It was genuinely depressing, though Thomas found that in his shock his nerves had steadily faded. 

They reared back to life as his sister’s name was called, however, and he gave her shoulder a squeeze as she moved forwards and disappeared behind the massive curtain. The reaction the crowd gave at Aris and Rachel’s entrances was nothing to the utter screams that rose as Teresa walked onto the stage. 

It was deafening to the point where Thomas had winced, feeling the vibration of the noise beneath the soles of his shoes. Two entire minutes seemed to pass before Toad was able to quiet the crowd, and both he and Teresa sat across from one another on the pink cushy chairs. 

His sister looked entirely unbothered by everything, not sparing a single glance towards the crowd, face entirely blank of emotion. Her posture was stiff as a board, but not out of nervousness. It was an incredibly unnerving sight. Rachel had been right, she looked scary. 

“It is fantastic to finally meet you,” Toad said earnestly. “I’ve heard so much about you, I feel like this interview is pointless.” 

The crowd laughed, but Teresa didn’t. 

The green man let them calm, then went on. “To start, tell me about your life in District Two, your family. I must know who’s responsible for raising such a promising tribute!” 

Teresa sniffed, straightened up impossibly further. “There isn’t much to tell, really. My brother and I live for the Trials.” 

“Ah, your brother.” Toad looked out to the crowd, something akin to a pout over his expression. “How do you feel about him—Thomas—being here with you?” 

Thomas’ stomach swooped as he caught the slight twitch of his sister’s features. “While my brother is promising, I won’t let anything get in the way of bringing pride to my district. Being a Victor has been my goal since I first learned of the Trials, and I intend to meet it.” 

The conversation went on, but Thomas couldn’t hear a single thing outside of the blood rushing in his ears. Teresa was playing into the rival act, and she had been a fantastic liar their entire lives, and those words didn’t truly mean anything. She would never be so blunt, so indifferent, not when it came to him. 

And she kept pushing into it with short comments and the occasional well placed side-long look into nothing. She was acting as if she and Thomas really were on the outs, as Dan had said.

It was an act, and Thomas knew that. It would be good for Sponsors and favour. Teresa was being smart, getting them help—no matter how unnecessary—for the arena. She was playing Victor. That’s all it was. Sure, the reality that one of them will die had begun looming over him, but Thomas didn’t doubt the love that was shared between them, the relationship. 

Brother and sister came before everything, it always had with them. 

Thomas didn’t let his panic further, and instead let himself disappear into his mind. He sat back in a mental image of Teresa’s bedroom back in Two, where his little makeshift bed sat on her floor and they passed conversation back and forth in the dark. They laughed and they teased, and they were happy. Safe. 

Her interview came to an end, ripping him out of his mind, and he stood up straighter, steeling his expression as she came back to him. Though she didn’t send so much as a glance his way, instead brushing straight by back to the room Vince had instructed them to return to. 

Thomas’ panic returned, then worsened. 

He didn’t have a second to calm himself by the time his name had been announced and his feet began carrying him through the curtains and out onto the other side, onto the stage, where lights entirely blinded him and cheers broke through the ring that had begun in his ears. He kept on moving, forcing his eyes to adjust. 

He shook Toad’s hand firmly, giving the green man a small smile before he allowed himself to settle down on the plush seat, folding his hands and resting them on his lap. 

Toad hushed the crowd, then leaned forwards. “Welcome to the Capitol.” 

Thomas copied the other’s stance, taking to his same loud whisper. “Thank you.”

A laugh went over the audience. 

“So,” Toad started, leaning back again. “You have quite the story to tell us, young man.”

Thomas frowned a bit. “Do I now?” 

“Indeed.” The man slapped his hands down onto his knees. “Now—correct me if I’m wrong—word has it that when you saw your sister volunteer, you yourself made the decision to go alongside her?”

“That’s correct,” he answered. 

“May I ask why?” 

Thomas looked out over the crowd, eyes catching on a few particularly brightly dressed individuals. He could create a sort of sob story about wanting to protect his sister, something heroic that would have the people swooning at his feet. However, they had met Teresa just minutes prior, and it was obvious to anyone who laid eyes on her that she wasn’t in need of any help. 

He could go the same way Aris did, pretend he was just desperate for the chance to volunteer. He could thank the people for the opportunity, thank the president. He could get on his hands and knees and kiss Toad’s shiny green shoes for allowing him such an honour. 

“I wanted to see who would win,” he said clearly, carelessly.

Jorge had always told him honesty was the best policy.

Toad’s green brows pinched. “You…sorry, what now?”

“I wanted to see who would win,” he repeated. “Maybe knock her down a peg.” 

The auditorium was in a hush for all of ten seconds before an absolute uproar of laughter began, echoing off the walls and filling the entire place with an odd buzz. Thomas allowed a smile to spread over his face, even sparing a few airy chuckles as the host himself wheezed in front of him. 

“You’re being serious?” the man asked through a snort. 

Thomas nodded. “You know it.” 

As bellowing laughter subsided, the green man wiped tears from his eyes. “Well, I’ll say I have never seen a tribute who volunteered for such a reason, you’re truly one of a kind.” 

“I try.” 

Toad grinned. “Well, tell us your secrets! How have you been preparing for the Trials?” 

“As my sister said, we live for the Trials,” Thomas said easily. “We were born ready, really. The only preparation I need is updating my palette with all the new kinds of food you have here.” 

A wave of laughter. Toad grinned wider, somehow. “Has that been your favourite part of the Capitol? Our food?” 

“Ah no, not quite,” he answered, crossing one of his legs over the other. “I think the thing I’ve found the most intriguing is the people.” 

It was a lie. Thomas liked the showers more than he did anything else. 

Toad cocked his head. “Ah, how so?” 

“Of course the Capitol people are one thing,” he paused, looking around the crowd with something close to a smile on his face. The way they were sitting forwards in their seats, grins on their faces, it disgusted him. “But really I’ve found meeting the other tributes to be especially exciting.” 

Toad’s expression faltered for a moment so brief Thomas could’ve sworn he was imagining it.

“Yeah,” he went on anyway. “So many different people with all kinds of stories, all kinds of backgrounds. I’ve been learning a lot.” 

“Well, that’s nice–” 

“Absolutely. I mean, take Chuck for example,” Thomas cut in, still smiling. “He’s twelve years old, lived a completely different life, and yet I still see myself in him.” 

Toad looked around a bit, then huffed a short laugh. “Well, I imagine he’s living the dream you yourself had when you were his age.” 

“Oh, of course.” He sat forwards. “Twelve years old. Who wouldn’t want to participate in such an honourable event, and to be chosen at such a young age?” 

“Right, well–” 

“Do you have kids?” 

The green man was still smiling, but it didn’t touch his eyes. “I believe I’m meant to be interviewing you. People have much more of an interest in your life than they do mine.” 

“Do they?” he asked somewhat quietly.

Toad stared at him for a few moments, and it was then that Thomas noticed how there hadn’t been any applause or loud, over exaggerated cheers. It wasn’t silent, though nothing more than a blanket of murmurs lay over the auditorium. Thomas sat back again, their discomfort bringing him a sick sort of joy. 

“So, Thomas,” Toad asked through a somewhat nervous chuckle. “Tell us about your strategy for the Trials, about how you plan to win.” 

He allowed the diversion, shrugging slightly and allowing his preparations with Vince to be of some use. “I plan to kill everyone in the first few days. Take out at least ten in the bloodbath.” He threw a hand back to the screen behind them displaying a montage of the tributes. At that moment a picture of Dan and Aris duelling was on the screen. “With help, of course. Then I’m sure the rest will die out on their own, and if they don’t, well…” 

“And your own allies?” Toad asked. 

Thomas smirked. “May the odds be ever in their favour.” 

The crowd erupted in meaningless cheers once again, and with every strike of palm against palm Thomas felt the hot hatred in his heart feed on the accelerant of adrenaline running through his veins. He knew they would laugh drunkenly when Chuck was shot down. He knew they would make jokes when tributes cried themselves to sleep. 

And he knew that because he had seen it himself, experienced it himself. He had been a part of that evil, the kind that brown nosed those above them and spat on others below. He still was, in some ways. But it wasn’t long until his life would end one way or another, and he refused to go out without keeping to Bee’s word, if even slightly. 

Thomas would make them see, somehow. 

The crowd calmed as Toad raised a palm, and hushed when a sort of saddened dip took to those bright green brows. Thomas felt himself tense a bit in anticipation. “And your sister…?” 

The man let the question ask itself, really. And by the way the audience fell into a colourful sea of soulless somber, Thomas knew what he really wanted to say. 

Are you willing to kill your own sister?

Thomas knew what the answer was, as it’d been running through his mind in a loop for two days now. It haunted him in every way, while unconscious and otherwise. It was what drew bile up his throat and made every moment feel tainted, in a way.

“Ever since Teresa said she was going to volunteer, everyone in our lives has been so sure she would come out a Victor,” Thomas said evenly. “And when I said it, they reacted like I was a child with an impossible dream.” He ran a hand over his mouth, feeling the stick of the odd makeup covering his moles. “And to everyone here who is so certain she can't be beat, I only have one thing to say.” 

Toad raised his eyebrows. “And what is that?” 

He smiled. 

“You’re wrong.” 

He was excused after empty praise, and he listened to the excited screams dull ever so slightly as he stepped back behind the curtain. He made a point to ignore the tributes giving him odd looks, Dan and Mara especially, and made a straight shot for his and Teresa’s dressing room. Just as he passed the end of the line, however, an arm shot out and caught him by the wrist. 

He let it pull him back, finding himself faced with a pale Newt. 

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” the blond asked, eyes darting between his own. 

Thomas shook away the grip, leaning in a bit. “I’m already dead.” 

He didn’t wait around for a reaction, and instead bolted back to the room, finding his sister inside. Her legs were folded under her, an odd Capitol magazine in her hands. She flipped through it leisurely, not acknowledging his entrance as he stepped inside. 

“Teresa, I…” He wanted to explain that he hadn’t meant it, that he was just playing into the rival strategy just as she had, but his tongue got caught by guilt. “I’m sorry.” 

She looked up. “For what?” 

Thomas frowned, looking up at the screen on the wall. His sister was laid out over the couch in front of it, and Thomas was quick to notice that the volume had been almost silent. She hadn’t been watching his interview. Hadn’t heard his words, hadn’t cared to hear them. 

“Ah, nevermind,” he mumbled, unsure if he was meant to be relieved or angry. He walked over the couch and plopped down with a thud, grabbing the remote and turning the volume up a bit higher than it truly needed to be. Teresa scoffed slightly, but said nothing more. 

The District Three girl was talking, but Thomas wasn’t truly listening to her words or anything she had to say. His mind was a flurry of fiery emotions, ones that stormed throughout him to the point he wasn’t sure what he was even mad at—or, more accurately—what he wasn’t mad at. 

Teresa had been pushing him away like she did after a particularly nasty argument between them, distancing herself from him like he was ill and she was afraid to catch it. Back home it only lasted a day or two, but her behaviour seemed to switch up often in their time here, and she hadn’t been bouncing back as much as she drew away. 

The dark part of Thomas’ mind was whispering to him, and up until now he had been ignoring it, like he always had. But in that moment, sitting with his sister beside him—practically ignoring him—he allowed them to roam free. 

She’s planning something, it told him. She knows something you don’t.  

Why else would she be pushing him away, locking him out? It didn’t make sense, to distance them when there was such a short time left before they were dropped into the arena together. 

He ran a hand over his face, finding himself sweaty and growing more agitated by the minute. His heartbeat was pulsing through him not just in his chest, but all throughout his body. He could feel it thrumming in his bones and in the intricate web of his veins. It was violent, painful, almost. 

She’s going to kill you the moment the opportunity presents itself, you know she is. She hates you. She has always hated you. She’s said as much. She wanted you to volunteer with her so she could be rid of you.  

His hands clenched together, hard. The blunt of his nails pressing hard into his slick palms, the slam of his heart travelling through his fingertips into his palm more aggressively the further he squeezed. The corners of his vision were beginning to blur, slowly, the fog overtaking more and more and more. 

You heard her, she isn’t going to let anything get in her way, not even you. His breathing had grown so rapid he was beginning to feel lightheaded. She doesn’t care about you, doesn’t love you, doesn’t want you around. He tried focusing on the screen, tried pulling himself out, but it was pointless. She’s going to kill you, and you’re going to let her.

“Tom, hey,” her voice sounded, muffled by the blood rush in his ears. “Hey, breathe, breathe.”

It was happening tomorrow. Tomorrow they would be brought to the arena and the trials would begin. Whether they remained in there for days or months, eventually one would go home and the other would be gone from the world. Thomas didn’t want to lose his sister. Not in death, his or hers.

Hands found his face, cradling it softly. Teresa came into view, brows pressed. “Can you hear me?”

He nodded. 

“What’s your favourite colour?” 

He sucked in a short breath. “Blue.” 

“Favourite food?” 

“Goat cheese.” 

“Favourite person?”

He snorted. “You, maybe.” 

She pulled back, affronted. “Maybe? Tom! How dare you, I’ve always been your favourite.” 

His heartbeat was still frantic, but his vision was sharper, breathing a little more even. “Am I your favourite person?” 

“Mm, ‘course you are,” she hummed, sitting back down properly beside him, pressing their shoulders together. “My favourite brother, at least.” 

“I’m your only brother.” 

“Precisely. Now c’mon, watch the show.” 

He’d missed most of the interviews—Dan and Mara’s, more importantly—but the Eight girl was sitting on the plush pink couch now. She was wearing a dress that looked as though it was knitted with yarn spun from pure gold. Strings of the same material were woven around both of her arms, though outside of that she looked otherwise untouched. Pin straight black hair and almond eyes. 

Vince hadn’t spoken of any kind of strategy that fit the category of how the girl was acting, but from what Thomas was picking up she seemed to be…sweet. Overly so. All soft and quiet, gentle smiles and laughs. She didn’t belong here. 

The interviews went on and on, strategies varying, personalities likewise. It was so odd, hearing the tributes Thomas hadn’t met. It was so odd seeing them go through the interview process he had with the knowledge that it wouldn’t be long before they were meant to be at one another's throats. 

They were people, just like him. And though he had known that already, he hadn’t truly known it. It was repulsive and terrible, but just as Vince said, Thomas couldn’t help but view them as filler. Bodies to fill the empty slots, people meant to pace the Trials, add more…depth. But really they were never there to win, never even to compete. They could only hope to die a quick death. 

The Eight girl—Isabelle, he thought—was a person with a family. Three sisters and a mother. She wasn’t filler, she was human, and her death would bring true torment to her loved ones. Their families, all of their families would suffer a loss. Even Jorge and the remaining sibling, if they truly counted as a family. 

Thomas didn’t have any clue how he had ever viewed any of it as normal, as usual, as anything other than vile or wrong. 

And that sentiment only grew as he watched Chuck slowly creep onto stage, dressed in a suit that bore the patches of a dairy cow. They were trying to make him look as the child that he was, Thomas could tell. He wished he could meet the stylist responsible.

“How are you feeling about the Trials, Chuck?” Toad asked sweetly after they got the introductory portion out of the way. “Nervous? Excited?” 

Chuck wiped his hands on his dress pants, shrugging a bit as he struggled to meet the green man’s intense gaze. “I’m nervous, definitely.” He looked briefly into the crowd, panic clear in his eyes. “But I guess I’m excited too, sort of.” 

“Can you tell us about any of your special skills? Or are they a surprise?” Toad questioned through a smile. 

Chuck giggled. “Not a surprise, not really. I can–uhm–I can run.” 

“Run?” Toad cocked his head inquisitively. 

“Really fast,” the little boy went on. “Faster than anyone else at my school.” 

“My, my,” the man hummed, then reached over and placed a hand on Chuck’s cow print shoulder. “How about, if you return a Victor, you and I can have a race?” 

Chuck laughed again as the crowd did, though the group’s chuckles sounded far more melancholic than his, and nodded. “I’d like that.”

Thomas felt sick to the point of stomach cramps, the illness worsening as the crowd laughed and cheered for Chuck as he left the stage. They hadn’t said anything. No one had said a single thing about that boy—that twelve-year-old boy—going into the Trials. They just sat back and watched as his innocent eyes peered around with terror flickering around in them. 

“It’s sick, isn’t it?” he asked his sister quietly. “I mean, look at him.” 

“It’s not any sicker than the lives the rebellion took, Tom. You know that.” She ran a hand over his arm. “I’ll admit, it’s…it’s sad, just a bit. But kids his age and younger were killed in the war. More than the Trials have ever killed.” 

Thomas shut his eyes. “Hasn’t enough blood spilt?” 

“Not in retribution, no,” she answered. “But one day it will be.” 

He didn’t agree, nor did he disagree, out loud, at least. But the sickness still stirred in Thomas as the interviews kept going on. There was a girl from Eleven who was only a few years older than Chuck himself who came out next. She held her chin high and her puffy dress bounced as she skipped up to the couch. 

She didn’t stutter a single word, didn’t show any signs of nervousness, and spoke with a sort of confidence that the crowd seemed to adore. It was horrible, Thomas thought so, the way they found a child days away from death endearing as she spoke of returning to her family. Endearing, even as everyone in that entire place knew it wouldn’t be the case. 

Her dark hair was in two thick braids that barely reached her shoulders, deep blue ribbons laced throughout them to match her dress. She bore a birthmark on her right cheek, and it was shaped like a heart. Her name was Cora, but Thomas wished he had tuned it out, as self preserving as it was. 

When Newt strolled onto the stage a while later, a sort of relief crawled throughout Thomas’ bones as the interviews were finally coming to an end. He was exhausted, sitting beside Teresa, her frame leaning against his own. If he shut his eyes for more than a few seconds he was sure he’d slip away into sleep, but he wanted to see what the Almighty Newt—with a score of eleven—had to say. 

“Your district, while a beautiful place, hasn’t been home to many Victors in the past,” Toad said a few minutes in. “Do you plan to change that this year?” 

Newt was dressed in an intricate white suit, the buttons of which were clear and shiny, like diamonds. His district partner—Perdita, Thomas learned—had been wearing a gown that looked like millions of small diamonds had been tied together to make a sheet of material. She had been a decently pretty girl, but Thomas thought that if anyone could pull the tactic that Rachel had between the two from Twelve, it’d be the blond. 

“Possibly,” Newt hummed, straightening out his pants. “Possibly not.” 

“Oh, trying to keep us on our toes, are you?” Toad shot a grin out to the audience, quickly returning to Newt. “You already have, really. Especially with that shocking score.” The crowd cheered for a moment. “Be a friend, will you? Tell us what you’ve got up your sleeve.” 

“Ah, I believe you’ll see my hand soon enough,” Newt said slyly, nudging Toad’s foot with his own. “Impatience isn’t a good look on you, surely you’re aware.” 

Toad gave a hearty laugh, as did the crowd, and Newt smiled along like a total asshole. He had them wrapped around his finger with sarcastic remarks, which he had done the entire interview. Avoiding the personal questions with little teases and stupid quips. The only thing Thomas knew about him was that he was morally egotistical. 

He wanted to know more. 

“Your secrets will be revealed soon enough, lucky us.” Toad sat up straighter. “Though I can’t imagine you’ll be anything other than impressive.” 

“If they hadn’t put so much makeup on my face, you’d be able to see my blush,” Newt retorted. 

Thomas rolled his eyes. 

An hour and a half later Thomas stood in the shower of his chambers, scrubbing away the grime that had collected as well as whatever it was his Tavour and his team had smeared all over his skin. He let the water fill his mouth, rinsing his tongue and teeth of the bountiful dinner he and Teresa had stuffed down their throats.

Brenda hadn’t made a return, nor had that odd scarred man who seemed to be the only other person aware of her existence. Any other Avox Thomas attempted to speak to scurried away like mice, and he was left with only his thoughts to accompany him. He wondered if she was safe, possibly just working in a separate building. 

He had been trying to avoid any thoughts about what else could be the case, what else she could be going through. 

Luckily Teresa hadn’t been so distant on the way back to the Tribute Centre, and had even made a light and giggly conversation with him the entire time. She had gone off to her own chambers to shower, and Thomas figured she was in a mood to allow him to sleep on the floor. 

He was beyond grateful, seeing as how he’d need to be well rested for the Trials tomorrow. Thomas may have a chance at dying, but he would never be able to find peace in death knowing he died in the bloodbath due to a crappy sleep the previous night. 

So he got out of the shower and towelled off, dressing in soft pajamas and hastily making his way to his sister’s room. As he approached and the door remained shut, he felt his insides clench uncomfortably. He didn’t let himself freak out, and inside lightly knocked. 

Teresa appeared quickly, unlocking the door and allowing it to slide open. 

“Hey,” he said nervously. “Mind if I…?” 

She smiled softly and moved forwards, wrapping her arms around his neck and hugging him close. He sighed into it, melting. As she pulled away, the first thing he found was the way her eyes were glossed over. 

“Not tonight, Tom. Please.” She stepped back, grabbing the mostly useless handle on the door. “See you tomorrow.” 

She shut the door gently, the click of the lock echoing down the hall.

“See you,” he whispered to no one. 

He spent the next few hours in his bed, tossing and turning as his mind plagued him with every tormenting thought it was capable of producing. He thought of the Shade he had met in his private training, and of the same creature being set on Brenda, of the pain she would feel. Would it disappear as the creature did as it had for Thomas? Or would it remain?

It didn’t matter what pain she was feeling, what mattered was that she could be in any pain and it had been all Thomas’ fault. Had he left her alone, had he followed obvious rules and just ignored her like everyone else did then she wouldn’t be in any trouble, wouldn’t be in danger on his behalf. 

How could he have been so stupid? So reckless? 

Not just about Brenda, but over his entire life. Thomas hadn’t put thought into anything, hadn’t truly realized the depth of the world he was born into. Darnell told him, again and again, and yet it took being days away from death for him to believe any of it. 

He missed his bed at home. He missed Jorge and the breakfast they usually shared together. He missed getting ready with Darnell on his side, the feeling of intimacy that came with knowing someone in the way he and Darnell knew one another. No secrets, no shame. Just friendship. Just a knowing of one another that went beyond knowledge. 

Thomas knew that Darnell didn’t like to talk about his home life, and didn't like to discuss the things that went on in his days outside of Thomas. But he still knew it was hurting him, even if he hadn’t spent much time thinking of it. And Darnell…well he seemed to know everything about Thomas, more than Thomas knew of himself. 

He couldn’t believe he had given up his life over jealousy. Over the simple idea that the world thought his sister was more capable. And she was—even he knew that—it wasn’t uncommon knowledge or even a surprise. Teresa was built for this world, and Thomas wasn’t, not in the same way, at least. It was just how things were, how they had always been. 

So what if Jorge favoured her? So what if she had groups of friends and Thomas didn’t? So what if people just liked her upon meeting her? So what if she had all the potential he couldn’t reach no matter how tall he grew? 

He could’ve been something else, something different that he was good at, and she wasn’t. But instead he let his emotions control him and now he was going to die. 

And he was. Going to die, that is. Thomas wasn’t going to be coming out of that arena, and not due to a lack of skill or a specific weakness. No, Thomas was going to die because that’s what he wanted. He was going to spend his time working at Teresa’s side, protecting as best he could, killing as needed, and then he was going to meet his sister’s gaze and allow her to pierce his heart.

It wasn’t a decision made in one moment, it was a decision made over many minuscule moments. It wasn’t because he wanted to die. It was because a world without Teresa wasn’t a world Thomas was interested in living in. Without Teresa, there wasn’t a Thomas. 

Maybe he would die in the bloodbath, in all his humiliation. But nonetheless, Teresa would win. If that wasn’t the case, though, he would do whatever he could to keep her alive, to ensure her win, and if the time came he would allow her to take his life. 

It wouldn’t be a fight, because Thomas never wanted to fight her. 

If that was what he wanted to do, however, Thomas needed to fall asleep. He figured a quick walk might help in silencing his mind, so on he went. Through the hallway and into the dining room, then into the living room and out the doors, into the elevator, down down down. 

Everything was silent, no guards or Avoxes wandering about. It was kind of… terrifying. In his district night brought on something sort of beautiful, as there were trees along the trails and a dirt path for him to follow. Birds awake in the dark would whistle as he passed, and bugs would be heard in all their clicking and humming. 

But here there was only the hum of electricity and occasional clank of distant machinery. His footsteps echoed along shiny walls and floors. There was no world here, only roads and walls and buildings made from concrete and plastic and glass. It was like that in Two, sometimes, but at least he could look out the window and see something green. 

He walked aimlessly for a long time, rode the elevator up and down, genuinely confused as to why no one had stopped him, why no one was around to stop him. Eventually, however, he found himself on the rooftop once more. As he passed through the door he found a scuffle on the ground, where the soles of Brenda's shoes had dragged in her struggle.

He walked to their area and sat down on one of the couches, taking in the only piece of the world he could view from here. The stars. They stared back at him, and he wondered what they saw. He wondered who he was, outside of his own perspective. 

Monstrous? Pitiful? Weak?

Thomas wondered who he was within his own perspective, and despite the obvious, he found that he really didn’t know. At one point he would’ve called himself strong, capable. But sitting here under the sea of specks of light, he didn’t know what he was, who he was. 

His name was Thomas, and really that was all he was sure of. 

His actions, if dissected, could point to a lot of things. But Thomas was tired, and he didn’t want to spend his night awake, trying to find an answer he didn’t even know existed. So he rose from the couch, bid the stars goodnight, and began making his way back to his room. 

When he arrived at the elevator, he didn’t press the button. No, his gaze caught on what was the entrance to the District Twelve floor, the proper one. His feet started to move, and when they came to a stop he found himself standing half a dozen feet in front of a door that would’ve led to his own room had he been ten floors below. 

But he wasn’t. And Newt was on the other side of the door. And he was probably fast asleep, and even if he wasn’t, Thomas had no idea what he was planning on doing. 

He took a step forward, testing. Nothing happened. 

Another. Nothing.

One more. 

The door slid open. 

“Er…hello?” an accented voice called a moment later.

Thomas stepped into the room, then into view. Newt was sitting half under the covers of his bed, a book in hand. He looked tired, hair ruffled and slightly damp in spots from a shower that must’ve been hours ago, wetness maintained by hair pressing into the pillow supporting his neck. Thomas didn’t really know what to say, how to explain, what to do. 

“Hello,” is what he came up with. 

“I would ask what you could possibly be doing here, but at this point I don’t believe I want to know.” Newt closed his book, setting it on his lap. 

Thomas shifted in place, feeling stupid. “I couldn’t sleep.” 

“You don’t say.” Newt cocked an eyebrow. “What am I meant to do with that?”

“I don’t really know,” he responded, looking down at his feet. “Was just wondering if I could…” 

He heard a small shift, then a scoff. “If you could…?”

“Sleep here,” he said, pretty much inaudibly.

“Here? Here, as in here in my room, in my bed?” the other questioned, still quietly. “Why on earth would you want to sleep here?” 

Newt wasn’t his friend, not like Brenda was. And they certainly didn’t have the kind of relationship Thomas and Teresa had, but they were something, weren’t they? Newt had been there too, watched as Brenda was roughly dragged away, and he had heard Thomas out, at the very least. 

Acquaintances. That’s what they were. 

Newt knew the things Thomas had been thinking about. He was the only person who knew. And what was one more secret? Clearly the blond didn’t care all that much. 

Thomas swallowed. “I could uhm…I could put blankets down on the floor.” 

“I’d rather like to keep my blankets, thanks.” 

“No, I…” He moved towards the wardrobe—the same as the one in his bedroom, and Teresa’s—and pulled open the very bottom drawer, pulling out two thick plush blankets. He looked up at Newt, holding them up. “I’ll be quiet.” 

The blond made an odd face, lips pressed for a moment. “Er…”

Thomas shoved the blankets away again. “No that’s…that’s fine, uh–” He gestured to the bed. “Can I hangout for a bit instead?” 

Newt frowned. “Why?” 

“My…” He paused, feeling absolutely ridiculous. But Newt was his only option. And Thomas needed to fall asleep. “My sister wouldn’t uh…she wanted to be left alone.” 

Newt cocked an eyebrow. “So?” 

“So I…” He ran a hand over his face. “I can’t…” This was awful. 

When he looked up Newt had a hesitant expression laced over tired features, though when their eyes met the blond shrugged and gestured for Thomas to sit. He obeyed in an instant, immediately pulling the covers back and settling under them. Newt gave him yet another odd look. 

“I meant you could–” He stopped, rolled his eyes. “Ah, whatever.” 

“What are you reading?” he asked. 

Newt shrugged. “Some Capitol book. Romance, if you can believe it.” 

“Any good?” 

“To them, maybe. To me? Not so much.” The other scooted down a little, turning the cover so Thomas could see it. It was a photo of a purple man and a ghost-white woman in a cemetery, holding each other in what looked like an incredibly uncomfortable position. “Guess which one is a ghost.” 

Thomas smiled. “The ghost-looking one?” 

“You’d think so, but no.” Newt turned, pushing the book onto his nightstand. When he returned, he copied Thomas’ position and laid on his side, facing him. “Why are you here, Thomas?” 

“It’s embarrassing,” he warned. “You’ll think I’m pathetic.” 

“No, no. Don’t worry.” He laid a hand out on the generous amount of space between them, seemingly comfortingly. “I already think you’re pathetic.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes and turned to face the ceiling. “You’re cruel.” 

“Absolutely,” the other agreed. “Now, answer the question.” 

Thomas brought a hand up to his mouth, biting at the skin on his knuckle for a moment. “I don’t really like to be alone.” 

“I don’t believe anyone does,” Newt replied. “That’s not really an answer.” 

Thomas chuckled. “I especially don’t like to be alone. And I can’t really…fall asleep. If I’m alone, you know.” 

“You were right,” the blond hummed. “I definitely think you’re pathetic.” 

“I thought you already thought so.”

“Ah, but it’s worsened now, hasn’t it?” 

The exhaustion was washing over him in gentle waves, pulling him away. He rolled back onto his side, pulling the covers up a bit further. “Brenda’s gone.” 

Newt’s amused expression fell. “She’ll be okay.” 

“I hope so.” 

He could’ve argued, but it was pointless. Instead, he let his eyes flutter shut, allowing the distant warmth that emitted from the body beside him to comfort him further. He could hear Newt’s breathing, every inhale filling his lungs and every exhale emptying them. A constant pattern, in, out, gentle, soft, and alive. 

The last thing he heard was a click of a switch, the orange-y red of light against his eyelids turning to black, then the shift of blankets as Newt got comfortable. 

Chapter Text

When Thomas woke the following morning, it felt almost as if the past week had been little more than a dream. He was warm. Or, his lower half was warm. As he blinked open his sleep-crusted eyes, Thomas soon realized that he was on his stomach, half his torso hanging off the bed, the blanket pooled at his waist as he stared down at the floor. He didn’t have it in him to move, however, so there he remained. 

He heard a shift behind him, and it wasn’t long before he remembered that he had fallen asleep in Newt’s bed. Shutting his eyes, Thomas heaved himself back onto the bed fully, smacking his head down onto his pillow and hoping for another few minutes of blissful sleep. 

It hit Thomas in a train of practically incoherent thoughts. First, he was in Newt’s bed because he couldn’t fall asleep without someone else beside him. Second, he had needed to fall asleep so he was well rested and prepared. Third, he had needed to be well rested and prepared because today was the day that he was being sent into the arena. 

And if that hadn’t woken him up fully, then the barrage of hits against his back certainly did. As did the screeching. 

“GET! GET!” a woman shouted suddenly, smacking Thomas anywhere she could with a fluffy pink slipper. He tried escaping, unintentionally bumping into Newt who woke up with a groan and quickly took to trying to calm the woman who was losing her mind. 

“Misty! Misty! It’s fine,” Newt insisted, only one eye open. “Quit it!” 

“Do you know the rules you two have broken!?” She resumed swatting at Thomas. “This is beyond inappropriate! Get! Get!” 

“I’ll leave if you–” Thomas was promptly cut off with a slipper across the face. “If you stop attacking me!” 

Newt climbed over Thomas and swiped the slipper from the woman’s hands, tossing it towards the door before settling back. “There, Thomas. Go on.” 

“Yes! Go!” the woman—Misty—said loudly. 

“Alright, alright,” he huffed, slipping out of the bed and leaving a wide berth between he and the woman as he moved towards the door. He turned back to Newt one last time. “Sorry about–” 

“Go away!” Misty cried. 

“I’m going!” he shouted back, then quickly started through the door, though not before almost tripping over the slipper.

The moment he stepped into the hall he was stopped by Perdita, who looked slightly terrified and slightly annoyed. He stared at her awkwardly for a few moments then all but ran out from the place and bolted into the elevator. The moment the doors closed behind him he pushed his face into his hands, laughing at the situation he had just woken up into. 

His amusement subsided, however, as the moment the doors opened he found their floor swamped with stylists and people Thomas didn’t recognize. When he made his way to the living room, Starlette found him in an instant, smacking his arm with much less force than Misty and her slipper. 

“Where have you been?” she hissed. “I thought you had run away or something!” Before he could answer she was pushing him towards his chambers. “Have a shower, and do it well. It’ll be your last for some time.”

With that he made his way towards the bathroom and did as he was told, feeling all the more rushed by the loud chatter sounding all throughout their floor. He scrubbed his skin until it glowed a slight pink, taking a little under a minute to appreciate the warmth of it all before stepping out, drying off, and throwing on loungewear. 

He and Teresa entered the main room at the same time, both damp from their showers. She hadn’t slept well, from what he could see. The area around her eyes was puffy, and her nose was red at the tip. He wondered if she regretted sending him away, seeing as how Thomas himself was full of energy, well-rested and ready.

Not completely ready, really. But sleep-wise he felt good, energized. It could’ve been the rest, or possibly the adrenaline of being attacked upon waking up had yet to subside. Nonetheless, he wasn’t nearly as dreary as she looked. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” Vince said quickly, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. “You two will be brought out back and picked up in Bergs to the arena, then you’ll be separated into rooms and dressed, and…well that’s it.” He clapped his hands together. “Best say your goodbyes now, hm?” 

He turned to Teresa and scooped her up into a hug. She hesitated for a moment, but squeezed him back, burying her face into his shoulder. “See you soon.” 

He nodded into the contact. “‘Course.” 

There was a rush of being shoved into an elevator along with a dozen other people, then waiting in the foyer for everyone else to arrive, then walking as one huge group out into the back of the building where a massive space of concrete awaited them. Three Bergs were parked out before them, and Thomas and Teresa were ordered into separate ones. 

Vince said nothing to them, and Starlette offered a small wave before they disappeared. For some reason Thomas expected more, not from the teal woman, but from Vince at the very least. In fact, the man hadn’t said much to him since before the interviews. Maybe Vince wasn’t who he thought he was. Maybe he was upset about Thomas’ behaviour. 

Didn’t really matter now, did it?

The last glimpse of his sister he got was the swish of her hair as she disappeared into the separate aircraft. Thomas walked into his own, plopping down in a seat with his number on it. Slowly everyone else crowded inside, buckling into place one by one. 

Thomas hadn’t checked the time, but he knew it was more than early. Orange and pink still stained the sky as the Berg’s hatch rose shut, concealing them inside. Dan was across from Thomas, rolling his neck in circles to crack it. Chuck was far to his right, little hands working themselves as he stared at the pilots nearby. 

He forced his gaze away from the little boy—no, from the other tribute—as Thomas couldn’t afford to be watching Chuck’s every move, wondering about how much longer it would be before the younger boy died. He didn’t have time to be thinking about anyone but his sister. 

“Stick with Teresa, watch her back.”  

And Thomas would do just that, but not solely because that was what Jorge had asked of him, but because it was what he had to do. Of course, he was still going to do right by Brenda, he was still going to find a way to make the world see, but Teresa came first. 

Eventually the Berg took off, and Thomas’ stomach jumped at the odd feeling of flying. He shut his eyes, feeling as though it was all happening far too fast. It felt like minutes ago he had been safe in the warmth of a bed, and now he was probably an hour away from the arena, from the Trials, from the beginning of his end. 

When he opened his eyes again it was to the voice of a woman. She was standing before him, a weird gun-looking object in her hand. “Arm,” she said with an irritated tone, probably repeating herself.

“Hm?” He gave her his right arm, and watched as she pressed the nose of the weapon to his forearm, then pulled the trigger and injected a pill shaped object deep beneath his skin. He winced, rubbing the sore spot as she dropped her grip. 

A tracker, his mind supplied. Similar to the ones they built into Launchers to trace them all. Thomas thought fondly of the time many years ago when Jorge explained such a thing to him as he dismantled one of the weapons, then put it all back together again. He’d admired the older man greatly then, thought the very world of him. 

And suddenly he couldn’t help but replay his last interaction with him in his mind, the disappointment Jorge spoke with, the fear. That had been their very last moments together, Thomas hadn’t been sure of it then, but Jorge was. And his guardian, his true mentor, had tried to stop him, warn him. 

It seemed as though everyone Thomas knew was determined to stop him from doing exactly what was already done. Another few minutes and the wind itself would form into words, whispering to him to not even if it was already too late. 

All because of petty jealousy. Thomas really was a child. 

And yet here he was, arm throbbing from the injection and stomach swirling with the motion of flying. Soon he would be dressed in attire fitting to the arena, and then he would be sent into it and have a full minute before he would have to fight for his life, for his sister's life. What had he done? Why did he ever believe this to be reasonable? 

There wasn’t much of a point dwelling on it now, especially as the Berg landed and the windows went from streaming in morning light to entirely black. He sucked in a breath with every bump and shake of the aircraft, feeling his nerves worsening awfully with each second that passed. He felt like he was walking through a minefield, knowing in a moment he’d blow up into a million pieces. 

The Berg came to a stop, the hatch hissing open, Keepers shouting instructions for them to unbuckle and move. Thomas obliged, albeit slowly, until he was the second last to leave. Closer to the pilots stood Chuck, entirely unmoving despite the orders being shouted his way. 

Just walk away, Thomas told himself. Let the Keepers deal with it.  

Like they dealt with Brenda? Another voice hissed. 

Thomas took a few steps towards the younger boy and offered Chuck his hand, hating himself. “Come on. We’ve got to go.” 

Chuck shook his head. Big blue eyes round and mortified. 

“It’ll be okay,” Thomas told him, bending down so they were eye-level, ignoring the annoyed shouts sounding from behind. “It will.” 

“It won’t though,” Chuck breathed. 

“You’re fast, right?” he muttered quickly. “Being fast is way more important than anything else. They can’t get you if they can’t catch you.” 

Chuck considered it then nodded, and Thomas grabbed the other’s small hand and walked him down the ramp of the Berg and into the crowd of the other tributes. The Bergs had parked in what looked to be a massive warehouse, but concrete and far underground—if the lack of windows was anything to go by. 

Chuck was all but pressed against his leg, both of his hands clutching Thomas’ own. He was trembling, but Thomas didn’t think about it. He couldn’t think about it. He only held the boy’s hand tight and waited for someone to come and fetch him. 

And someone did.

“I believe you have something of mine,” a stylist said from behind them. Both Chuck and Thomas turned around to face an older woman whose skin was free of odd colour, though painted onto it was thin green vines, framing her face and running down her neck and under her green dress, then spilling out onto her thin arms. 

Thomas looked down at Chuck, and led him towards the woman, who quickly took his hand and bent down, pulling the little boy into her arms. He wished he could tell Chuck’s parents that someone was looking out for him, that someone cared. And the woman did. Thomas could see the pain in her red-rimmed eyes. 

“Thomas,” a soft voice said behind him. He turned to find Tavour, their hand outreached for him. “Come along.” 

Stripped of his clothes, then redressed for the third time, Thomas sat on a cold metal chair. Tavour had briefly disappeared behind a door without explanation, and Thomas figured if ever there was a time to get lost in his own mind, it was now. His eyes had been locked on a clear tube standing about ten feet away from him. Soon he would step into it, and currently he was curious if he could. 

His attire was simple, for the most part. None of it really gave away any true clues as to what was awaiting him in the arena. The underwear he had been given was the only real odd thing, white and very much snug, made from an almost shiny material. Otherwise he had been given a white undershirt, a black long sleeve, and thin gray pants with a pocket or two too many. 

The belt he wore was currently digging against his stomach slightly, but he couldn’t find it within himself to move it, to shift into a position more comfortable. The collar Tavour had placed around his neck was itching, but once again, he didn’t stick a finger under the wiry material to scratch. 

Despite the clench of fear sitting in his stomach, Thomas felt almost…calm. Like he was facing an inevitability he was born ready for. But he wasn’t ready for it, not even if he tried pretending he was. Sure, he knew how to use a weapon, how to defend himself, but fighting and fighting for your life were two very different things. 

Sport, survival. 

And there wasn’t a victory or defeat, only life or death. He wondered how large quantities of blood would feel against his hands, not when it was still hot, but when it was cracked and drying. Would it come off when he scrubbed it away? Jorge had said that death had a stench, a pungent odor that embedded itself in your nostrils and never truly left your memory. Thomas didn’t want to learn of it. 

He tapped a thick boot against the floor in a slow rhythm, listening to the way the sounds quietly bounced off the walls. Everything inside the room looked polished, the steel walls and floors reflecting the white light attached to the ceiling. There was a chair that Thomas was currently occupying, and a table against the furthest wall, and nothing else. 

He supposed it didn’t need to feel comfortable, but considering where he was going he felt it should’ve been in order to allow him a couch to wait on instead of the creaking fold out. He shut his eyes, imagining himself back in Jorge’s living room, sinking into the soft plush of the worn couch. He imagined a glass of goat’s milk on the end table beside him, and Teresa on his other side, talking about one thing or another. 

It was his home, that house. But it wasn’t his true home. No, his true home was in an empty room resembling the very one he currently resided in, waiting to be lifted into an arena. 

The door creaked open. “Sorry about that.” 

Thomas looked up as Tavour walked over, handing him a bottle of water and a sandwich wrapped in plastic. “S’okay.” 

“Eat, drink,” they said. “I’ve just been given some news to break to you.” 

Thomas began unwrapping the meal. “Oh?”

“An urgent message has been sent from your home district,” they went on, Thomas’ heart dropping. “Apparently a friend of yours has passed away.” 

His hands fell still. “What? Who?” 

“A Brenda? Does that sound familiar?”

Thomas’ sandwich dropped onto his lap. “Who told you that?” 

“A Keeper,” Tavour told them, coming to a crouch in front of Thomas. “You were close with her?” 

“No,” he said, swallowing harshly. 

Because he wasn’t. Because Thomas never really knew Brenda, not in the way most friends knew one another, not in the way he knew Darnell. And even if he found familiarity in her features and comfort in her presence, Thomas and Brenda hadn’t known one another for more than a few measly days. 

And yet he felt as though the entire world had tilted beneath his feet. Like the pain that pooled inside of him was expanding far too large for his feeble body to fit. Was it grief? Did Thomas even deserve to grieve her? He barely knew her. And…well, he had been the one to kill her, hadn’t he?

He didn’t do the job, his eyes didn’t witness it happen, but the blood stained his hands nonetheless. 

Because Thomas had never really known Brenda. And Brenda had never really known Thomas. But the small, little, minuscule amount they did know of one another was enough to have her killed. 

“Eat,” Tavour said. “You need it.” 

Thomas did, more to avoid any further conversation than anything else. He wasn’t hungry anymore, wasn’t anything, really. He wondered if Brenda thought of him, in her last moments. He wondered if she hated him for what he had done to her. 

He chewed his food, ignoring the way it felt like ash in his mouth, and tried not to let the overwhelming pain in his chest disorient him. Brenda was dead, Thomas had killed her, but it was okay because soon he would be dead too.

The time passed in what felt like seconds, and yet also years simultaneously. He had eaten just half of his sandwich by the time the first announcement sounded in a cold, monotone voice. It told both him and Tavour that he had thirty seconds to step into the tube, to step into the tube that would seal his fate just as his volunteering had. 

He put the remainder of his sandwich onto the floor, took a long swig of his water, then rose from the uncomfortable chair. Tavour immediately moved in front of him, running a hand through his hair to push it off of his forehead, then took to adjusting his shirt and belt. It was pointless, but he allowed it nonetheless. 

“Death isn’t as scary as they want you to think it is,” they said softly. “It is freedom, release. Fear it, and that fear will consume you. Accept it as an inevitability, and you will know what it is to truly live.” 

Twenty seconds. 

“When I die, will you watch?” Thomas asked. Tavour nodded. He licked his lips. “Will you be sad for me?” 

They smiled. “No.” 

Blue hands grabbed his shoulder as his last ten seconds were announced, nudging him towards the tube. Thomas moved, though he didn’t want to, and eventually he was standing inside. A beep sounded, then another, then the gap of space that allowed him inside slid to a close. This was it, Thomas was going into the arena, Thomas was meeting death. 

Maybe that was okay, maybe Tavour was right. Maybe death was freedom, release. What was the alternative, anyway? His victory would mean returning to his district with a loss on his shoulders that would tear the soul straight out from inside him. That wasn’t any way to live, and in his mind death seemed like a far, far gentler option. 

The floor beneath him—the plate, to be more accurate—jolted slightly before starting its rise. Thomas felt a spike of panic as Tavour held his eyes. They didn’t smile, didn’t wave him goodbye, just watched as he was slowly being lifted to his end. 

Pitch black surrounded him soon after, engulfing him whole and leaving nothing for him to focus on outside of his mind, his thoughts. 

So Thomas squeezed his eyes shut, and pushed everything away. 

All that he had learned during his time at the Capitol, Brenda, Chuck, Newt, even Starlette’s ignorance and Vince’s mixed signals, everything. He shoved it all away into the very back of his mind, into a dark and fogged corner. Not forgotten, just put aside. 

None of it mattered in that moment. The only thing that mattered was survival. And Thomas knew how to survive. It was knowledge that coursed through him just as his blood did. Knowledge that he spent nearly his entire life collecting and placing on shelves inside of his mind. Files and files of it made him up. 

Just a few moments after he opened his eyes again, determined, a light broke down the tube from above him. He looked up, watching as it grew brighter and brighter, then consumed his vision as a whole. Wind brushed his clothes, and he held a hand over his eyes to block out the burning brightness of the sun. After a few seconds, the world sharpened around him, the plate shifting to a stop.

The first thing that he noticed was four podiums sitting spaced apart about thirty yards in front of him, and on them a select variety of weapons. The podium closest to him held a pair of dual swords, the glint of their metal hidden by the holster that contained them. Next to them sat a bow, an axe, and a mace, all the same colour of silver. 

Next he turned to see the tribute’s on his right and left. A girl—District Three, Thomas thought—stood rigid, staring straight ahead. And the girl from District Eight was on his other side, turning in place, clearly intending to bolt straight away from the action. He searched briefly for his sister but was unsuccessful, and instead took to examining the arena as a booming  voice—Anderson’s voice—called out to them all. 

“Welcome to the Ninety-Ninth Trials,” he drawled. “And may the odds be ever in your favour.”

A screen lit up in the center of the circle of tributes, drawing Thomas’ attention to it. Sixty seconds. The arena itself was odd, nothing like he had ever seen before. It was a massive square of trees and grass bordered by concrete walls so massive Thomas had to crane his neck in order to see where they ended. Thick greens—ivy—were blanketed over them. In the middle of each mammoth wall sat a wide gap that led somewhere Thomas couldn’t make out. 

“Fifty-two…fifty-one…fifty…”  

Behind him was a thick forest, the trees of which were tall and made up of gnarled branches with thick knots all along them. The bark was a ghostly white, the leaves a pale green, a mist covering the forest floor in a way that made his skin crawl. It seemed to cover half the interior of the arena, and in the North-West corner sat a body of murky water and cattails. The North-East, however, was a field of grass that had to have been taller than anyone he had ever met. 

“Thirty-three…thirty-two…thirty-one…”

Thomas’ curiosity was peaked by the beyond of the walls, the space that led elsewhere. In the past the Makers were especially creative—just a few years prior there had been an arena made from nothing but ice—but now that he was here, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to find out. 

In the distance, almost directly across from him, Thomas spotted Dan’s large figure. Blond hair was tied back, and the guy slowly dropped down into a crawl, eyes set on the weapons. Thomas wondered what was going through Dan’s head, if there was any fear in him, if he was ready to kill someone. How could one prepare for such a thing?

“Fifteen…fourteen…thirteen…”

You couldn’t prepare, he figured. It wasn’t something thought out or planned, it just happened. Of course there were many examples of someone planning to kill in the past Trials, Elites especially, but in the bloodbath it was just survival. 

And Thomas could do survival. 

The boom of the cannon broke into the air, and then Thomas was sprinting across the large field of grass towards the podium. His feet pounded hard against the ground, the vibration running up his bones as his eyes remained fixed on the set of swords that were all but calling out to him. 

He could hear the others running around him, shouts calling into the warm air as he neared the center. As he did, his focus was caught again by a sheet of metal sitting between the four podiums. It looked to be two massive hatch doors possibly leading down somewhere. 

But it didn’t matter, because in a second Thomas felt the soft of leather beneath his hands as he grabbed at the holster bearing his swords. He tugged them, but quickly realized the few wires wrapped intricately around them, holding them in place. 

His fingers found the first wire around the cross of his swords, and began quickly working it undone. 

The first scream was high pitched, long, and guttural. It echoed around them, the terror of it seeming to linger and swirl in the air. He didn’t stop, couldn’t stop, and only kept his eyes on the task at hand, his other senses being saved to ensure no one came up behind him. 

The first wire came undone, and he began on another wrapped around the blade of the right sword. 

Someone slid into place beside him, and Thomas’ nerves were immediately set on edge. They were freeing their own weapon, and he only had a few more seconds before they would turn it on him. 

He uncoiled the second, got to work on the third. 

It was too late. The clatter of the other’s weapon being freed sounded beside him. 

Thomas grabbed the right sword and tugged it out from the holster, immediately turning to face the tribute beside him. 

Alby stared back, unloaded bow held tightly in his hands, a quiver tossed half-way over his shoulder. 

A short time ago Thomas went on a trip out into the mountains in District Two with his class from the academy to learn how to hunt. It was the first and last time he had ever witnessed death firsthand. It was a brown hare with a snare wrapped around its neck, beady little eyes darting here and there, being strangled when it tried to run. His teacher had stabbed a sharp stick through its skull in one swift blow. 

And in that moment, looking at Alby, all Thomas could see was the small animal. Thrashing desperately against the wire constricting its breathing, feet kicking out as his teacher held it over her knee, so incredibly scared, only wishing to be free.

One blow, and that was all it took. If Thomas stepped forward now and swung his sword, he could cut through Alby’s stomach or throat, and it would be done. Alby would be dead, and the world would go on. People in the Capitol, in the districts would hiss or cheer, and Thomas would be another step closer to ensuring his sister’s victory. 

But he didn’t move. He couldn’t move. 

Because yes, Thomas and Alby were nothing like one another. Thomas was born and raised in District Two and most of his life had been awaiting the very moment he was standing in. And Alby was from District Eleven, which Thomas assumed meant he wasn’t living a life much better than Newt’s own. 

But Thomas could see his own emotions being reflected back to him through Alby’s eyes. He felt the other’s fear like it was own because it was his own just as it was Alby’s. Really, how different could two teenage boys be? 

Did Alby have a sister he wanted to get home to? Did he have more than Thomas, did he have an entire family who was watching now, eyes wide in horror as they viewed their odd stand still? If he killed Alby now, would they ever forgive him? 

Alby moved slightly, something akin to a flinch, and Thomas copied the movement subconsciously.

It had been thirty seconds since they had rounded on one another, maybe less, but it felt like hours. Thomas thought of it, procured the image in his mind of his own sword driving deep into Alby’s stomach, he thought of the way the flesh would stain his sword with blood and he would watch Alby’s eyes empty, watch as he fell to the ground. 

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t kill. 

And Alby couldn’t kill him either.

The boy started to slowly back away, nodding subtly at Thomas in understanding, to which Thomas nodded back, eyes following the Eleven boy until he turned around, darting off somewhere towards the forest. Alby was going to die, eventually. But it wouldn’t be by Thomas’ hand. And maybe it would show those watching that those from the outlying districts weren’t just filler, but people. If Thomas could understand that, maybe they could too.

However, with the realization that Thomas couldn’t do the very thing he needed to do, he felt stuck. In the brief amount of time he and Alby had spent in their odd mutual understanding, the remainder of the tributes had either run into the arena, disappeared, or made their way to the weapons. Agonized screams filled the air around him, as well as something metallic and humid. 

Thomas looked down at the sword hanging limply in his hand, then looked back up, quickly finding Dan walking around the area, a wild grin on his face and a spear clutched in his hand. Only seconds after Dan grabbed a boy who had made to run past him, then pulled him up so they were practically chest to chest. 

He had seen the boy in training with his district partner, from Nine or Eight, he was sure. The ugly yellow collar that hung low on his neck was tugged once by Dan, who threw his head back in laughter before returning face-to-face with the boy. 

He looked terrified, the Nine or Eight boy, but he wasn’t fighting. His cheeks were wet, but he only stood there as Dan muttered words to him that Thomas couldn’t make out from the distance between them. Time slowed as Dan pressed the head of his spear to the belly of the other’s jaw, and Thomas wanted to look away, he did. 

But he couldn’t move. 

So he watched as Dan slowly pushed his spear up, watched as blood began spilling out from the boy’s mouth alongside garbled screams, and he watched as it got caught, then watched as Dan shoved it all the way through. 

Quickly the tall boy ripped his spear from the boy’s skull and threw him aside casually, and Thomas could only stand there, staring at the body. Blood kept pouring out from his mouth, but he was still, frighteningly still. It was odd how he only noticed just how much a person moved only when he saw what it was like for someone to be wholly unmoving. 

He looked away, Dan catching his eye and giving him an easy smile, hand coming up for a quick wave. Thomas didn’t return the greeting, but Dan didn’t notice as he quickly took to another boy running a dozen or so feet away, winding his spear back and forcefully throwing it into the kid’s back. Thomas whipped his head to the side at the impact, not wanting to see any more than he already had. 

Every sound floating in the air seemed to amplify. Someone was choking on their own blood, he could hear it. Heavy gurgles interrupted by muted coughs. Laughter joined it, feet pounded against grass, metal clanged against metal. 

Thomas' sword weighed especially heavy in his hand, the warmth that had once been his lacing the grip nothing more than a cool sweat. Looking for something to do, he turned away from his shock and finished untying the last wire holding his back holster. Quickly he slung it over his shoulder, not bothering to clip the straps that hung loosely around him, occasionally smacking into his side. 

It felt wrong. Everything felt wrong. He felt wrong. 

The screams stopped after a few minutes, and Thomas looked around momentarily. Bodies littered the ground around him—not that many, as he’d only really counted two—but their blood stained the green of grass and it truly felt like a massacre. He hadn’t killed any of them, but his hands felt like they were heavy with blood. 

“Tom?” he heard somewhere around them. 

It was like dipping into cool water on the hottest day of the year, the relief instant and nearly nauseating, surrounding him in something safe, and comfortable. He took a few weak steps forward just as his sister spotted him, a grin spreading over her face as she made her way towards him. 

An axe was settled over her shoulder, the sharp of it laced in red. 

“You look like a ghost,” she told him, cocking her head to the side and causing the braid sitting over her shoulder to shift and flop down her back. “Feeling okay?” 

He swallowed hard, looking her over, nerves calming only when he found no signs of injury. “Fine, yeah.” 

“You two survived!” he heard behind him, turning just as Dan clapped his shoulder. “I was thinking the worst.” 

Teresa rolled her eyes. “In your dreams.” 

“Fuck me,” Mara huffed, walking towards them. The hem of her shirt was hiked up just below her ribs, the collar over her face as she tried to rid of the blood staining tanned skin. “This is nasty.” 

“Where are the other two?” Dan asked, looking around. “Ah, right.” 

The pair were standing over the hole that stood between the podiums, the large hatch doors open and laid out over the soft grass. The inside looked as though it were a cage, and when the pair from One jumped into it, the entire thing shifted around. They didn’t seem to care, however, and began shifting through the abundance of supplies. 

When Thomas turned back, he found Mara looking around at the sky, brows furrowed. “Cannons should’ve sounded by now.”

“Patience, Mars.” Dan tucked his spear into the crook of his arm, tucking both of them across his chest as he stood tall, surveying the area around them. “First, we’re going to name things. Then we’ll come up with a plan for the next few days.” 

Teresa gave Thomas her annoyed, kill me now look, then turned to Dan. “What’s there to plan? I mean, we stock up, and hunt. It’s as simple as that.” 

“Okay, well where are we going first?” the taller boy countered. “I mean, we’ve got to cover as much ground as possible by nightfall, and we should sort out which places are going to take the longest to check and who’s going to do–” 

“Please stop talking,” his sister muttered. “Here’s the plan.” She made some sort of dramatic grand gesture to the area around them. “I’ll lead. We’ll start at that wall–” She pointed to the South Wall behind the forest. “And move forward from there.” 

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Why are you leading?” 

As Teresa and Dan kept on with their argument, Thomas began to also wonder why the bloodbath cannons had yet to sound. They usually went off at the end of it. And stalling like this seemed unusual unless…unless the bloodbath wasn’t finished and the Makers could see something they couldn’t.

Suddenly he looked around, scanning the area, though nothing stood out. It was entirely possible that some of the tributes had begun fighting elsewhere, and they were waiting until the conflict came to an end. 

Thomas glanced at Mara, who looked to be doing the same thing that he was. He followed her gaze, looking into the fogged woods that stood a decent ways away behind Teresa. The mist still sat on the floor, disturbed only by recent movement that had rushed through it, and the trees seemed to shield most of the light. 

The skin on his neck prickled. 

“Don’t be childish,” Teresa said, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Dan smirked. “I’m not.” 

“You are.”

“Am not.” 

“Seriously?” 

A whistle sounded, he thought. Sharp and quiet. 

Then a massive clang. 

“Shit!” Aris called from behind them. “Watch out!” 

Just as Thomas turned towards the commotion he was thrown onto his back, his sword flying out from his hand, the other getting crushed beneath his back. Shouts sounded around him, startled and confused, and as he looked up he found the District Three girl sitting atop him. 

She had an arm raised, a knife in hand, and Thomas barely had a second to react by the time she was throwing it down. He tossed his head to the side at the last moment, her blade wedging itself into the ground, and then suddenly the sickening sound of flesh tearing and bone cracking filled his senses. 

The tip of a spear was poking out from between the Three girl’s eyes, and her blood was dripping down onto Thomas’ face. He stared at her, and her bulging eyes stared back at him as much as they could, and then the spear was pulled back and her body fell on top of him. He didn’t move—he couldn’t move—he could only feel the quickly fading warmth of the Three girl’s frame against him, sucking in minuscule breaths. 

Young, was the first thing he remembered. She was young. Not as young as Chuck, but not too close to his own age either. And she was dead now. Dead. Entirely so. 

Her blood was pouring over him, pooling in the hollow of his throat and dribbling down the sides, staining the black of his shirt, covering him. Her cheek was pressed against his sternum, and her limbs had given some final twitches and jolts until finally she fell completely, lifelessly still. Thomas looked up as Dan kicked the body off of him and offered a hand.

He swallowed, feeling the metallic taste of blood slip down his throat just as Dan hoisted him to his feet. He looked up at the taller boy, then doubled over and vomited all over his shoes. 

“S’alright,” Dan whispered, hand rubbing small circles between his shoulder blades. “Better out than in.” 

His throat burned, as well as his eyes and his nose, and Thomas could’ve sworn he was dying. His insides got colder with every clench of his stomach, the only warmth on his entire body being Dan’s hand on his back. His holster slipped off from his shoulder, landing with a clatter onto the ground.

The waves of nauseousness subsided slowly, and he rose to his full height, wiping away the tears of exertion as he sucked in the fresh air, trying to calm himself. Dan was still standing with him, hand on his shoulder now, though his attention was on the forest, giving Thomas some privacy.. 

And then he looked. 

Her body was lying there, slumped. Skin growing pale in the way only a corpse could. He felt like he was her, at that moment. Lying there, bloody and cold and gone from the world. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t think he would ever move again. It was as if he had been glued in place, cursed to forever stand there and stare at her dead body. 

A hand met his shoulder, Teresa’s worried eyes finding his in an instant. “Hey.” 

“Teresa,” he murmured. 

“Come on,” she said softly, starting towards the hole, guiding him along. “Maybe they’ll have a change of clothes in here, hm?” 

He nodded absently, following her until they met Rachel and Aris who stood just outside of it, both looking pale. 

“I’m sorry man,” Aris said quickly. “I didn’t even see her.” 

Rachel put a hand on Thomas’ forearm. “She was hiding under one of the doors, slammed it down on us and bolted.” She looked back at the hole. “Don’t even know how she got there.” 

“It’s alright,” he told them. “I’m fine. Just caught me off guard.” 

They nodded, then climbed back into the hole with Teresa on their heels. Thomas just stood there as the others began sorting through the supplies again. The stick of blood sat heavy on his body, and he could feel the way it was beginning to dry, making his skin feel tight. 

Dan and Mara appeared behind him, the latter flushed. She swiped sweat from her forehead. “Better get this done with then get out of here.” 

The taller boy nodded. “Right, yeah.” He put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder. “Maybe we’ll find someplace to get you cleaned up, huh?” 

“Okay,” he said simply. 

“Pack a bag, yeah?” 

“Okay,” he said again. 

As he stepped forward to move into the hole, the cannons symbolizing the end of the bloodbath went off. One. He lowered himself slowly into the cage, wobbling slightly as it swung with his weight. Two. He bent down, grabbing at a random backpack and pulling the zipper open. Three. He emptied the contents onto the ground, watching as a small bag of trail mix slipped between the cracks and fell into darkness below. Four. He frowned, feeling his stomach flip. 

Five. He shut his eyes. 

“Five,” Dan said under his breath, hopping down beside Thomas. “That’s disappointing.” 

“We’ll make up for it by sundown,” Mara said, jumping into the hole and beginning on a wire that held a curved dagger against the ground. “This place is small, anyhow. Won’t be too hard.” 

“No clean clothes,” Rachel groaned. “We’ll have to be careful with what we’ve got.” 

Thomas put his focus into organizing the bag he had chosen for himself. It was blue, nearly neon, and hardly enough to fit what he needed inside. Water was more important than a weapon, or so he had been told, so Thomas rifled through the remaining bags until he got ahold of three empty silver water bottles and tossed them into his own bag. 

On he went until his bag was full, brimmed entirely by a small blanket he had just managed to fit inside. Below it sat many bags of dried fruit and meats, an extra knife, a decently sized box of matches, rope, iodine, and a small sheet of three painkillers. Dan held most of the first-aid supplies, or had volunteered to do so, and Aris supposedly had an unlimited supply of odd white candies. 

“Droplets,” he told the group, sitting on the edge of the hole, peering down at them as he popped one in his mouth. “That’s what we call them back home, at least.” 

Once Thomas had spent around two or so minutes struggling to zip up his bag, he resigned to allow Mara to do it for him, then swung it over his shoulder, tossing his sword onto the ground above and pulling himself up and out of the hole. As he rose, Thomas pulled out a bag of antiseptic wipes he had discovered and got to work. 

The blood he managed to get off of his skin came off on the cotton-white wipes in clumps, and his stomach lurched every time he looked down at the red of it. Thomas felt as though he should’ve known the Three girl better, considering her blood was soaked into his clothing and splattered across most of his upper body. 

She had short black hair, he knew. Her eyes were some sort of brown. And her blood was a dark, deep red, and it tasted the way old metal smelled. The flesh under her skin was pink, darker in some spots than others. Her body was muscled, but lean, and heavy as it went dead weight against him. 

“Get out of your head,” Teresa said, plopping to sit down beside him. 

He sniffed, wiping away a chunk of something red that had stuck to the side of his neck. “I’m not in my head.” 

“I’m your sister,” she said quietly. “I know you. And I know you’re in your head, Tom.” 

“A lot of blood,” he managed, looking down at the pile of discarded wipes that sat in front of his lap, not a spot of white on any of them. “Never thought there would be that much.” 

“It’s different in person,” she admitted, eyes falling to the grass. “But you can’t do this. You’ll get yourself killed.” 

He pulled the last wipe from the pack, looking down at it mournfully. Maybe that’s okay, he wanted to tell her. Maybe that would be okay.

But he didn’t say that. “I’m alright.” 

She didn’t say anything more, and instead rose from the ground and joined the others once more, leaving him alone to try and scrub away the smear of blood that painted his skin. The final wipe came away just as red as the rest, and he glanced out to the girl’s body that sat less than a dozen feet from him. 

It looked wrong. It didn’t look human, the way she laid out. 

Tearing his eyes away, Thomas stood up in a rush and walked over to where he had all but puked his stomach up and bent down to pull his holster and other sword out from the vomit. He slung it over his shoulder and returned to the hole, sheathing the other into its slot and then dropping his backpack. 

As he slipped the back holster over his shoulders, Dan came up with his bag in one hand, spear in the other, both being thrown to the side as he grabbed the clip of Thomas’ harness. “Looking better.” He fixed them over Thomas’ chest, giving a pat over his heart. “You ready?” 

He felt Teresa’s eyes on the side of his head. “Yeah.” 

“Good,” Mara huffed. “Let's get out of here.” 

“We’ll stay back,” Aris said, opening a pack of knives over the grass, eyes flickering over the variety. “Watch the supplies.” 

“Perverts,” Dan said idly, seeming pleased when both Aris and Rachel flushed red. “But whatever. We’ll check the forest out and when we come back you two can head out to the weird swampy area.” 

“Go into that grassy area instead, hide for a bit,” Mara instructed. “You’ve got to clear out anyway so they can grab the bodies.” She adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “Don’t die.” 

“Got it,” Aris hummed. 

“Mhm, great,” Dan agreed. “Now hurry up, we’re burning daylight.” 

Minutes later they were breaking into the forest line, Dan and Mara ahead as Thomas and Teresa lagged back slightly, taking in the area around them. Massive white trees reached for the sky like claws, and their leaves branched out wide, hiding them from the burning sun above. The mist swirled around their feet as they walked through it, unveiling a floor covered in wet leaves and moss. 

They could walk entirely silently, if they tried. But based on the way the pair from Four were all but stomping through the woods, Dan slashing away low-hanging branches with his spear, Thomas figured subtly wasn’t their strategy. 

Blinking hurt, as did breathing and existing, really. Teresa had been right in saying he was in his head, but it wasn’t as if he were doing it by choice. Everything felt far, far away from him. As if Thomas was really in the trees above, watching as the four Elites trailed through the forest, eyes darting around, ears all up pricking up at every little noise sounding in the near distance. 

His sister had also been right in saying he couldn’t be in his head, too. Now wasn’t the time. The longer he let the cloud of…of whatever it was, haunting him, hold him down, the harder it would be for him to pull himself out. He couldn’t do right by Jorge, couldn’t do right by his sister if he wasn’t really there. 

Breathing in a harsh breath, Thomas nudged his sister’s arm, gesturing to Dan and Mara. “Given up on leading?” 

She scoffed, a small smile gracing her features. “Well, who would be watching over you?” 

“I don’t need watching over,” he told her in a grumble, though it was more lighthearted than anything else. “Just admit you like hanging out with me.” 

“Never.” She adjusted the axe resting on her shoulder and looked around, a sort of awe on her face. “Look at this place, Tom. I almost can’t believe it.” 

“Yeah,” he mumbled. 

The haunted look of it aside, the forest really was quite beautiful. It looked like the sort of place creatures from children's books would reside in. Thomas wanted to feel comforted by it, comforted by his sister’s presence at his side, but he wasn’t. He could practically feel the eyes of the other tributes seared into their backs, watching their every move.

He wondered how many people got away with weapons, he wondered how many of them knew how to make their own. Someone could be following them, a knife in their belt or a sharp stick held out at their side. All it would take was one single moment of distraction and he could lose one of his allies. Or far, far worse, his sister. 

Teresa was good, though. She was quick in both mind and body. Anderson had gone on about her long enough, and Thomas knew that she could hold her own. But the worry had started in his stomach, planted, rooted, sprouting and beginning to grow. 

Nineteen other tributes, scattered around the arena, them included. Five had gone in the bloodbath, and he wondered who had gotten caught outside of those he had witnessed die himself. He thought about Chuck nearly instantly, the idea enough to make him dizzy. 

He blinked it away. Chuck dying in the bloodbath was a mercy, and he knew that. Had it happened, Thomas would be glad. The boy didn’t have to suffer, didn’t have to starve or hide or freeze if it got cold at night. He would be safe. Safe. Thomas really, really wanted him to be safe. 

He thought about Newt, and quickly shoved away the idea that the blond was one of the five cannons to sound. One didn’t just score an eleven then die upon impact. Newt was alive and likely well, hidden in the forest or the swamp or the tall grass. Maybe he had gone beyond the walls, even. 

Or maybe he really was in the forest somewhere with them. Maybe he was watching them now, following with careful, light footsteps. 

Thomas looked over his shoulder, finding no sign of life behind them. 

He would be in hiding, absolutely. Eleven or not, Newt wasn’t stupid enough to follow them. If Thomas were Newt—a Newt who wasn’t so opposed to killing—he would wait until the numbers grew more scarce, then attack. And if Newt had been honest, well he would just be hidden until the end, unless he got caught by one thing or another. 

It felt as though they’d been walking for an hour by the time they came up on the South Wall, and as they did the group came to a collective stop, craning their necks to look up at mammoth slate of stone and ivy. Such a large piece of seamless concrete existing confused Thomas, and he couldn’t help but wonder how they had managed it. 

A massive mold, possibly. Or maybe an advanced technology that erased the seams. Or maybe the walls were made up of the same matter that the Shade had been, and at the end of the Trials a button would be pressed and the entire arena would melt into particles, as if it were never there.

“That is one massive wall,” Dan said. 

Mara glared at him. “No shit.” 

“Bet I could climb it.” 

“Bet you’d fall and die before you even got half way.” 

Something caught Thomas’ attention, a small, nearly inaudible snap of a branch in the close distance. Too heavy to be an accident. His first instinct was to turn to his sister or Dan, warn them, inform them. But he didn’t. His eyes found the ground where the wall met the grass. 

Dan was talking to them, loudly, but Thomas couldn’t make out a single word said. He had zeroed in on the small noises coming from further down the wall, behind a boulder somewhere. It was a tribute. The small shifts of clothing against skin were more than enough to give it away. And if it wasn’t, the choir of whispers that started soon after certainly was. 

“No.” It was a high voice, one he recognized but couldn’t place. “No.” It was getting louder. More panicked. “No, no, no, please no.” 

Thomas’ gaze finally shifted to Dan, who met it in less than a second. And Thomas could see the animal in the other bleed out from his human skin as the whispers caught his attention, eyes dilating greatly, shoulders rising tense but excited. He thought of the two boys who had died to Dan’s spear a short time prior, the way the first had fallen, tossed aside like garbage. 

The girls caught on not a second later, and then the four of them were trudging further down the wall, rounding a boulder that leaned up against it until they came upon another tribute laying against the concrete, tucked half behind the ivy. 

As she looked up at them—as Poppy looked up at them—Thomas’ stomach dropped to his shoes. She didn’t look to be considering fleeing at all, her eyes wide and tear-filled. It was only a moment later that Thomas realized that the ivy was moving, as if it had a mind of its own.

It was wrapping itself around her arms and legs, and her torso was already mostly covered in the thick green branches. She must’ve hidden in the odd little corner for cover upon hearing them, then gotten trapped in its grip. 

“Please,” she murmured. “Please.” 

Thomas didn’t think the Ten girl was begging for her life. He didn’t think she knew what she was even pleading for at all. She was just scared, mouth blabbering nonsense as her mind tried to cope with the fact that she was moments away from death. He’d seen it before in the Trials. But never in person. 

“Alright,” Dan huffed, stare fixed on the trapped girl. “Who’s up?” 

Poppy’s eyes found Thomas’ own as they others started to argue, and the second their gazes met Thomas couldn’t will himself to pull away. Fat tears slid down the swells of her cheeks, scooping under her chin and dripping down onto the vines constricting around her middle. 

She was asking for his help, he knew. She thought he would help her. 

And the worst part was that Thomas wanted to, desperately. He wasn’t thinking about Poppy as a tribute, but as the shoulder Chuck had rested upon while awaiting their private sessions, as the girl with a family and a life, as a person who was in danger. 

Chuck.  

Thomas looked around quickly, seeing nothing unusual in their vicinity. He looked back at her, her eyes never having broken from his, and mouthed the name. 

She stared at him for a moment, eyes flickering to their right. 

And then she was blocked from his view entirely, Mara crouching over her with her curved blade in her hand. Poppy began sobbing loudly, and Thomas shut his eyes as tight as he could. It didn’t stop the sounds from reaching him, however, and he listened to the zippery sound of a blade slicing flesh, then the lap of spilling blood, then the wet gurgles. 

Bile shot up his throat, slapping against the back of his tongue. 

He’d been exposed to death for as long as he could remember. He’d seen people die in a hundred different ways, whether it be by another’s hand or by the environment. He knew death, and he knew killing. But this was something else. This wasn’t a show, it was real. It was real. 

He opened his eyes.

But he couldn’t be weak now, couldn’t lose his composure. He just couldn’t. Teresa was beside him, frowning down at the Ten girl as she bled out slowly, arms fighting against the ivy coiled around them, trying desperately to clutch at the open slit etched into her throat. Teresa was beside him. He couldn’t be in his head. 

Poppy’s cannon shot. 

Hands were on his shoulders, Dan’s. “Let’s see if anyone else got caught up in the greens.” He let go, starting off to the right. 

Thomas cleared his throat, voice coming out hoarse. “Other way.” He swallowed. “I heard something the other way.” 

Dan stopped, turned, and grinned. “Ah.” He nudged Mara as he started left. “Let’s go.” 

And then they were off again, trailing alongside the wall, Dan and Mara leading while Thomas and Teresa hung back. They were no longer admiring the view of the artificial forest, however, and were instead just staring off at the pair ahead. 

Thomas wondered why he wasn’t like Dan, who walked proud and tall, using his spear like a cane and grinning while exchanging murmurs with Mara. He wished he was, in some ways. Because Dan didn’t look as though his mind was running laps in his skull, didn’t look as though he was even slightly bothered by the setting, by the kills beneath his belt. 

Thomas was beginning to sound like Newt. 

When had he ever cared for those sorts of ideals? When had he deemed a stranger's life to be more important than his own? More important than Dan’s? Maybe if Dan hadn’t killed those two boys, they would’ve come back and killed Thomas. Or worse, Teresa. 

But what if they wouldn’t have? What if they were like Newt, not wanting to kill another living person and were just trying to run, just trying to survive? What if they had families they were desperate to go home to? 

No, it wouldn’t have mattered either way. Both of those boys were short and scrawny, and obviously underprepared for the Trials. If Dan had spared them they would’ve died anyway, whether it be to another tribute or to the cruelty of the arena. Dan had done them a mercy, really. Especially considering the other ways they could’ve met their end.

From what he’d seen, death by fire looked to be the worst of them all. Drowning being a close second. One girl had been boiled alive in a spring a few years back. Thomas couldn’t watch it happen, even then. Her cries sometimes came back to him in bad dreams, her piercing wails and screams. 

Maybe Thomas really was weak. And if not in body, then in mind. 

He wasn’t like Newt. He really wasn’t. There was no one Thomas wouldn’t kill if it meant sparing his sister or himself. He could kill to survive. 

But he didn’t, did he? He didn’t kill Alby. He should’ve, the man could pose as a threat later on, especially with a bow. And yet Thomas hadn’t killed him. He’d only stood there, frozen and fearful, staring into the eyes of another as he pretended that they were similar in any regard.

But they weren’t, were they? Alby hadn’t been standing there wondering if Thomas and him were less dissimilar than he originally imagined. No, he had just been given an opportunity to survive, and he took it, as anyone would. 

Thomas should’ve killed him, and he knew it then too. But he didn’t. Why hadn’t he? Was it because he thought Alby deserved to live, or because Thomas was too weak to kill him?

He already knew the answer. 

“What the…” Dan trailed off, coming to a stop alongside Mara. Thomas and Teresa stepped up beside him. “That’s not exactly comforting.” 

His unease wasn’t unwarranted, as before them stood one of the wide gaps in the middle of the South Wall. It was massive, and led to large stone corridors, the ivy strung along them somehow even thicker. A cold breeze floated out from inside, washing over them, making a shiver run heavily over Thomas’ spine. 

Thomas peered into the halls, eyes wide. “Should we…?”

“If we want to die, then absolutely,” Dan remarked, punching Thomas’ shoulder. “In your dreams. Let’s leave.”

“Do you hear that?” Mara asked. 

The four of them went silent, going as far as to hold their breaths. 

It took him a moment, but Thomas picked up the sound eventually. It was low, distant but not nearly distant enough. A series of clicks, one, two, three, four. Then a drawled whir, accompanied by the sounds of metal scraping against concrete. Then it stopped, then continued in that same pattern. Thomas reared back slightly, the hairs high on the nape of his neck rising to stand. 

“What is that?” he asked.

Dan put his hands up. “Don’t know, don’t want to know. Let’s go.” 

Mara pulled up the murky blue collar latched around her neck, scratching the skin under it for a moment as she stared off into the odd hallway. She looked as though curiosity was close to getting the best of her, but soon turned off and motioned for Dan to lead the way.

And he did, Teresa and Thomas trailing after them yet again. In the fifteen or so Trials Thomas could recollect, he had seen many mutts. Piranhas that chewed off a limb then swam off. Tigers with steel claws and teeth. Birds that swarmed together at a certain time of day, attacking anything within their view. 

To put it lightly, Thomas didn’t want to know what creature laid beyond the walls, and he could only hope whatever it was couldn’t venture into the center.

Ahead of them Dan and Mara were speaking in low, cautious whispers, though their footsteps remained loud, stomping and careless. Thomas felt the skin of his neck prickle uncomfortably, but he shook it off. He couldn’t disappear into his mind. Not now. 

By his estimate, it had been just over half an hour before they reached the corner where the South and East Walls intersected. They hadn’t spotted another tribute along their trek, so Dan decided that the group would head back towards the hole, checking the area on their way. No one made any arguments, so on they went. 

Thomas hadn’t expected much struggle when it came to locating the other tributes, if he were honest. While watching the Trials it always seemed so obvious, but as the four trudged through the damp floor of the woods, shoes hardly leaving a print as they walked, he worried that it would take far more effort than he initially thought. 

Alongside the worry sat relief, but he ignored it. 

It was all sort of anticlimactic, if anything. In his interview he had gone on about all that would die in the bloodbath, even if he was only trying to impress the crowd with his confidence. And now he was walking without a single kill to his name, and a deep-rooted fear of having to watch someone else die. 

Darnell would be pleased with himself. And Jorge would be sitting, sipping whiskey or some other drink, shaking his head in disappointment. What thoughts had gone on in his mind upon seeing Thomas stand there staring at Alby during the beginning? 

It didn’t matter. Thomas wasn’t planning on sticking around to find out how they reacted, what they thought of him. All that mattered was Teresa, who he exchanged a smile with as he gave her a hand over a particularly large fallen log. She had been quiet in the past little while, though in no more of a mood than usual, and he took a moment to be grateful that she hadn’t run off without him. 

“Oh hey check it out!” Dan called from ahead, and they made their way over to him, eyes following where his finger pointed. “It’s a rabbit.”

Mara squinted at the creature. “That’s not a rabbit, that’s a…I don’t know, a cat?.” 

“What?” Dan gave her an appalled look. “What are you talking about? That’s a rabbit.”

“It’s white,” Mara huffed. “And fluffy. Rabbits are more…sleek looking. Brown.” She bent down and held out a hand, rubbing her fingers together and making a little clicky sound at the thing. It obeyed like a pet, hopping right over to her. She snatched it up, rubbing one of its long floppy ears between her fingers. “Oh, I guess it is a rabbit.” 

“Idiot,” Dan grumbled. “Well, what should we name–” 

With a very distinct squeak and a pop, Mara had snapped the rabbit’s neck. Thomas flinched. 

Dan looked utterly horrified, hand held over his heart as he took a step back. “What the fuck!”

“Dinner,” Mara said calmly, taking out her curved blade again and severing the rabbit’s head before pulling her bag off her shoulder and extracting a roll of twine from it. She cut off a long piece, tied it around the creature’s hind legs, then fastened the string to her bag. She put the remaining string away and pulled her bag back on, the rabbit’s corpse dripping blood onto the forest floor. 

Dan looked at Thomas, mouth agape. “I might cry.” 

Thomas nodded, making a point to not look at the body again. 

“Oh you two are pathetic. Let’s go,” Mara muttered, taking off in the direction of the hole. They followed, hesitantly.

Thomas had met wildlife a few times in his life, deer and the occasional hare. This one looked somewhat similar to the one he had seen in training, though it was fatter, softer looking. The rabbit had gone straight up to Mara like it was made to do so, domesticated, and the thought that the Makers put such creatures into the arena made him feel sick.

On one hand it made hunting much easier, but on the other the idea of killing a sweet, friendly creature seemed nearly impossible. For someone like Mara, maybe not, but even Dan was repulsed by the act of it. Thomas pictured Chuck with a knife, hands shaking as he contemplated starving or slaughtering the animal. 

He stopped thinking about Chuck, remembering the look Poppy had given. The look that meant the boy was still alive somewhere, alone.

A rustle from above caught Thomas’ attention, and he looked up to see two huge brown eyes staring back at him. He stopped for just a second, but it was unfortunately enough to catch Dan’s attention. The taller boy came up beside Thomas and looked at the girl with curiosity.

She was small, curled hair tied up, and a muddy green collar around her neck displaying the number six. She didn’t look afraid of them in the slightest, and even smiled down at Dan. 

“Hey, why don’t you come down from there?” Dan offered, grinning widely. “We’ve got some food, if you’re hungry.” 

Thomas stupidly thought for a moment that the offer was genuine, but in the corner of his eye he watched as Mara pulled her curved blade out from her belt yet again. His stomach churned. 

“Why don’t ya come up ‘ere?” the Six girl offered, gesturing to the branch she was resting on. “There’s plenty’a room.” 

Dan’s grin dropped, lifting his spear. “Alright stay real still.” He aimed, but the girl ducked behind a particularly thick branch, and the tall boy must’ve thought better. “You can’t stay up in that tree forever, you know.” 

“Aye, but luckily I don’t much need to, do I?” she said, then swiftly climbed up the branch, hopping from one three to the next, arms out as she walked along the next limb. “Catch me if ya can.” 

Dan chuckled lightly, watching as she jumped from tree to tree until she was out from their view. Mara gave him a questioning look, and Dan only shrugged. “She’s little, she’ll get caught by someone else.” He trudged on again. “Or the ivy.” 

Thomas breathed out a relieved breath he didn’t know he’d been holding as he took after Dan, glancing back when he heard a branch heave with the weight of the girl in the distance. He hoped they would never meet again. 

Their walk was peaceful for all of fifteen minutes before yet another scream sounded, coming from the hole itself. Dan and Mara exchanged a look, then took off, feet pounding against the leaf riddled floor. Thomas and Teresa followed quickly. 

“No!” a scream called as they broke through the treeline. “No! Fuck you! Get off of me!” 

Rachel was sitting on top of someone, nose gushing blood and Aris at her side, twirling a thin dagger between his fingers. When he got close enough, Thomas immediately recognized the halo of short red hair around the girl’s head as she lay pinned into the grass. 

“Someone was trying to sneak off with some of our stuff,” Rachel said upon noticing them, removing one hand from where she had Perdita’s hands pressed against her chest, wiping her bloody face. “Think she broke my nose.” 

Thomas was impressed the Twelve girl had put up a fight at all, considering her seemingly petrified attitude she stuck to before the Trials began. A strategy, maybe?

“Cut her hands off,” Mara offered. “That’s what happens to thieves.” 

Thomas ignored the sting of bile threatening at the back of his throat.

“Relax there, rabbit slayer,” Dan said in a huff. He looked at the One pair, waving them off. “C’mon Rachel, be done with it.” 

Rachel rolled her eyes and snatched the thin blade from Aris, keeping Perdita’s hands still with one of her own as she scooted slightly down the girl’s body. Perdita struggled hard, but obviously didn’t have nearly enough muscle to try and stop what was inevitable. 

Rachel drove the thin blade directly into the inside of the girl’s thigh, wiggling it around slightly—presumably ensuring the severance of her femoral artery—then pulled it out again. Perdita’s angry facade broke, carving room for the screams and tears to begin. Rachel stood, and the other bent up, clutching at her leg, desperately trying to stop the spray of blood, and Thomas watched. 

Teresa and the others left the minute Rachel rose off the girl’s body, heading off towards the hole again, but he didn’t. No, he stayed, standing, staring down at Perdita as she wailed for her mother, her father, for anyone to save her. He remembered her face when he came out of Newt’s room just this morning, he saw it clearly, even now. 

The puff around her eyes from being fresh out of sleep, the redness on her nose and outlining her lips, indicating she’d been crying. The way her clothes were wrinkled, the way her hair was messy, the way a series of creases were imprinted on her face likely from her pillow. This morning he had seen her human, seen her as a person, and now he watched as she died. 

He could drop onto his knees and press his hands onto the gash, apologize to her, cry for a tourniquet, but it wouldn’t come. There was nothing Thomas could do but watch as this innocent girl—child—bled to death miles away from her home, from her family. They were probably watching now, watching their daughter die. 

He looked around for cameras, for anything, but was unsuccessful. He wouldn’t know what to say, anyway. 

He walked off towards the others, listening to the sound of her cries lessen just slightly as he sat down next to his sister by the hole. 

“We didn’t find any water,” Dan said, seemingly ignorant to Perdita’s wails. “Aris, Rachel, would you be absolute darlings and go grab some from the swampy area?” 

“No,” Aris said blankly. “Do it yourself.” 

“I’ll do it,” Rachel said, shrugging. “And I’ll check for any hiders while I’m at it.” 

Aris sat up. “Oh, alright. I’ll come too.”

Dan looked at Thomas with an undoubtedly smug expression, which he returned with a half-hearted smile, watching as Aris and Rachel emptied out a pouch from the hole and went around collecting their empty water bottles. After pulling his own from deep inside his bag and handing them to the pair, Thomas placed his elbows against his knees, chin resting on his interweaved hands. 

Perdita had stopped screaming, though her cannon had yet to go off. If he listened closely enough, he could hear her tired, nearly empty sobs. Not so much sobs as weak puffs of air, but they made his stomach clench nonetheless. 

The wet, heavy stench of her blood was floating in the air, mixing in with the older scents from the bloodbath. 

He wondered what it felt like, lying there, the life spilling out from inside her. A part of him wanted to crawl towards her, hold her head in his lap and swear that it would be okay, that this—her death—was a mercy. But it wasn’t. Not really. Nothing the Capitol did was merciful. 

“I’m thinking The Pit,” Dan said idly, pulling grass out from the ground. 

Mara looked up from where she had been searching through her bag, the headless rabbit still hanging from it. “What?” 

“This.” He gestured over the hole. “I’ve been calling it The Pit.” 

“Oh,” she hummed. “I thought The Hole was more suiting.” 

Thomas looked at her, smiling slightly. “Me too.” 

She smiled back at him, oddly enough.

Perdita’s cannon shot, and no one so much as flinched. Thomas didn’t either, though he had been waiting for it. 

“Whatever.” Dan pointed to the swamp. “We’ll call that the Swamp.” His finger moved to the tall grass. “That’ll be the…er…” 

“Talls?” Mara offered. 

“Lovely. The Talls.” Dan threw a thumb over his shoulder to the forest. “And that’ll be…” 

The girl snorted. “The Woods?” 

Dan’s eyes fell onto the headless rabbit, grimacing slightly. “The Deadheads.”

Mara frowned, then followed his gaze to the corpse attached to her bag. She rolled her eyes, starting to undo the twine. “You’re so dramatic.” 

Dan shivered theatrically as she laid the corpse over the grass, preparing her knife, then turned his attention to the walls around them, to the gaps leading to something unknown. “We’ll just call that The Beyond.” 

Teresa leaned into Thomas’ ear. “Why’s he got to name everything again?” Thomas shrugged and smirked to himself, catching Mara’s eye unintentionally. She was frowning at him, knife still where it had cut a line along the stomach of the rabbit. She looked away, but over the course of the following half hour or so he felt her eyes return to him again and again, and it caused a heat in his core to grow hotter and hotter. 

When Aris and Rachel returned the six immediately sifted through the many bags in The Hole to collect as much iodine as they could find. The water from the swamps was cloudy, requiring far more of the water purifier, and even after they waited a decent amount of time it didn’t look all that drinkable. 

After what had to have been an hour of painfully staring at the bottles, waiting for them to clear, Dan went first, taking a long swig. He smacked his lips together loudly, cringing a bit. “Tastes like… dirt? And also piss, kind of.” 

“That’s what you want to hear,” Aris muttered, taking his own wary sip. 

Rachel shrugged. “Bottoms up, I guess.” 

As Mara sniffed her own, she scowled. “We’re boiling it next time.” 

Thomas, despite his overall disgust, took a deep gulp, feeling particularly thirsty after the horrid morning he’d led. It tasted like dirt and piss, as described, but made him feel greatly better. His entire body seemed to react to the liquid, buzzing coolly, refreshed and ready for anything. 

He took the two untouched bottles and crammed them into his backpack, then used the remainder of the third to dump over his torso where the blood still stained him. He used his sleeve to scrub the dried blood from his neck and chest, then used his opposite, cleaner sleeve to wipe away whatever was on his face. He didn’t think about the Three girl’s impaled face, not once.

Even if he could still see the way her eyes bulged out to the side each time he closed his eyes. Even if he could still taste the droplets of her blood on his tongue. Even if he felt her cheek again his chest even hours later. 

“How do I look?” he asked Teresa. “Cleaner?” 

She only looked him over and shrugged.

Mara had gone off and collected a small pile of twigs and branches, and was now building a fire, her rabbit now nothing more than a collection of bare pink meat. It wasn’t so hard to look at now, but the memory of the girl snapping its neck was still fresh in his mind. 

“You missed a spot,” Mara said, not looking at him. 

He frowned. “Where?” 

“Forehead,” she answered. “On my ri–your left.” 

He gave her a quiet thanks, then wet a different part of his mostly dirtied sleeve and rubbed away at his forehead, scrubbing until it started to hurt. Even with the—admittedly poor—cleaning job he had done, Thomas could somehow still feel the sticky heat of blood pouring down him, filling his hollows and blanketing his skin. Somehow he thought that even if he showered in the Capitol bathrooms, that feeling would never go away. 

Thomas ended up lying down with his sister after Mara agreed to keep watch, Aris and Rachel having a quiet conversation between themselves, Dan lying on his back with an arm folded over his face. When Thomas shut his eyes, however, horrors painted themselves on the inside of the lids, playing on a loop. In order to rid of them, Thomas reminded himself of the only thing that was important. 

Teresa. Teresa was beside him, her braid splayed out in the green of grass, eyes closed, chest rising and falling with deep breaths. He thought of her, unmarred, safe and within his reach. So long as Teresa was okay, Thomas was okay. The blood that sprayed him, the lives that he watched fade, none of it mattered so long as she was here. 

Because Thomas only had one goal, one thing to live for, and that was to get her out. 

Some time later everyone, one by one, got up from their short rest, sitting around Mara’s fire and taking the small pieces of rabbit she had cooked. Thomas got a chunk, it was unclear what kind of chunk, and bit into it, the grease spilling over and staining the corners of his mouth. It was bland, kind of gamey, but he wasn’t about to insult her cooking. 

“What I saw from training, at least,” Dan started, talking through a mouthful. “Was that our biggest worries are the two from Seven, the boy from Three, and uh…the guy from Eleven. But the rest’ll be easy enough, probably get eliminated without our interference. Kid from ten, that little shit we saw up in the trees, on and on.” 

Aris shrugged. “I say we go for Eleven first.” 

“We’ve gotta get that one guy, shit, what’s his name?” Dan scratched his chin. “The shit that got an eleven.” 

“Newt,” Thomas supplied. “His name’s Newt.” 

“Newt, yes,” Dan hummed. “We’ve got to skin the bastard before he catches us while we sleep.” 

Mara nodded. “Agreed.” 

“I feel like we should avoid him completely,” Rachel said. “I mean, wait and see if someone else’ll eliminate him.” 

“I wouldn’t go near him with a Launcher,” Aris huffed, shuddering.

Mara rolled her eyes. “I’d rather see him die, it’s the only way I’ll be able to sleep.” 

Thomas thought of the Newt he had gotten to know, if only slightly. The one who let him stay in his bed for a night and the one that laughed alongside him and Brenda on the rooftop. The one that had been reading Capitol romance books and told Thomas he wouldn’t ever kill, not even if it meant he had to die. 

And here the Elites were, either annoyed at his existence or fearful of him.

He licked his lips. “He’s not a threat.” Five pairs of eyes snapped to him, and Thomas looked around at them, then shrugged. “Not really, I mean. Like…he won’t come after us or anything.” 

Mara’s eyes narrowed. “You know that because…?” 

“Uh.” He wiped his mouth, uncomfortable at the attention. “He’s not stupid, you know. Besides, he’ll probably just keep to himself, anyway.” 

Dan was looking at him with something intense in his eyes, and Thomas couldn’t tell if it was suspicious or not. “You know him well?” 

“No,” he said quickly, wishing he had never opened his mouth to begin with. “But we talked. Sort of. I’m good at reading people.” 

An odd quiet fell over them, a sort of silent argument being passed around the group. Aris was only looking at Thomas, though, his eyes narrowed slightly, much like Mara’s but far less intimidating. Thomas looked away, watching as Dan and Mara exchanged raised eyebrows. 

They wanted to hunt and kill Newt, he knew. And it was unlikely that they would have it any other way, not with the score the blond earned himself. 

And Thomas…well, he didn’t really know what he wanted. A part of him wanted them all dead, wanted to take his last look at his sister and have his last thoughts about her going home, being safe and living a long time after him. And another part of him wanted the killing to cease entirely, for every tribute from every district to rally up and tell the Makers, the Capitol, off. 

But he couldn’t have either of those things, not yet. 

“Alright.” Rachel finished her rabbit chunk, wiping her mouth with her sleeve before gesturing to Dan and Mara. “You guys go and do whatever you want, and the rest of us will stay here and keep our heads.” 

“What are you so afraid of?” Mara questioned. “He’s all bones. I could break him in half with one finger.”

Thomas frowned. Newt had scored an eleven, after all. She needed to learn the art of self-preservation, he thought.

Aris seemed to agree. “He scored higher than us all. You think it was some freak accident?” 

Mara rolled her eyes. “One point above us, it’s practically nothing.” 

“We’ve got to get him, otherwise we’ll be sitting ducks,” Dan said, a sort of finalization in his tone. “Plus, Aris is right. He scored higher than us.” 

Rachel frowned. “So…?”

“So, we need to kill him,” Dan said, as if it was obvious. “Right now he’s our biggest threat. It’d be stupid to sit around being scared of him. We’re us, he’s him.”

Thomas scoffed slightly. “He’s–”

Teresa elbowed his side, cutting him off. He frowned at her, but she only raised an eyebrow pointedly, so he shut his mouth. 

Mara sat up. “I bet he’s waiting to pick us off one by one, that’s what I’d do.” 

Thomas didn’t want to see Newt, not really. The blond was probably tucked away somewhere safe and sound, hiding, waiting for it to be over. Or maybe Mara was right and he was hiding somewhere nearby, watching, waiting. Maybe he had lied to Thomas, gained a piece of trust, and was not awaiting the perfect opportunity to cut him open. 

But why lie? It wasn’t like Newt talked to any of the others outside of him, and Thomas certainly wasn’t the strongest of them, so there was little reason for him to gain his trust out of the group. Newt didn’t seem like the type to lie. Or maybe Thomas just didn’t want him to be the type to lie. Maybe Thomas wanted to feel like Newt just wanted to be his friend. 

“Me and Mara’ll go find him,” Dan muttered, polishing off the rabbit leg he’d been chewing on, then rising to stand, wiping his hands on his pants. “So long as he’s not beyond the walls there’s not that many places for him to hide. This place is decently small, compared to others I’ve seen.” 

“I’ll come,” Thomas said immediately, following him to stand. He looked down at his sister. “You too?” 

She shook her head. Thomas wanted to question it, but instead he just just gave her a lingering look and reached down for his bag, stopped when Dan put a hand up.

“Don’t bother, I suspect we’ll be doing some chasing,” Dan told him, plucking up his spear from where he’d planted it in the ground.

He nodded, adjusting the straps of his holster. 

“Be safe,” Teresa told him quietly, and Thomas nodded his reassurance. 

The arena looked small, the part inside of the walls, at the very least. But the forest—despite being just half of the whole interior—felt absolutely massive when they were meant to be checking every inch of it. Thomas had seen enough wet logs and patches of moss to fulfill him for many lifetimes. Dan and Mara were keeping a sort of distance from him, mumbling occasionally to one another. The prickle on the back of his neck returned.

Dan had been kind enough to him, and Thomas knew that at some point they wouldn’t be as…friendly, anymore. But for now he saw no reason that the boy would turn on him. Though he couldn’t help but think of the odd looks he kept getting from the others, the glances and stares. Did they sense it, his fear? Did they know that deep down, he wasn’t one of them?

No. He was getting in his head again, just as Teresa told him not to do. It happened often, according to his sister. He shook himself off, trying to clear his mind. 

The more they passed quiet words to one another, however, the more Thomas felt like something was wrong, like there was something going on that he didn’t know about. How trustworthy were they, in the end? Dan’s overall act of camaraderie could’ve been a guise, and Mara never acted anything other than indifferent or plainly annoyed. 

It didn’t matter. Soon they’d be dead alongside him. 

And he didn’t think about how he didn’t really want them dead. He didn’t, because they were in the Trials, and thoughts such as those didn’t fit into such a place. 

An hour or so in, Dan spotted campfire smoke nearing the opposite end of the woods through the trees, and Thomas’ gut fell out onto the forest floor. They moved quickly, and this time—with the risk of the fire being Newt’s own doing—quietly. As they neared, the three crouched low, muting their steps on wet leaves and mud and moss. 

The fire was abandoned, and the corpse of a squirrel was poorly skinned and bloody, laying beside it. Dan frowned, words coming out in a whisper. “Spread out. Holler if you find anything.” 

Mara rolled her eyes, lightly knocking his shoulder as she brushed by him. Thomas went off in the direction of the South Wall, breathing deep, keeping himself alert. 

He searched for about ten minutes, coming up short, all until he pushed a blanket of vines away from a large rock and found a small cave dug out below it. He got down on his hands and knees, peering inside the shallow hole, and found big blue eyes staring up at him. 

“Chuck,” Thomas breathed. 

Chuck’s body was shielded by the dark and another tribute—a girl Thomas couldn’t remember the name of—and she looked somehow more terrified than the little boy did. The pair made for some sort of tragic scene, probably never met before today, not properly, and were now clutching onto each other for life. He looked behind him, finding the place empty of Dan and Mara, for now. 

“Please,” the girl whispered, almond eyes wide, dark hair in a ponytail that was probably slick at one point. 

Thomas looked at Chuck, pulling a finger up to his lips. The boy nodded desperately. Thomas dropped the vines and let them shield the pair once more, before quickly turning off in search of the others. His heart was pounding so hard it hurt, an anxious sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades and against his lower back. 

If Dan and Mara found out he’d concealed them, found out he’d been weak, found out he wasn’t trustworthy, they’d likely kill him on the spot. Would they return to The Hole and kill Teresa too? He felt sick. 

He found the pair by the fire again, and upon his arrival they both looked up, hopeful. 

“Nothing,” he uttered. “Just leaves and sticks.” 

“Ah, great.” Dan pulled out the blond hair pulled back into a little bun, then began retying it. “How many are dead?” 

Mara began counting on her fingers, mouthing the numbers silently, slowly. “Six? No, Seven.” 

“That's…twelve, excluding us.” Dan shrugged. “It’ll probably get dark soon, may as well relax for a bit. We can come out again during the night, I’m sure people will be more prone to setting up fires once the temperature drops.” 

“If it even does,” Mara commented, starting off towards The Hole again. 

Thomas didn’t say anything, his mind on Chuck and the girl in that shallow cave. He thought of the pure terror on their faces, terror of him. His presence had been more than enough to make them fear for their lives, and maybe at one point such a thing would’ve fed his ego, but now he felt like a monster. 

As they walked back, Thomas’ mind fell back to Brenda—Bee—his very first kill. He wondered how it had been done, if she was in pain when it happened, or if they just shot poison into her bloodstream and let it be over with. He imagined a world where they had met during different circumstances, where he had saved her before it had been too late. 

He couldn’t stop thinking that he was on her mind before she died, how she must’ve blamed him for ending her life. Thomas could see her face in the eye of his mind, see her resting her head on his thigh, looking calmer than he’d ever known her to be. He thought of the little orange ball they, along with Newt, tossed in a triangle. He wanted to go back there. 

Thomas had yet to take a life with his own hands, and he was starting to doubt that he was even capable. Even despite that, he knew for a fact that he had caused every death he witnessed by standing by, by doing nothing. Poppy could’ve lived longer. Hell, maybe she could have won had she never got caught up in the ivy. Perdita, too. Maybe. Probably not.

It didn’t matter. He did nothing as they died, only listened, watched. 

“How much of their blood is on our hands?”

More than enough, now, Thomas thought. Maybe at one point he could’ve pretended nothing was his fault, not even the crime of bystanding. But now he was covered in the blood of those whose lives he could’ve saved—both metaphorically and physically—and there wasn’t a way for him to act as though he was innocent. No, he was now a contributor to those who tortured Brenda, those who killed dozens of kids every year. 

Darnell, he thought. I was wrong.

Darnell would’ve laughed in his face, and made him swear up and down to never doubt him again. He would’ve smiled that crooked grin, bumped their shoulders together, then would go off on a tangent about one thing or another. Thomas would sit there and listen, he would laugh, he would wonder why he ever became friends with Darnell, and then he’d thank the Creators that he did. 

He must’ve been watching now, Thomas was sure. Darnell had been somewhat against such things, surely, but if ever there was a person run by curiosity, it was his friend. He stepped over a log and looked up at the trees above, wondering where the camera’s were hidden. Just as the thought passed through him, his eyes caught on something shiny.

It was a bug, seemingly. Though with a longer look it seemed to be made of metal, green writing across its side Thomas couldn’t make out from the distance. He stared at it until he’d walked too far, mind wandering back home, wandering to the place he would never see again. 

When they returned to the camp, Aris and Rachel were sitting on top of The Hole’s trapdoors, laughing between themselves. Teresa looked up as they broke through the forest line, giving Thomas a little wave. He grinned at her, forcing his mind away, forcing himself to remember what mattered. 

“Done with hunting around today,” Dan said once they came up. “Let’s just hangout around…” He gestured to The Hole. “Whatever this…hole, pit thing is until night.” 

“It’s more of like…a box,” Aris said, sliding off the door and settling beside Mara, Rachel quickly following. “Pit sounds creepy. Hole is sort of misleading.”

“The Box,” Thomas hummed, testing. 

“Good a name as any.” Dan shrugged, crouching down beside Thomas, snacking on a bag of assorted nuts. “What should we do? Wouldn’t want us to die of boredom.” 

They passed the hours before nightfall by rolling up Dan’s socks—Teresa opting out, repulsed—and tossing them around like a ball. It reminded Thomas of his day on the rooftop, but he refused to think too much into it. He needed to keep himself grounded, sane, if he wanted to last long enough to ensure his sister’s win.

To Thomas’ surprise, they didn’t catch so much as a glimpse of any other tributes for the remainder of the day. It felt…disappointing, in a way. Relieving, too. Thomas thought again about how he had assumed things would go, and wondered how long until the Elites would be all that was left. Of course that meant they’d have to turn on one another, and Thomas was admittedly glad that such a thing seemed many days away. 

It was odd, entrusting your life to those who were going to be competition in a short time. He didn’t care all that much for Aris and Rachel, as they were a bit obnoxious with their private giggly conversations, nor did he feel overly attached to Mara—if anything he was kind of scared of her—but he had come to like Dan. If it came down to it, Thomas believed he could kill the boy if need be. But he didn’t want to. Not really. 

That was if he could defeat him in a fight, which Thomas believed he had a pretty fifty-fifty chance at. Dan was big, muscled, but cocky. He liked to show off when necessary, as Thomas had seen many times during their training, and it left him vulnerable. Then again, maybe it was different here, in the arena. Sport, survival. 

The sun began to set, halfway behind the West Wall, filling the entire place with a beautiful golden-orange hue. Thomas basked in it, imagining he were in a real field somewhere, surrounded by his sister and their friends. It was a beautiful picture he painted, one he wished was reality. 

Unfortunately, Dan’s rolled up socks pulled him back to the present by smacking into his forehead. 

“Gross,” he mumbled, throwing them to Rachel. 

“Toll will come up soon,” Dan said, peering up at the sunset with a hand shielding his eyes slightly. “Maybe we missed a cannon or two.” 

“Maybe,” Rachel hummed. “Maybe that kid from Twelve died.” 

Aris frowned. “Wait, wasn’t that girl we got the other one from Twelve?” 

“Shit,” Rachel groaned. “D’you think they were friends?” 

Thomas shrugged. “Friendly, maybe. I don’t think it went farther than that.” 

“Alright, that’s it,” Dan huffed, rising to stand at the very head of the circle, bare feet out. “Tom, you’re elected as our Newt expert.” 

“What?” he asked. 

Dan began strolling around the outside of the circle made by their bodies, tapping everyone’s head as he passed. Once he got to Thomas, he stopped, planting hands on either of his shoulders and squeezing firmly. “You, my dear friend, are going to lead us to him.” 

Thomas frowned, tilting his head back to look up at the other. “Er, what?” 

Rachel snorted. “Well, you do seem to know all about him.” 

“I don’t,” he said as evenly as he could, frowning at her. “We just had a conversation or two, but that’s it.” 

“And that’s farther than the rest of us got, so.” Dan moved to sit on Thomas’ left, plopping down practically half on top of him, though not really. “What’s the plan, where would he be?”

“Can we really trust him to tell us?” Aris said in a light tone, looking around as the group’s eyes shot to him. “I mean, no offense Thomas but…” 

“But what?” Teresa chimed, quiet demeanor vanished. 

“Look, I’m just being logical, alright?” Aris told them, hands up in a defensive stance. “But Thomas you’re sort of…I don’t know. You’re kind of a risk.” 

“Aris,” Dan said in a low voice. 

Thomas felt his skin crawl, stomach sinking at the idea that he’d been right, they had noticed. It wasn’t in his head. They knew. 

“Why are you all looking at me like that? It’s true,” Aris said, eyes darting between them. “Ever since we got here he’s been…weird, I don’t know. Is it a good idea to just trust him not to lead us who-knows-where? You heard him, he’s friends with that Newt guy.” 

“Shut up, Aris,” Teresa hissed. 

Thomas felt as though he was recoiling into himself, ears ringing and mind feeling as though it was submerged in warm, foggy water. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. He only sat there, staring at the ground in front of him as he waited. He didn’t know what it was he was waiting for, but he waited nonetheless. 

“Rach, help me out,” Aris said, glancing at the girl. 

Thomas looked up, and found Rachel staring back at him as she ignored her district partner. 

“Alright, that’s enough of whatever this is,” Dan said. “Aris, maybe have something to eat, have a drink, calm down.”

“Calm down?” Aris repeated, affronted. “Why are you guys acting like I’m the problem? I’m looking out for us.” 

“Stop,” Rachel whispered, eyes finally breaking from Thomas. 

Mara was sitting aside, just observing. Thomas wondered what she was thinking. 

“He’s a risk!” Aris insisted. “He’s fucking crazy–”

And then Aris stopped talking, because Teresa was on her feet, stalking towards him slowly. The minute the words fell past his lips, it was as though the world fell silent. No crickets or buzzes of unidentified insects, no bristle of swept leaves, no pretty whoosh of wind playing through the grass. It was just Aris and Teresa, staring at one another while the others sat around frozen, watching. 

Thomas studied Aris carefully as the boy looked up at his sister, eyes slightly wide in fear. His attention flickered to the thin, sweaty head of dirty blond hair atop the other’s head. The roots were a touch darker, the ends a touch lighter. Aris was a lean guy, shorter than Thomas, though his face bore a fat below his cheekbones and a glow about his skin that spoke of wealth. 

Newt didn’t bear that glow, nor did any of the tributes outside of them. Not really. In fact, not all of those from One, Two, and Four even wore such a thing, but they themselves had been the privileged among the privileged. Thomas wondered if Aris had a mother, a father. Thomas wondered if Aris had a brother. A sister. 

He remembered seeing Aris’ choosing, remembered being put off by the pair just as Teresa had been. He remembered watching them fight to volunteer in the Trials, fight for the honour of it all. He thought of Rachel. He wondered if all of their giggling and flirting was all for show, or maybe something to otherwise occupy their minds. Or maybe they really were stupid enough to believe they’d find love in such a place. 

Thomas thought of his own privilege, how he had lived a more than comfortable life under Jorge’s roof, seeing as how the man was a retired Keeper. A Runner, at that. He thought of how his whole body reeked of the life he was allowed to lead, thought about the fact that he volunteered out of sheer jealousy. 

Thought about how stupid he had really, truly been. 

Thought about how Aris was being stupid. 

Thomas tried to look at Aris through Teresa’s eyes, in that moment. Trying to conjure an idea of what thoughts were running through her mind. She looked furious, in a quiet way. There was something about the way she stood over Aris, looming over him with light eyes that were entirely dark with…something. Anger, maybe. But that didn’t feel right. 

“Stop talking,” his sister said in a low voice. 

Thomas expected Dan to step up, to pull Teresa away, but the taller boy only remained at Thomas’ side, watching. Mara doing the same. Rachel went as far as to scoot back slightly from where she sat somewhat close to the pair. The tension was palpable, and Thomas felt as though he was watching the scene unfold from above. 

“Alright,” Aris said in a small voice, licking his lips. “I was just trying–” 

“He’s fine,” Teresa spat. “He’s fine. You need to shut your fucking mouth.” 

“Okay,” Aris said. 

And then Thomas’ eyes flickered to the One boy’s fingers as they subtly reached for a small dagger laying beside him. 

The next thing he registered was the distinct and ever travelling boom of a cannon. 

It had happened in an instant, the way the world fell black for an amount of time he was unaware of. For a few moments Thomas had been certain he must’ve fallen unconscious. But as his senses returned with the cannon, along with them came the realization that he hadn’t passed out. No, not even slightly. 

He was on his knees on the ground, hand clutching a head covered in dirty blond hair, matted with blood. The ringing in his ears lessened with every second that passed, and he forced his eyes to examine the scene before him, forcing himself to make out what he was looking at. 

The grass around Aris’ head had a circle of splattered blood, like a puddle that had been jumped in, staining the surrounding green with it. Thomas’ hand was red, and the cool breeze that had begun made the hot of it all the more real. 

Aris was dead. 

Aris was dead, and Thomas had killed him.

He pulled his hand back, feeling the reverberations of how hard he must’ve been slamming the others head into the ground running up the bones in his arm, causing them to ache. Aris was in a fetal position, the side profile of his face entirely unrecognizable, morphed, painted red. He didn’t look like a person anymore. Thomas didn’t know what he looked like, but he looked wrong. 

“Thomas…” he heard behind him, but he couldn’t break his gaze away. He couldn’t stop looking. His hands had done this, had taken life. He had killed Aris with his bare hands.

Hands found his back, and he flinched away from them the first time, but when they returned he allowed them to guide him to stand. As he was turned around, he met the eyes of Dan, then Rachel. The former had the latter wrapped in one of his arms, tight around her midsection, the other clutching her mouth, keeping her quiet. Rachel was beet red in the face, tears streaking from her eyes and over the back of Dan’s hand. 

Dan let her go, and Rachel’s sob rang out into the night as she rushed forward, shoving past Thomas to get to Aris…well, Aris’ corpse. He tracked her form as she did, and watched as she shoved the body until it was facing up, hands gently caressing the disfigured face. 

Mara’s hands slipped from his back, and Dan’s replaced them, turning Thomas around again. 

“Look at me,” Dan requested, and Thomas obliged, hands trembling, heart racing. “So?”

“So?” he repeated quietly, questioning, fearful.

Dan smiled. “How are you feeling?” 

“Don’t know,” he muttered. “Like…wrong. I didn’t–” He looked back at Rachel, the body she was fretting over. “He was just…I couldn’t…” 

“Hey,” Dan said softly, gripping his shoulders and forcing his attention onto him once more. “It’s alright.” 

Thomas looked between Dan’s eyes. “I’m…what did I do?” 

“Nothing,” the other said softly, chest rising and falling quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Thomas. Hm? Nothing at all.” 

“I killed him,” he whispered. 

“Yeah you did,” the other agreed. “And that’s okay.” 

Thomas was confused, dizzy, unsure of himself. “It is?” 

“Of course,” Dan said. “You did what you had to do. And…” He looked over Thomas’ shoulder where Rachel’s cries cut through the forming night. “You did it…” He huffed a hot laugh. “You did it fucking well.” 

Thomas frowned, blinking hard. “Oh.” 

“Go sit down,” Dan hummed, pushing Thomas gently to the side. “Rest.” 

Teresa was waiting for him, unspeaking but eyes comforting. He slid onto the ground and leaned against her, staring at Rachel as she sobbed, wailed, screamed into the open air. He watched as Dan peeled the distraught girl off the corpse, then watched as Mara guided her away, hand on her back and quiet whispers in her ear. 

The Berg came only a minute later, a claw descending to pick up what remained of Aris. 

A sound kept calling in the depths of his mind, but he ignored it. 

And ignored it.

And ignored it. 

Chapter Text

Around ten minutes after Aris died, something very rotten and very sick was planted inside of Thomas. He could feel it in his core, slowly infecting more and more of his insides with its poison. He could only sit there, watching as Dan plucked a bloody piece of Aris’ skull off the ground and tossed it across the field towards the tall grass, and hope he had time before it consumed him. 

Maybe it had already been there, making itself somewhat known but otherwise remaining dormant until now. But whatever it was, however long it had lived inside him, it was growing, expanding, taking over him. There was more, more, more. More, but more of what? Thomas didn’t know. But he did know that there was more. 

Teresa could feel it, he knew. She had kept her place beside him, hands busy with a blade of grass she had been ripping up into smaller and smaller pieces, but her frame was tense. She thought he was crazy and unwell for killing their ally, but if there was anything Thomas knew, it was that such a decision was not made in an ill mind.

Aris was going to hurt her. If Thomas hadn’t stepped in and done…what he did during his lost time, she could’ve been injured or worse. And he had said it once before, there wasn’t anyone he wouldn’t harm if it meant protecting his sister. 

Dan understood. Dan understood that Aris was dangerous, that Thomas did what he needed to do. Dan understood that Aris was going to hurt his sister, and he understood that Thomas had to prevent that. Dan understood him. Dan did, he had all but said so himself. Could Teresa? It didn’t seem like she did. 

Aris had to die. It wasn’t as though Thomas wanted to kill him, but Aris pushed his hand. If he hadn’t gone for the dagger, he would’ve lived. Thomas would’ve forgiven his comments, his doubt, all of it, so long as he didn’t put the life of his sister in danger. But he had. And now he was dead. 

Dead. By Thomas’ own doing. 

Thomas had killed Aris. 

The blood was still staining his hand, and he stared at it. It was dried, for the most part. The wettest portions were still shiny, and there were small pools that had weakly attempted to clot. But the rest had taken to a dark, almost black crust. When he stretched or bent his fingers, it crackled further. When the wind—which had been growing further in speed steadily—hit it, it sent a chill down his back. 

His swords were still in their holster on his back, untouched and unmarred despite his actions. Thomas apparently hadn’t bothered with them, instead finding his hand to be a perfect substitute. The bones of his arm were sore, his wrist especially. But Aris was dead, so it was likely he shouldn’t complain. 

He turned his focus to Teresa, and she offered him a long look in return, then sighed. “If they ever trusted you, you’ve ruined it.” Her voice was low, but it felt just as scolding as a yell would. “Who knows what they’re thinking now.” 

“Does it really matter?”

“What if they turn on you?” she said quickly, brow furrowed. “You realize that–” 

“Teresa,” he cut in, meeting her eyes. “We don’t need them.” Because they didn’t, not really. “If you think we’ve got to go, we’ll go and win this, just us.”

She shook her head softly. “It’s not that simple.” 

Thomas’ eyes found Dan, who was now standing with Rachel and Mara a decent space away from them. Rachel’s voice was low, but she was talking fast. Dan seemed calm, hands moving as he spoke, and Mara didn’t appear to be saying anything at all, only observing. 

“We could slip away now,” Thomas told her. 

She scoffed. “And when they hunt us down?” 

“We’ll do what we need to.” 

“You just killed one of our allies,” she huffed out, eyes on the side of his face. “Don’t you feel bad?”

And then Dan turned away from the two girls, meeting Thomas’ eye across the distance between them. There wasn’t any anger in the taller boy’s gaze, nor mistrust. So when Thomas looked back to his sister, all he could mutter was a soft, “No.” 

And the conversation ended there, partially because Teresa sat up and walked away from him, and partially because the anthem sounded all around them, the glows of sunset finally having receded to pave a way for the dark of a new night. The anthem sat high in the sky, displaying the Capitol logo for a few moments. 

And when it shifted, Thomas looked away, staring into the grass. 

The anthem went on, and the faces lit up the sky, even if Thomas didn’t look up to meet them. He thought of the others scattered around the arena, how they were all likely to be staring up at the faces of the dead, how some of them would soon be nothing more than a picture in the sky. He wondered how Chuck was doing, if he was safe with that girl. 

It was the Eight girl in that cave with him, Thomas soon remembered. He’d seen her in the interviews, sweet. Far too sweet for such a place. A part of him wished he’d have done more for the pair, done anything to help them. But he couldn’t. And he had to stop thinking like that. Teresa was the priority. 

The anthem came to an end, the white light of it disappearing and leaving them in the dark, their area only lit up by the small fire Mara had been half-heartedly maintaining for the past few hours. The others returned to sit by The Box, Rachel still sniffling, eyes flickering to the drying stain of Aris’ blood in the grass, though she made no comment towards Thomas. 

Dan, however, walked over to where his bag rested on the ground, rifling around in it for a moment until he found what he was looking for, then promptly walked over to Thomas, plopping into place beside him. He said nothing, only opened a pouch of dried meat and stared into the slowly dying fire. 

Thomas looked to Teresa, watched as she paced across the ground, wondered what thoughts ran through her mind. She seemed…disturbed, as if suddenly she was afraid of the fact that Thomas could kill, if he needed to. Did she think he would turn on her, hurt her? Surely she knew better than that. 

Maybe she was just processing the fact that he wasn’t as weak as she initially thought. 

Or maybe she was just as afraid of the rot inside of Thomas as he was. Maybe she knew he was far weaker than anyone ever could have guessed, because the thing inside Thomas didn’t feel like power, didn’t feel like strength. It felt like it was consuming him, slowly. Like a cold, slimy seed that grew and grew and grew, a decay that ate him inside out. 

He had time. He had time. 

But maybe…maybe it wasn’t wrong, maybe it wasn’t a bad thing. What if this thing was the same rot that lived inside of Dan, of Teresa, of all the Elites who eliminated instead of killed? It could’ve been strength, it could’ve been endurance. It could be the thing that made people right for this world, as Jorge had said he wasn’t. 

Darnell didn’t have it. Newt didn’t have it. And Thomas didn’t have it, not originally. But maybe it was the key to getting his sister out, maybe it was the only way of both proving himself to the world and keeping his sister alive, all at the same time. 

Proving himself? Thomas didn’t care about that anymore, did he? But if he could have that, have the world know him to be more than what they thought about him, and have his sister go home, return to haven that was Jorge’s arms. If he could have both of those things, all at once, wouldn’t that be enough?

Teresa’s final memories of him wouldn’t be his death by her hand, his weakness in the Trials. Instead it would be of him tearing down those who stood against them, and giving her his life so she could go on to live her own. Adam, Hank, everyone in their district and in every district would see him as a hero. A hero who died, who killed, so the only person he loved could live. 

“Hungry?” Dan asked, pulling Thomas from his thoughts. He looked over to see the taller boy offering a strip of dark, dried meat. “You should eat, anyway. Practically puked up your stomach today.”

Thomas gave a small smile, taking the piece and biting into it. “Thanks.” 

Dan hummed a response, eyes never leaving Thomas as he ate. After a quiet moment, the other spoke again. “We’ve got to talk.” 

He paused chewing. “Okay.” 

“We’ve got to find this Newt kid,” Dan said, smirking slightly at the relieved breath Thomas released. “And I know you said you two weren’t all that close, but you’re our best bet.” He nudged Thomas’ shoulder. “If you were him, where would you be?” 

Thomas considered it a moment, swallowed his mouthful, then sighed. “Hiding.” He scratched at the nape of his neck. “I really don’t know him at all, but he’s not going to come after us. I know he isn’t.” 

“Okay,” Dan said. “I trust you.” He closed the pouch of dried meat, setting it aside. “His score just has me on edge. Don’t think anyone has ever gotten an eleven.” 

“Maybe he can levitate,” Thomas told him. 

Dan snorted, then gave him a gleeful look. “Well, if we’re not after him, then we move onto the next. The two from Seven. They paired up in the beginning, I saw them run off together.”

“They won’t be hiding,” Thomas said quietly. “They’ll just be waiting for us somewhere obvious. Probably the woods.” He scratched his head, ignoring the feeling of something hardened within his hair. “Bet they’ll come after us before anyone else.” 

“Comforting,” Dan hummed. “Guess we should probably deal with them first.” 

“Definitely,” he replied. 

Suddenly a harsh breeze hit Thomas’ back, and while usually he would brush off such a thing, he became acutely aware of the Makers, of where they were, of the arena. Dan seemed to be thinking something similar, because he quickly made a move to stand, Thomas up seconds after him. 

The girls were quick to join them, Mara frowning. “Think it’s a storm?” 

“Maybe,” Dan muttered. 

Rachel wiped her nose, gaze avoiding Thomas entirely. “We should take cover, just in case.” 

Dan nodded and ordered everyone to grab their supplies, sending the five of them bolting around and collecting their bags, tossing them into The Box before climbing in themselves. Mara and Dan shut the two massive trap doors with great grunts, and the slam of metal against metal echoed far down, making them all the more aware that The Box itself was hung at the top of a large drop. 

“Shit,” Dan muttered, and his voice carried down, down, down. 

Mara’s brow furrowed. “You don’t think…” 

Thomas stood up as best he could and pushed one of the doors up and opened it just a crack, and was immediately greeted by the rush of roaring wind that seemed to only be increasing in speed. Just before he dropped the hatch shut again he watched as a massive log flew by, scraping against the ground. 

“It’s either we risk it or get impaled,” Thomas said, stepping back. “I don’t think they’d risk killing all of us, anyway. Bad for, er…business.” 

Mara rolled her eyes. “Nice going. You’ve jinxed us.” 

“Nah, he’s right,” Dan offered, sliding down one of the cage walls and landing with a grunt. “On the bright side, no one can kill us in our sleep.” 

“As nice as that is, it also means we can’t kill anyone in their sleep.” Mara fluffed a few larger pouches on the ground, then laid out over them. “At this rate we’ll be here for weeks.” 

“Got somewhere to be?” Dan asked, cocking an eyebrow. 

She didn’t answer him, and instead rolled over in a sort of annoyed fashion. Thomas walked over an empty corner, scooting a few bags out of the way and sitting down, resting against the pile of them. He pulled a water bottle out from his bag and took a few sips, eyes finding Rachel’s own in a second. Hers were filled with something deadly. 

“She’s going to kill you the second you fall asleep,” Teresa supplied in a whisper, coming to sit by his feet.

He ignored her and instead rested his head against the pouches behind him, feeling the grates digging into his legs. His body was exhausted, knees aching slightly and head pounding. He shut his eyes, letting himself go back to his district, his section. The gray clouds above as he and Darnell ventured through the streets, talking about one thing or another. 

He couldn’t stay in it, however, as the nets of thick metal were digging into every bit of him that rested against them, the discomfort keeping comfort from finding him. He opened his eyes again, sitting up straighter, and found Rachel’s gaze still tracking him. 

“What?” he spat. 

She didn’t flinch at his tone. Instead, she scoffed. “We’re just going to ignore what happened? What you did?” 

“Rachel, no,” Mara said tiredly. 

“No? He killed Aris,” she hissed, her voice carrying down in heavy echoes. 

She looked miserable, face puffy from all the crying and bloodshot eyes glaring at him with all their might. Rachel was afraid of him, he knew. She was standing in the corner farthest from him, her hand twitching towards the knife in her belt every few seconds. 

Thomas swallowed, feeling a spike of anger at the fact that she expected him to let his sister be hurt. “He was going to die anyway.” 

“Maybe not!” she was shouting fully now, brows pressed. “Maybe he–” 

“Doesn’t matter now, does it?” Thomas cut in. 

She went silent, mouth agape with words caught, eyes a mix of rage and disbelief. After a few seconds she turned to Dan. “How can…how can you be okay with this?” 

“Look, everyone makes mistakes,” Dan said calmly, gesturing to Thomas. “Aris was pushing it, you know he was, and Thomas…” He sucked his teeth. “Thomas overreacted, slightly.”

Thomas nodded along, not because he agreed, but because it felt like what Dan wanted him to do.

“See?” Dan pointed to them both, then intersected his arms a few times. “You two need to just clear the air. Go on.” 

Rachel’s expression was nothing but pure shock. 

Dan rolled his eyes and looked to him, putting on a mocking voice. “Thomas, say sorry.”  

“Sorry,” he muttered tonelessly. 

Dan grinned, turning to the girl. “Amazing. Now, Rachel, accept his apology.” 

“Are you being fucking serious right now?” Rachel barked. 

Mara flipped onto her back and sat up on her elbows, glaring. “This is the Trials, Rachel. I don’t know what you were expecting. You need to shut the fuck up and go to sleep.” 

“Go to sleep? With him here with us?” Rachel threw her arms up, then dropped them against her sides. “What if he kills one of us?” 

Dan scoffed. “He won’t.” 

“How do you know that?” she bit. 

“You gonna kill us?” Dan asked him. 

Thomas shook his head. “No.” 

The taller boy nodded. “There, happy?” 

“This is unbelievable.” She looked between the three of them, then turned her arms up to one of the doors above. “I’m leaving.” 

In what could only have been half a second, Dan and Mara were inches away from her, a spear pointed at her throat and a curved blade held to her stomach. Mara cocked her head. “You ditch us, you die.” 

Rachel’s mouth twitched, something banging against the hatch in the windstorm outside. “Fine.” 

“Good,” Dan said happily, lowering his spear and coming to sit against the pile of bags next to Thomas. Like a guard, almost. At least Thomas thought so. “Get some sleep, all of you.” 

Rachel scoffed and sat down in the corner furthest from Thomas, hugging her knees to her chest and tucking her face into her lap. Mara returned to face the wall, and Dan crossed his arms, leaning back against the pile of bags. 

Thomas looked to Teresa, who raised her eyebrow slightly but said nothing. Soon after, he shut his eyes, focusing on his sister who was sitting by his feet, and focusing on Dan beside him, who radiated heat like a furnace despite the space between them. Pale, bloodied faces flashed in his mind, but he pushed them away, imagining the rooftop, the orange ball, the light laughter.

Unconsciousness took him in minutes. 

Hours passed—far too few—before Thomas violently jolted awake. His dreams consisted of nothing more than the dead, the arena and the suspicious space beyond the walls, and Alby’s fearful eyes, shaking hands holding a silver bow. Out of fear of returning to it once more, he settled on staying awake. Slowly he pushed himself up to sit, wincing at the sharp aches of discomfort that radiated all throughout his bones. 

Upon further inspection, he found Dan awake beside him, Teresa, Mara and Rachel asleep under his watch. He said nothing when Thomas rose, and nothing when he settled. The cage rocked with any movement, and Thomas was annoyingly reminded of the deep pit they swung above. 

The wind outside was still roaring, but based on the way the thin sliver of light peering between the crack of the two doors glowed a dark purple, he figured the sun would rise soon enough. He wondered if its arrival would mean the departure of the wind, considering it had only begun after the sun had fallen. An odd choice to make, he thought. Though it made a sort of sense, considering everyone in the outside world would’ve been asleep as well. 

They would want to save the action, so the people could watch every gruesome detail perfectly live. Thomas ignored the sick feeling such a thought brought up in his throat. 

With his mind somewhat fresh from a night of sleep, he sucked in a short breath and began evaluating the previous day. There were eight tributes dead—unless someone keeled over in the night—leaving sixteen in total and eleven outside of their little group. 

A shiver ran up Thomas’ spine. 

The dead were watching him, and though he didn’t see it, he could feel their presence under his skin and throughout the webs of his veins. The idea of being haunted had always been little more than small fears he had as a child, but now he intimately knew exactly what it felt like. It was as if eyes were on him at all times from every direction, and silent judgments were being made at his every move. 

He couldn’t let them interfere, couldn’t let them distract him from the goal. All of those who died in the arena this year were dead the moment they were chosen, and there was little Thomas could’ve done about it. Nothing he could’ve done about it, really. In fact, the only person he had directly killed was Aris, and Aris had just as much of a chance at winning as that little girl from Eleven did. 

And even though he wasn’t at fault, even though there was nothing he could’ve done, the stares remained. The presence remained. Chilling him. Tracking him. So be it. 

The dead would watch him, and Thomas would ignore them. 

I can’t help you, he told them. 

Justice was what they wanted, what they needed, but he was just a seventeen-year-old boy just a week or two away from death, if he was lucky. 

I can’t help you, he said again. 

There was only one person Thomas could help, could save. And it was the only person he truly wanted to save. The one person he would sacrifice the entire country for, the only person the world couldn’t go on without. 

As he looked at Teresa, he found her to be awake, looking back. Her eyes flickered all over his face, as if she could read his thoughts. 

“It isn’t a good look on you,” she murmured. “The whole melodramatic thing you’ve got going on.” 

Thomas snorted, grateful for her improved mood. “Ah, well. Learned from the best.” 

“Oh shut up,” she huffed. “I’m not nearly as bad as you.” 

“Didn’t you throw a glass across the room because Jorge wanted you to wear those weird shoes?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Which was completely reasonable and you know it,” she retorted. “I could barely walk in those shoes, let alone run in them.” 

“It was for a party–why would you be running at a party?” 

“Shut up.” 

“You shut up.” 

“Thomas,” Dan’s voice said, pulling his focus. 

Thomas looked around at the others sleeping forms, fixing his face into something apologetic. “Sorry.” 

Dan stared at him for a moment, an unreadable expression locking his features. It felt odd, like he was examining Thomas in the way he had in training when they first met. Eventually, an easy smile broke through. “Good sleep?” 

“Not really,” he huffed. “You?” 

“Can’t complain,” Dan hummed. “We’ve got to find somewhere to stay that isn’t…” He looked down through the grates on the floor. “A death trap.” 

“Agreed,” Thomas muttered. “The forest?” 

“Mm.” Dan leaned his head back, turning to him. “Lots of places for people to hide.” 

“Lots of places for us to hide,” he countered. 

Dan’s gaze flickered over Thomas’ face, then down to his throat, then the collar of his shirt. It was crusted with dried blood, uncomfortable, but he’d yet to find a way to clean himself up. He swallowed at the contact, and Dan's eyes shot back up to his. “There’ll be creeks and rivers that’ll taste better than our piss water, and there'll be plenty of small critters for Mara to dismember.” He paused. “I just worry.” 

Thomas frowned, noting how large and powerful Dan was to the naked eye alone. “About?” 

“People aren’t as stupid as they look, or as harmless,” the other replied, brow furrowing. “Out in the open we can see anyone coming, there’s not much room for them to sneak up on us. But in a shady area like that? In the dark especially, we won’t know what’s coming.” 

“Alby has a bow,” Thomas said quietly. “I uhm…I saw him take it.” 

Dan nodded. “And he’s in the woods.” 

He worried his bottom lip between his teeth for a moment. “There’s not much of an option otherwise, though. Can’t imagine anywhere else has a whole lot of shelter.” 

“Or resources,” Dan said thoughtfully. “What should we do with all this shit?” He gestured to the stout piles of supplies around them. “Burn it? Bury it?” 

“Just leave it,” Mara supplied in a raspy voice, rolling off the pouches she’d been asleep to sit facing them. “Most won’t even know we’ve gone from it.” 

“Most of them aren’t armed,” Dan said. “If we leave all the weapons out for the taking, who knows what’ll happen.” 

“I know what’ll happen,” the girl replied. “Nothing. They’re all cowards who don’t know a knife from their dicks. We’ll be fine.” 

Dan rolled his eyes. “Fine, whatever.” 

Thomas looked up at the once purple crack of light, which had now turned to a pinkish orange. He—with a groan and a sharp ache in his backside—rose from the floor and pushed the hatch up an inch. The wind was still somewhat strong, but certainly bearable. “It’s over, I think.” 

“Praise the Creators, or whatever they say,” Dan grunted, standing up and moving a few feet to lightly kick Rachel. “Get up before this thing drops us to our deaths.” 

She slapped his foot away, then groggily sat up, salt stains on her face. “Wind over?” 

Mara nodded. “Yup.” 

Once the group of them had their bags and weapons on hand, Thomas and Dan heaved the massive doors open, revealing the morning sky and far less aggressive brush of wind. Thomas pulled himself out first alongside Teresa, then he gave Dan and Mara a hand up behind him as best he could. When it was Rachel’s turn, she turned a glare up at him that was intense enough to rival Teresa’s own. 

Dan pushed him aside, offering his own hand down to the girl

And when she took it, a distinct click sounded, echoing down the length of the drop below. 

In less than a second, The Box dropped out from beneath Rachel’s feet, plummeting away and leaving Dan to fall onto his knees, both hands gripping the girl’s arm as she dangled over a dark, seemingly endless pit. 

“Holy shit,” Mara breathed beside him. 

The expanse of muscles across Dan’s back strained and twitched through his shirt as he gripped Rachel’s arm, but he made no move to pull her up. Rachel was kicking her feet slightly, looking between the darkness to Dan for a few seconds before his lack of effort clicked. 

“Pull me up!” she screeched. 

“I don’t know,” Dan said casually, though there was a certain strain to his voice. “Something tells me we can’t trust you, Rach. Not after what you pulled last night.” 

“I’m sorry,” she pleaded, tears welling up in her dark eyes. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please please pull me up. It won’t–it won’t happen again I swear, I swear.” 

“We’ve got to be a team,” Dan muttered. “Are you in or out?” 

“In!” she cried out. “I’m in, please. Please!” 

“Dan,” Mara said, stepping forwards.

Dan did, though not all the way. He hoisted Rachel up until he and the girl’s chests were nearly touching, his voice coming out in a whisper against her face. “One more chance.” He then pulled her up properly, throwing her onto the ground before falling back onto his knees, huffing out a tired breath. 

The second she was on stable ground, Rachel clutched the grass and began to silently cry. She looked half relieved and half utterly distraught.

Thomas watched the ordeal, frozen in shock, noting just how desperately Rachel wanted to live. She was so incredibly fear filled despite knowing what the Trials were about. She had fought to participate, fought against the other volunteers until she was bloodied and bruised, and now laid over the grass panting with tear streaked cheeks rehydrating the old salt stains. 

She was like Thomas in not knowing what she was getting into. He felt a stab of pity for her. 

“We’re like a little family,” Dan said with a smile, reaching forward to pat Rachel’s calf before turning to the others. “Think it’ll come back? I could do with a few more pouches of that dried pork.” 

Mara cleared her throat, shaking off a sort of daze. “We can wait for a bit.” 

And they did, sitting around the same place that was stained with Aris’ blood, their old fire nothing more than ash that had been scattered by the wind. Around twenty or so minutes later—by Thomas’ guess—they decided that The Box wasn’t likely to make a return anytime soon, so they started off into the forest once more to begin that day’s hunt. 

Dan and Mara led once more, chattering animatedly—at least on Dan’s part—and Teresa and Thomas trailed behind, both siblings rather quiet. Rachel walked in the middle, lagging off to the side as her eyes remained pinned to the ground, cheeks still wet with tears. 

As they checked pockets between the walls and boulders and an odd cave here and there, Thomas’ mind decided on supplying him with memories of Aris, of Aris’ death. It was a blur, shaky, but Thomas felt the slight tingle in his throat from yelling, the ache in his arm from pounding Aris’ head into the ground, and the noises, the feelings. 

It was quiet at first, careful thumping that turned more aggressive, louder, wetter. The cries, the sounds of the skull cracking, the feeling of broken skull beneath skin nudging against his palm. 

Thomas didn’t want to remember more, not really. But another part of him felt like he needed to, like not having the memory of it was robbing him of something. Guilt, maybe. Proper guilt. But Thomas didn’t feel guilty for killing Aris. Aris had done it to himself, if anything. 

He did. He really did. Thomas wouldn’t have attacked him if he hadn’t made a move towards his sister. Thomas wasn’t violent, like the others. He didn’t want to kill. He didn’t. 

Thomas reached a hand up and slowly ran it over his face. For the most part all he felt was dirt and oils, but when he scratched at his cheek his fingernail came up with dried blood underneath it. It was either the Three girl’s, had he not cleaned it off properly. Or, a more likely scenario, Aris’ own. 

He tried to remind himself of what Dan said. He tried to remember what he had told himself, that they were gone the moment they were chosen, but he couldn’t rid of the itch under his skin, nor the whispers of the dead ringing in the very back of his mind. He had taken life. If Thomas thought he was monstrous before the Trials began, he didn’t want to know what that made him now. 

He wondered what Newt would think about it. He wondered where Newt was. 

A few hours into their search—they’d come up empty handed, thus far—Dan made them all come to a halt to relieve himself a dozen or so feet away. Teresa, Mara, and Thomas rested against a thick tree, Teresa swiping her finger carefully along the sharp of her axe and Mara pulling out the tie holding her hair, then reworking it into a ponytail at the back of her head. 

Rachel was standing against a tree opposite to them, staring at the ground pointedly. 

Mara finished with her hair, rubbing her hand against the top to presumably check for any bumps. Thomas watched, for no particular reason, and she looked up at him with a scowl. 

“We need to find somewhere to wash up,” she told him, then glanced over him pointedly. “You especially.” 

He tried for a smile, probably failing. “Is that a nice way of telling me I stink?” 

A poor attempt at a joke, but if Mara found it funny in the slightest she didn’t let it show. “It’s the normal way of telling you that you look like a corpse.” She learned forward, sniffing the air close to him. “And yeah, you smell like one too.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her, crossing his arms. 

“Ah shit!” Dan’s yelp travelled right to them. “You asshole!” 

Thomas and Teresa bolted first, Mara grabbing Rachel by the arm and dragging her along behind them. When he came up, he found Dan stumbling around a tiny clearing, his spear thrown off to the side and a girl perched on his back, a sharp stick nearly planting itself into his throat if not for his hands that fought against it. 

Thomas moved first, grabbing the girl by the back of her shirt and throwing her to the ground. Dan reacted instantly, diving for his spear, though when Thomas turned around back towards the attacker, he found Rachel in front of him. For a moment he thought nothing of it, all until she grabbed him by the collar and threw him down onto the ground beside the stick-wielding girl. 

“Thomas, move!” Mara shouted.

He pushed himself up off his stomach, but not before he felt a sharp impact against his back, right between straps of his holster. He jolted, feeling something dislodge, right before he turned to watch as Mara plunged her curved blade into the girl’s stomach, shoving it up until it touched her sternum. The girl fell back, slumping onto the ground, a quiet whine breaking from her throat.

Mara moved to him quickly where he sat on his hands and knees, grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to stand. “Off,” she muttered, pulling at the hem of his shirt as she unbuckled the straps over his chest. 

He obeyed as the cannon shot, holster falling to the ground before he pulled both his long sleeve and undershirt over his head, discarding them off to the side and revealing his bare torso to the humid air of the forest. He turned so Mara and Teresa were in view of his back.

There was a sort of tingle coming over him in waves, growing more intense with every passing second. Something hot was trickling down his back, and it only took a moment too long for him to realize it was blood. He looked down at the ground, finding the girl's sharp stick looking as though it was dipped in red, and then he realized he’d been stabbed. 

“Is it bad?” he asked, unsure of himself, unsure of the lack of pain.

“No,” Mara said, placing a hand on his lower back as she examined it. “No. It’s not nearly as bad as it could be, but we’ve got to get it cleaned up and wrapped.” 

“We’ll find fresh water,” Dan said right before a heat like nothing Thomas had ever experienced began over his right shoulder blade. It felt like molten lava found home in his skin, and was searing away with all of its power. 

“We’ve been looking all morning,” Mara said, ignoring Thomas’ hiss. She tapped his shoulder dismissively, and when he turned around she was plucking up his discarded clothes and holstered weapons, tucking them over her shoulder, her bloodied blade in her belt. 

Dan frowned. “We’ll figure it out.” 

Teresa’s brow was pinched as she looked him over, worry laced in her features. 

“What happened?” Dan asked Thomas. 

He looked at Rachel for a moment, noticing the way her face was pale, noticing the way Dan had a hold on her shoulder. He straightened up, immediately wincing at the heat. “Nothing,” he uttered. “I must’ve tripped or she grabbed me or something, I don’t know. It happened pretty fast.”

Dan frowned, looking down at Rachel. She looked back, mortified. 

“Let’s just go,” Mara said. “We need to find somewhere to get him fixed up.” 

Dan tore his eyes off of Rachel, nodding. 

With a hand on Thomas’ forearm, Mara followed after Dan as he led them on their search for any body of water. Rachel being dragged by the taller boy, Teresa trailing behind, silent. Thomas’ heart pumped violently in his chest, the scorching heat only worsening. Outside of that, however, he wasn’t in a lot of pain, really. He supposed that would change when the adrenaline coursing through him halted entirely.

What felt like an hour later Thomas was sitting on the creek bed, Mara behind him and pouring alcohol into the wound, Teresa on his side, hand on his forearm. His body ached violently, and he had grown from decently rested to completely drained of energy in a very short amount of time. He tried not to react when Mara pressed a cloth onto it, but the cry that came from him was loud enough that he shoved a fist into his mouth to muffle it. 

“Baby,” Mara muttered. 

He stifled a whimper, dropping his hand. “Shut up.” 

“Me next,” Dan said cheerily, plopping down on Thomas’ other side and hiking his shirt off. His body was far more muscled than anyone Thomas had ever met, shoulders seemingly larger than Thomas’ head, biceps the size of his thigh. It only continued over his chest and abdomen, and eventually Thomas looked away completely, eyeing his own body. “Little shit dropped from a tree. Didn’t even see her coming.” 

Thomas realized the taller boy had a gash along his left shoulder, blood trickling from it. He frowned. “Who was she?” 

“District Five. Can’t remember her name though,” Mara supplied, pushing impossibly harder onto Thomas’ back. “Something stupid, probably.” 

Dan shrugged. “What’s our goal for today?” 

“Five,” Mara hummed. “At least.” 

“I’m going to go hunting–food hunting,” Rachel said suddenly, standing up from where she had been seated a decent few paces away from them. “Catch us a rabbit or something.” 

Dan’s gaze pinned her, though the low but fierce tone his voice came out with was more than enough for her to freeze. “Sit down, Rachel.” 

She did, though not without a glare. 

Mara had treated the water from the creek despite the fact that the group of them were sure enough that it was clean, and she had spent some time cleaning Thomas’ wound. The process was painstaking, but she finished with both the water and alcohol, and seemed content with her work as she plastered some bandages over it, wrapped the gauze over his shoulder and under his armpit to keep it secure. 

Eventually she moved away, cleaned Dan up, then packed up the medical supplies back into the taller boy’s bag and zipped it up, deciding to crouch in front of the creek to clean away the evidence of the following day. Thomas figured he should do the same, so he stripped off his remaining clothes—outside of his collar, which wouldn’t budge—until he was in nothing but his underwear, then sat in the shallow bed of the creek. 

“Don’t get your bandage wet,” Mara told him. 

He waved her off.

The adrenaline had long worn off, and the pain in his back was otherworldly. He could feel every bit of his exposed flesh beneath the bandage, feel the hot of the wound, and it was exhausting him. He pushed it away, however, vowing to appear as though he was entirely unaffected, to appear as though he wasn’t weak from that point forward. 

Using the arm opposite to the one attached to his injured shoulder, Thomas scooped up water and tiredly attempted to rid himself of the grime that had built up on his skin. His hand came back a brown-ish red each time, and he continued until it was clear. He scrubbed at his arms next, then cleaned up the free portion of his chest as best he could. 

Suddenly Thomas was hit in the head with the pile of his clothes, which then dropped into the water. He turned to see Mara give him a fake smile. “Wash ‘em!” 

An hour or so later Thomas was laid out over the creek bed on his stomach waiting for his clothes to dry, watching as two shiny ants trudged along the moss in front of him. They had pinchers half the size of their bodies and silvery antennas. They were mutts, he was sure, and Thomas figured it best not to touch them. Though observing them seemed to be harmless.  

They did seem aware of him, somewhat. They walked circles in front of him, occasionally picking up dried pieces of grass or moss and carrying them around, almost for show. If he focused on the small creatures for long enough, the hot pain on his back seemed to lessen slightly. 

Dan joined him, sitting at his side and placing his holstered swords in front of him, careful not to crush the ants. Fingers grazed over the gauze on his shoulder as Thomas turned his head to look at the other. 

“Feeling better?” 

He half-shrugged his good shoulder. “I’m okay.” 

Dan raised a brow. “Okay enough to come hunting?” 

Thomas frowned, turning back to his ants. “I need a little bit.” One ant was seemingly sniffing the other with its long antennae. “Just need the pain to go away a bit.” Suddenly he perked up. “Where’s my bag?” 

Dan grabbed it for him, frowning curiously as he handed it over. 

Thomas sat up—moving away from the ants—and rifled through his backpack for a moment before withdrawing the sheet of three painkillers. He nearly groaned at the sight of them, and then really did release some sort of pleased noise when Dan offered him a bottle of treated creek water. 

“Doesn’t taste like piss,” Dan hummed. 

Thomas popped the pill onto his tongue, then took a few deep gulps of the water before handing Dan the sheet. “Take one.” He vaguely gestured over Dan’s wound. “It’ll help.”

“There’s only two left,” the other said. 

“S’okay,” he murmured, sliding back down onto his stomach, eyes finding the ants again. “Hopefully I won’t need any more than one.” 

After Dan took his own and placed the remaining parcel into the side pocket of Thomas’ bag, they fell into a sort of comfortable silence. The babble of water sounding from behind lulled Thomas into some sort of groggy mood, though his senses were still as alert as ever, which was an odd feeling. The hot pain on his back was making itself all the more apparent, but the fact that it would ease soon was comfort enough. 

“Me and Mars are gonna go out,” Dan said eventually, sighing quietly. “You should stay. Need someone to watch over Rachel anyway.” He paused. “That okay with you?” 

Thomas sat up once again, knee bumping Dan’s as he righted himself. He looked out to where the girls sat on the other side of the bank, Teresa watching as Mara muttered quick words to Rachel. “I’m not going to hurt her or anything,” he told Dan. “I’m really not.” 

“I know she tried to get the Five girl to kill you,” Dan replied quietly. 

Thomas sighed. “She’s just upset.” 

“Doesn’t matter,” Dan murmured. “I gave her another chance, and she clearly doesn’t want it.” 

Thomas met the other’s eyes, cocking his head slightly in question.

“Look, she’s our ally,” the taller boy said. “But, you know, if she did anything, and you had to do whatever it is you need to do, I would understand.” He glanced over Thomas’ face. “She probably won’t, though.” 

“Right.” He swallowed. “She won’t.” 

“But, I guess it is only a matter of time before she tries to run,” Dan murmured. “Or attack us. If anything she’s a pretty big risk to keep around.”

Thomas frowned. “And you don’t think I am?”

“Not at all,” Dan responded seriously, eyes darting between his own. He looked back at the girls. “I trust you. I don’t trust her.” 

Thomas followed his gaze, noticing the side-long glances the girl in question was sending their way. “I don’t…” 

“She wants you dead,” Dan muttered. “She’s been trying to convince us to get rid of you at every opportunity. And you’re my friend, Thomas. I’m just looking out for you.” 

Thomas looked at his lap. “Oh. Right.” 

Dan’s hand lightly squeezed his uninjured shoulder. “Hey, don’t stress.” He pulled himself up into a crouch. “Anyway, we’ll be gone for a few hours, alright? Won’t be too long. Do whatever you need to do, I’ve got your back.” 

And then he walked away, and Thomas’ mind was still a few sentences behind. Dan had said he was Thomas’ friend, implied that they were friends, but he didn’t quite understand the sentiment. How far would that friendship go, in the name of withholding it throughout the Trials? Would they still be friends when there wasn’t any more filler to keep them from killing one another?

And then the rest of the conversation made its way through his mind, and Thomas realized that Dan had almost told him to kill Rachel, or at least said it was in their best interest for the girl to be dead. It was true, Thomas had killed Aris, but even then he hadn’t really known what he was doing until it was far too late for him to think about it. 

He looked at Rachel again, whose eyes were now trained on Mara and Dan as they readied themselves. She looked…different from how she had looked the previous morning. She looked a little green in the face, eyes puffy, mouth red, fingers irritated from where she had picked away at her cuticles. It was really human, for lack of a better word. 

Rachel—from District One—who had family and friends awaiting her at home. Rachel, who painted to stay connected to her deceased mother. Rachel, who thought she was winning life by volunteering for her place in the Trials. Rachel, who had come to the realization that she had in fact thrown away everything by doing so. Rachel, who wanted to live so badly she let the grass clutched between her fingers feel like a hand to hold onto. 

Thomas saw himself in her, as different as they were. Saw himself in the fear that lived inside her, the thing she hid away and refused to acknowledge, only known by those who could see through her angry veil. Thomas saw through it because he knew what it felt like, Dan saw through it because he found an odd joy-like feeling in the smell of it. 

“Alright, have fun you guys,” Dan called as he and Mara walked off into the woods. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.” 

Both Rachel and Thomas remained eerily still and silent as the pair's footsteps receded, and the more distant they grew the louder the forest seemed to become. The chattering of birds that sounded too close to the clicks of something mechanical. The rustle of dancing leaves against the particularly fresh air. The gurgle of water running over and around the rocky floor. 

Once Dan and Mara were entirely out of sight and sound, Rachel’s gaze slowly, slowly dragged to Thomas from across the run of water. He felt self-conscious, suddenly, oddly, and began to dress himself, feeling her eyes on him every step of the way. His clothes had dried enough, but still felt moist around his joints. Outside of the aching wound on his back, he felt better. Skin unbloodied and mind just a bit more clear. 

Teresa was on his bank now, lounging in the sun that bled into the clearing. She must’ve retired there while Thomas was distracted, and now sat looking as though she were anywhere but the Trials. In fact, she looked similar now to how she had looked years ago when they visited a lake in Section Two on one of the few sunny days of summer years prior. 

Grassy moss sat beneath her instead of sand. She wore tribute attire instead of a bathing suit. But she looked the same. Eyes shut as the sun touched her cheeks. Chest rising and falling in slow, calm breaths. 

And suddenly Thomas remembered the point of it all. Teresa could never cross onto that beach again if he kept getting lost in his own emotions, if he kept letting Darnell and Newt’s morals get in the way of what was necessary. 

With that thought in the forefront of his mind, Thomas’ attention snapped to Rachel, who had begun walking towards him, stepping over the shallow creek onto the bank he rested on. Thomas suddenly felt hyper aware of the swords laying far to his side. They were sheathed away, crossed over one another, and he wondered how long it would take him to snatch one and defend himself, if he had enough time. 

But Rachel’s three knives were tucked away in her belt, and against all expectations the girl didn’t lunge at him, instead dropping down to sit in front of him with a sort of angered, but passive grace.

“I’m leaving,” she told him firmly, but quietly. 

The swords forgotten at her blunt words, Thomas frowned. “Are you…” He swallowed, collected himself. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” 

“Positive,” she replied, glancing at his weapons. “If you’re going to try and kill me, I won’t fight you. If you’re going to kill me, you’re going to do it just as you did it to Aris.” 

He licked his lips, gaze dropping to the ground. “He was…”

“Right,” she finished for him. “He was right. And you fucking killed him.” 

Thomas shut his eyes. “He was going–” 

“Seriously?” she bit, cutting him off. “Are you being serious? I don’t know if you’re telling yourself that to feel better about the fact that you killed your own ally for no fucking reason, but honestly it’s getting old.” 

He looked up at her again, finding her waterline flooded. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

“I don’t want you to say anything, I just want you to understand something,” she muttered, leaning forwards as her words became low, laced with venom. “Just because you’re so sure he would have died at some other point, doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re the one who killed him.” She sat up straight. “His blood is on your hands, in every way, and no matter what you do, for the rest of your life, it will never wash off.” 

Thomas’ gaze kept to her as she stood up. “If you leave, you’ll die.” 

“I’ve got better chances being as far away from you as possible, actually.” She adjusted the bag on her back, looking him over with a cold gaze. “Are you going to stop me?” 

He thought of Dan and their conversation. “No, Rachel. I won’t stop you.” 

“Coward,” she said to him, drawing out the word in an icy way. “I hope your death is slow.” 

And then she walked back over the creek—opposite to the direction Dan and Mara had trekked off into—and disappeared into the thick of bone-coloured trees. The mist was especially heavy earlier on in the day, and it danced around her ankles as she strode through it, leaving it to dance in a hypnotizing way before settling back into its blanketed form. 

Thomas stared after her for many minutes, dropping his mind completely and letting his senses do all the work. It took a decent amount of time before the feeling of Rachel’s distant presence vanished, but once it did Thomas felt a surge of heavy guilt and thick impending doom wash over him. What if she came back to kill them all, maybe brought some new found allies along to help her? 

Dan had been kind enough to forgive him, kind enough to befriend him, kind enough to trust him, and he had directly betrayed him. Dan had been right. Rachel was dangerous. And Thomas had let her walk off, her bag and weapons going right along with her. 

Everything Thomas did was wrong. All of it. No matter what he intended, no matter what he tried, he always managed to ruin everything. When Dan and Mara returned, would they be angry? Would they kill him on the spot? Kill Teresa? 

No. Dan was his friend. They were friends. He would understand, wouldn’t he? 

Thomas’ breathing was running shallow, vision blurring. 

Screams sounded in the back of his mind. Something quiet, sharp, too. 

So he pushed everything away, forcing it somewhere else, somewhere darker, and looked around. The area they had come to clean their wounds was oddly bewitching, in a way. The mist that found home on the forest floor didn’t creep over it, and the grass seemed more lush, less scattered with fallen leaves and twigs. 

It was a clearing cut in half by the shallow, thin creek running through it, surrounded by a wall of thick, winding trees. Small, maybe, and it offered little shelter, but it was still enchanting. More so if he entirely ignored the fact that it wasn’t built of nature, and instead was crafted by the hands of man. 

He couldn't, however, so instead he looked around at the artificial beauty and was suddenly made aware that he was being watched by the entire country. 

He looked up at the sky, though he knew there weren’t any cameras up there. 

“Darnell,” he whispered to no one, he whispered to everyone. “You uh…you were right.” 

The trees bristled in response. 

“About everything,” he went on, then shut his eyes for a brief second, smiling to himself. “As much as it pains me to say.” 

The joke didn’t appear to land with the wind, but he imagined amusement on Darnell’s face nonetheless. He thought of his friend and pictured his face in his mind. He pictured his smile and the lines that it brought out in his face, not of age, but something that had just always been there. He thought of the birthmark on his friend’s throat, right over his pulse point, that was shaped like a small ‘C’.

“Mm, stands for clever, charming, uh…captivating.” Darnell had told him a few years prior while they walked around their section, his elbow jamming into Thomas’ side every few minutes. “Really it’s your choice.”

“Cretin,” Thomas had supplied. 

“A choice between the three I’ve given, moron.”

And then he was thinking about home, about Jorge. He thought of the older man and his tones, his hands that were just as gentle as they were rough. He wondered if his guardian was watching now, wondering what emotions had sprawled through him seeing Thomas kill Aris. Did Jorge still believe him to be too weak? Not built for such a world as everyone else seemed to be? 

Suddenly Teresa was standing over him, a perfect eyebrow arched. “You let her go.” At his silence, she sighed. “What are you doing, Tom?” 

“It’s not like you tried to stop her,” he told his sister, frowning. “And you could’ve.” 

His sister dropped to sit beside him, running her hands over her face. “What are you going to tell them when they get back?” 

“I don’t know–I–I don’t want to talk about this,” he grumbled, turning his attention to his fingers as they began to rip blades of grass from the ground. 

A silence fell over them, though it didn’t touch the noisy forest. A particularly strong breeze of wind rushed by them, and Teresa sighed long and deep. He rolled his shoulder—the uninjured one—and winced when it pulled at the skin of his wound.

“Does it hurt?” she asked after a moment. 

“No,” he answered. “Feels really good, actually. Being stabbed.” 

She smiled, the tension between them evaporating. “It wasn’t deep.” 

“I’m not arguing about the degree to which I was stabbed with you.” 

“Is stabbed really the right word?” she questioned, looking out at the creek. “Grazed, maybe. Shallowly gashed?” 

He snorted. “Alright.” 

A quiet took between them again, but it was comfortable. It felt like they were in her room back home, both trying to fall asleep after a late night of talking about nonsense. Sometimes it was about the academy, sometimes it was about her friends, sometimes it was arguments. Thomas would think about the choice words she said, think about why she said them.

And the thought kept to his mind, even as they sat on the mossy bank of the creek in the arena. And if ever there were a time…

“All of those things you said, like that I was crazy and ill and…” He, paused, shut his eyes. “Unwell. Did you mean any of it? Do you think that I’m like that?” 

He heard the rustle of her clothing, and opened his eyes to see her tugging up the sleeves of her shirt. It was a long moment before she answered. “Do you?” 

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I don’t want to be different.” 

“What is being different?” she asked. 

“I don’t know, being other, I guess. Not fitting in anywhere, not belonging.” He looked down to the ground again. “Being alone.” 

“You’re not alone, not when you have me,” Teresa whispered. 

He squeezed his eyes shut. 

Any words he meant to speak never arose, however, because the snap of a twig pulled both his and his sister’s attention from one another and focused it towards the source of the noise. It came from across the creek, and Thomas immediately thought of Rachel, how she had done the smart thing and returned to them. 

But look as he did, nothing came into view. The mist was disturbed, just slightly, and he could feel the heat of a presence, hear the still movement of life. The hairs on the nape of his neck tingled to a stand, and he unsheathed one of his swords quietly, slowly lifting off the ground and rising to a full height as his sister did the same.

His heart hammered in his chest, breath shallow. 

Another snap of a twig, Thomas squeezed the grip he had on his sword. 

A figure stepped out from behind a tree, shadowed just slightly, stance crouched, prepared. 

“Newt,” Thomas breathed, and immediately felt a panic rise in his chest. 

The blond watched him carefully for many, many moments, tracking every twitch. Despite the caution in his eyes, Newt looked completely and entirely untouched. Clothing untorn and skin entirely unmarred by dirt or blood or even natural oils, from the looks of it. His hair was ever so slightly ruffled, Thomas thought from sleep, but outside of that he was surely no different now as compared to when they’d first arrived. 

Thomas should kill him. Dan had been right, Newt was among the biggest threats, even if he didn’t look it. He put them all in danger, and Thomas hadn’t heard his arrival nearly quick enough. Should Newt have borne a ranged weapon, Thomas would’ve been dead in seconds. He should kill Newt before Newt kills him, even despite the conversations they had before the Trials began. 

Newt had said that he wouldn’t kill another person, but a day had passed, and then some. Despite Newt’s clean appearance, who knows what could’ve happened to him. He may have been lying all along, or had a change of heart. Thomas should throw his sword or lunge forward and give Newt the quick death he had asked for. 

He dropped his sword. 

Newt watched it fall, watched as the tip buried slightly into the dirt then fell away from him, then his eyes jumped back to Thomas’ face. Careful gaze flickering over him for many seconds before the blond seemed to deem him just trustworthy enough, and crossed the small space until he stood on the other edge of the creek. 

The other didn’t spare a single glance Teresa’s way. Not even as her axe hung heavy at her side. And she didn’t move a muscle, eyes shifting from Newt to Thomas, then back, again and again.

Thomas watched him from where he stood, unarmed, as the other pulled a dark twine satchel off his shoulder. Thomas had seen many like it in The Box, and figured the blond had visited it in their absence. Newt retrieved a small water bottle from inside and bent down, dipping it into the water and allowing it to fill. 

Iodine, Thomas thought. He reached for his bag that lay beside him, and watched as Newt immediately took a few steps back. He stopped, put his hands up, and kept entirely still until the other moved back, bottle dipping into the water once more. The water was probably fine, anyway. 

Newt’s eyes—large and dark—remained on Thomas as he extracted the bottle from the creek and brought it up to his mouth. He gulped it down, then stuck the bottle back into the water to refill it. 

Thomas wanted to say something, anything, but he felt frozen. Newt had been risking a lot, doing what he was doing, especially if he had spoken truthfully of all his rooted morals. Newt didn’t know Thomas, not at all. And yet there he stood, so incredibly close, his life practically lain in Thomas’ hands. 

The blond rose, and began backing away slowly. Thomas watched and said nothing, only breathing in deep after the other had disappeared into the woods once more. And suddenly—like he had managed to forget—Thomas thought about the fact that he had just let the supposedly most lethal tribute walk off without so much as a scratch. 

Dan was right, Newt wouldn’t have done such a thing with anyone else. 

Thomas, the Newt expert. 

Internally, he groaned. 

He shook his head like a wet dog, as if that would rid him of his thoughts, and sucked in a deep breath, dropping back down onto the ground and running his hands over his face. He had let Rachel walk away without putting up a fight, and had done the same exact thing again with Newt. At least on the blond he had the ability to lie, but Dan and Mara would surely ask questions about their missing fifth. 

And then Thomas remembered that Dan had all but asked Thomas to kill her, and an idea popped up in his mind. He sat up straight, and decided to act before he could properly think it through.

What must’ve been a half hour later Thomas had a decently sized rock resting before him, and he himself was sitting cross-legged with a rabbit in his lap. The creature hadn’t been hard to catch, but had been nearly impossible to find. It was white like the last one, but had a black patch of fur on its back. 

He stroked one of its long, floppy ears between his fingers and stared at the forest before him. The small creature had settled on his lap like it never wanted to move, little body lightly heaving with its breathing. His plan was simple enough, kill and cut the rabbit just as Mara had the previous day, then splatter the blood around and flick some onto himself to simulate some sort of fight between he and Rachel before she miraculously escaped. 

The rock was for bruising himself. Lightly, if he could help it. 

But an issue he hadn’t previously thought of was now the only thing occupying his mind. 

In order to extract the blood, he had to kill the rabbit. 

“Do you understand how genuinely pathetic this is?” Teresa asked, sitting across from him, her back to the creek. “I’ve never been so embarrassed of you.” 

“Shut up,” he hissed, closing his eyes. 

“It’s a rabbit. Not even a real one. Just kill it.” 

But the animal wasn’t anything like that creature he had met in the private training sessions, the Shade. No, this was a living creature, artificially bred or not, there was life within it. And it laid out over his lap, trusting him entirely as it went between sleeping and sniffing at his pants, occasionally nibbling at them. Had it tried to run, maybe he could’ve done it without a second thought, but it wasn’t running, was it?

He opened his eyes and looked down at it, at the ear he had been caressing for the past few minutes. It was softer than anything he had ever felt, and his heart was pattering a bit too quickly in his chest. He stared for another minute, then scooped the creature up into his arms and stood up. 

“They’ll know it’s not human blood,” he said, trudging over to the opposite side of the clearing and placing the rabbit down onto the forest floor, pushing it to move along. 

Teresa followed him. “You’ve got to be kidding me. How would they possibly know that?” 

He waited until the creature had moved a few feet into the woods, then returned to sit before his rock. “They’re hunters.” 

“So are you.” 

He glared at her as she resumed her spot across from him. “They’ll know.” 

“Alright, well. What now?” she asked. 

He groaned under his breath, then reached out and grabbed one of his swords. “Nothing like the real thing, I guess.” 

Teresa’s eyebrows shot up, but she said nothing to protest. 

He placed his sword over his lap and hiked up one of his sleeves, revealing the somewhat tanned skin of his forearm. He turned his arm over, revealing the slightly paler belly of it, and sighed. “This is stupid, right?” 

“Yes,” his sister assured. 

He shrugged and grabbed his sword by the blade, bringing the very tip of it up to his arm. He aimed it away from any important veins, and slowly pushed the sharp edge of it into his skin. It didn’t break for a few seconds, and then a quarter of an inch slipped into his flesh in one quick movement. He hissed, extracting it, then waited for the blood to spill. 

If Dan and Mara were to return and find Rachel gone and Thomas unmarred and unmoved, they would assume he had let her go, and probably kill him and his sister for allowing the girl to walk free. If he conducted some kind of story, then at least he’d have the benefit of Dan’s understanding. Rachel was skilled, and it was no surprise that she got away. Maybe odd that she didn’t kill him, but things happen. 

His blood began in a small stream down his arm, and Thomas collected some of it in his palms. He flicked some of it onto his face, let the remaining droplets drip onto the ground, and then shoved his sleeve down and pushed pressure onto the gash. 

He looked up at Teresa, showing off his face. “Look believable?” 

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a dumbass.” 

Once the bleeding had lessened Thomas stared at the rock. “Er…” 

“I can’t watch this anymore,” Teresa said. “I’m going to go…” She gestured to the clearing around them. “Somewhere else.” 

He said nothing as she left off, and instead got to work. He hit the rock—punched it—just hard enough to draw blood across his knuckles and unfortunately start an ache in the bones of his hands. Then, instead of dropping it on his face as intended, bit at his bottom lip for a while, sucked on it, then cut a gash down the center in order to create the illusion of a split lip. 

By the end of it, Thomas tasted nothing but metallics and his own idiocy. 

Another ten or so minutes passed and the beginning of a headache started in the base of his skull. His arm hurt, as did his knuckles, and he wondered if Dan and Mara had possibly ditched him. Maybe Dan had pit him against Rachel purely to knock some of the competition out before he and his fellow tribute went off and abandoned him. 

And then, a cannon shot into the air. 

He was up in an instant, eyes locking on Teresa’s who was safe and standing a dozen paces away from him. He looked around, waiting for someone to break through the treeline or a scream to call from the distance, but nothing came. 

His sister walked over. “Think that was them?” 

Thomas frowned, another idea popping up in his mind. “I don’t know.” He looked at the creek. “But…” 

But if it wasn’t Dan and Mara who caused the cannon, Thomas could play it off as his win against Rachel. Quickly, he crossed the space until he was knelt in the deepest end of the water, then shoved his arms an elbow length down, soaking his recently dried sleeves. The sacrifice would be worthwhile. 

And if it was, the story of Rachel’s grand escape was still perfectly viable. 

Thomas stood up, clothes dripping, and gave Teresa a somewhat smug look. 

She cringed. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself.”

It was only minutes later that Thomas heard the crunch and crack of leaves and twigs being crushed by running feet, and he was up with his sword in his hand right as Dan and Mara broke into the clearing, the former immediately coming up to Thomas as he lowered his weapon.

“You alright?” Dan asked, eyes jumping to the blood on Thomas’ face, the scrapes on his knuckles, the water drenching his clothes.

He nodded, looking up at Dan, swallowing. “Fine.” 

Mara was there next, glare suspicious. “Where is she?” 

He looked down. “Well…she said that she was going to leave, and I…” 

“You killed her?” Mara breathed, eyes darting all over him just as Dan’s had.

Thomas blinked, secretly relieved that they hadn’t been the cause of the cannon. “She attacked–” 

“Bullshit!” Mara barked, pushing Dan aside and shoving Thomas. “She swore she wouldn’t! You fucking killed her!” She looked over at Dan. “We can’t keep him around anymore, they were right, they were fucking right–”

“He’s fine,” Dan said calmly, hand coming to rest on Thomas’ shoulder. “I believe him. She didn’t want him around, she already tried to get him killed. What reason would he have to lie?”

“What reason would he have to tell the truth?” she countered. “That’s the second ally of ours he’s killed!” 

Thomas frowned. “She attacked me, I was defending myself.” 

Mara gaped. “You’ve got to be–” 

“Drop it,” Dan bit, the hand on Thomas’ shoulder squeezing. “Now.” 

Mara looked between the pair of them for a moment before the slate of expression on her face wiped itself clean, leaving her as blank and emotionless as ever. She huffed out a short breath and walked off to sit a ways away from them, pulling her bag off her shoulder and taking out her water bottle. 

Thomas pulled his eyes from her and looked back to Dan. “She tried to run, and I–” 

“Hey,” Dan said softly, moving in front of him, grabbing both of his shoulders. “I told you I wouldn’t be upset, you did a good thing, Thomas. You did.” 

He nodded, biting at his lip absentmindedly, hissing as he reopened the slit he’d cut into it. 

Dan frowned, eyes tracking the movement before he brought a thumb up to swipe a droplet of blood from Thomas’ lower lip. For a moment, he thought the other meant to soothe, but then Dan brought the sullied thumb up to his own mouth, tongue darting out to catch the blood. The taller boy shut his eyes for a moment, and when they reopened it was as if nothing happened at all. 

“Eat something, would you? Got to keep your strength up.” 

Dan walked off, and Thomas stared after him, feeling frozen and a bit uncomfortable. Once his mind fully returned to him he bent over his bag and pulled out some food pouches. Teresa sat beside him after a minute, quiet as he ate, and the siblings watched from a distance as Mara spoke rapidly under her breath, Dan looking increasingly more irritated. 

“Want some?” he asked Teresa. 

She smiled. “I’m okay.” 

Hours later the four were walking through the woods, looking for a half decent cave for them to dwell in once the winds returned for the night. A cannon sounded during their search, but Dan and Mara didn’t so much as flinch, so Thomas ignored it and trailed after them, playing a game with Teresa that involved trying to spot a hidden camera. 

So far they only had two somewhat close calls, a dark spot in the knot of a branch and a suspicious looking black bird. It was odd, knowing they were being watched. He wondered what clips they kept in, he wondered how much of him was revealed to the world. If anything those eyes weren’t the ones he was worried about being watched by. 

He was more concerned about the ones that seemed to be in his mind, haunting him. 

Eventually they broke through the forest line, and came up to the East Door, where, against expectation, Dan stopped. The four peered inside the massive concrete hallway, and the taller boy took a step forward, stopping on the threshold. 

“I think we should check it out,” Dan told them, brow furrowed. “We’ve had shit luck finding anyone in here, even the swamp was empty. Of people, at least.” 

Mara looked at Thomas. “Dan got bit by some weird bug earlier, went blind for a few minutes.” 

Thomas snorted. 

The taller boy rolled his eyes, ignoring Mara’s comment. “What if everyone else is in there? What if it’s safer?” 

“In the Trials? Yeah right,” Mara huffed. 

Thomas nodded. “It’s got to be a trap.” 

Dan shook his head. “No, no. Trust me, if anything goes wrong we’ll be out in an instant. There’s no harm in looking.” 

“Talk about famous last words,” Mara mumbled, following Dan as he slowly began to creep inside. 

Thomas heard a distinct, large, distant click as he stepped over the threshold, and another as he and the rest finally surpassed the walls and stepped inside. He watched behind him for a few moments, waiting, but nothing happened. He shrugged, following the other two. 

They turned into one of the halls and quietly walked down yet another stone corridor. At the end of it sat three openings, likely leading to three more passages that looked nearly identical to this one. Thomas frowned, watching the ivy as it subtly wriggled. “It’s a maze.” 

“Oh, very creative,” Dan praised mockingly, looking around. “What, so that means the inside is the Glade?” 

Mara nodded. “If this place is meant to be the districts then I doubt we’re in for anything good.” 

“We could get lost,” Thomas whispered. 

The other boy slowed his walk until he was at Thomas’ side, dropping his arm around his shoulders carefully. “I’ve got a photographic memory, we’ll be fine.” 

Mara frowned. “A what now?” 

“Uh, let’s just call it a really good memory, yeah?” Dan reached out to the left wall, skimming his fingers over the now incredibly lively ivy, which reached for him desperately. “This place is creepy, I’ll give you that.” 

They continued on their walk into the unknown, their footsteps echoing against the long, tall stone corridors. The more turns they took, the less secure Thomas felt. It was eerily quiet, only the sounds of their soles echoing along the walls. Even Mara and Dan kept from talking, Thomas walking close behind them and Teresa on his heels. 

There were sounds, distant ones that seemed to be coming from far, far below them. A part of him wanted to turn around and return to the safety of the Glade—as odd of a thought that was—instead of wandering the unknown vastness of stone and thick, murderous ivy. 

And then he heard it. Clicks and whirs. Concrete against metal. 

He turned to Teresa behind him. 

But she wasn’t there. 

“Teresa,” he breathed out, heart starting to pound against his ribs. “Teresa!” 

“Thomas, shut up!” Mara hissed. 

“She’s gone!” he cried. “She’s gone, I don’t know…I wasn’t paying attention–” 

“We’ll find her,” Dan said quickly, splaying a hand over Thomas’ chest. “We will. She couldn’t have gone far–” 

And then a piercing, guttural scream rang through the halls, and Thomas knew the voice better than he knew his own.

When he slowly turned to look at the others, they were staring at each other, faces pale. 

Without another thought he bolted down the hall—the concrete much harsher to run on than the grass—just as more screams began, this time calling for Thomas in a horrific, agonized tone. He turned corner after corner, ran down the lengths of seemingly never ending halls. Footsteps followed him, he knew, but he couldn’t find it within himself to think of anything but Teresa, Teresa, Teresa.  

Screams turned into violent wails as he grew closer, and he felt his heart pounding against his ribs, lungs empty and too full all at once. When the awful noises turned deafening, he slid around a particularly sharp corner, stopping short as he realized the sounds were coming from right before him. 

But it wasn’t his sister. 

It was a disgusting, writhing creature that looked to be made up of gelatinous flesh and huge metallic limbs standing two dozen paces from him. It looked at him as he appeared—with eyes it didn’t have—and its disgusting fleshy body shot out thin arms from inside of it, each of them wielding different tools and weapons. Dan and Mara were behind him in an instant, hands grabbing at him, trying to pull him back, but he was frozen. 

The creature wore a collar just like his and his sister’s, with the number two engraved onto the tag.

Then, the creature roared fiercely with a mouth that bore no tongue, no teeth, no nothing, cutting off the cries it had been impersonating, and rearing up onto four of its six legs. Thomas watched as its body shook with the throes of it all, watched as metal plates popped up over its back and head, and watched as it began rolling towards them. 

And then he began to run.

Thomas hadn’t really known true fear until that moment, bolting across the gray corridors with Dan beside him, fist clutching his sleeve, Mara on the taller boy’s other side. He didn’t know where they were running, he didn’t know how they would get back to the center, all he knew was that there was a massive, repulsive creature on their heels, screeching, hissing, whirring after them. 

Dan steered them through a right turn, then another left, but it didn’t matter. There was nothing they could do, nowhere they could run. The mutt started to cry out with Teresa’s voice again, her wails all the more tortured, all the more pained. Thomas desperately wanted to clamp his hands over his ears, drown it out, but he couldn’t. 

He had to keep running. He had to run and run and run until they were free, until he felt the soft of grass beneath them and were free of the rabid creature. And he ran, as did Dan and Mara, clearing every turn they could take for what must’ve been an hour, at the very least. Sweat was all but pouring down his face, his legs beginning to weaken beneath him. 

They turned into the longest corridor they had seen yet, and as Thomas heard the creature screech to follow, he turned to look back for less than a second. The second was enough, however, for him to get a half-decent look at the second mutt that had joined the first, the murky blue collar around its neck being its only difference from the other. 

He heard more cries join Teresa’s own, a boy’s cries. He was young, by the sound of it, calling out Mara’s name. When Thomas risked a look to the girl, he found her red face streaked with tears, panic more than obvious in her eyes. 

“I have…an idea!” Dan shouted, panting desperately. “But…you’ve got…to trust…me!” 

Thomas and Mara shouted their agreement as they bolted down the path. There was some distance between them and the mutts, but not nearly enough for Thomas to feel comforted. He felt close to tears awaiting whatever Dan had in mind, but it was just a minute or so later that he caught odd movement in his peripheral vision. 

And he shakily watched as Dan’s hand clasped around the back of Mara’s neck, then watched as he pulled her backwards with enough force to cause him to stagger in his run. 

Thomas turned around just long enough to watch as the girl spun to the ground, collapsing onto the hard floor for less than a second before she was scrambling back up. “Dan!” Her voice was nothing but fear now. “Dan–!”

And then Dan’s hand was grasping his forearm, pulling him, and the screams stopped. The boy’s screams, Teresa’s screams. But Mara’s had only just begun. The cries seemed as though they were being physically torn out of her, desperate and agonized, and Thomas’ shock rendered him nearly mute if not for his ragged breathing.  

The mutts didn’t follow, it seemed. And if they did, the last of the Elites were long gone. 

It felt like hours before Dan finally pulled Thomas along through an opening, and the pair of them collapsed onto their stomachs. He looked around for a moment, finding that they had managed to make it around to the West Door, and then curled onto his side, trying to regulate his breathing and do whatever possible to ease the bone crushing pains in his legs.

“You…” Dan started minutes later, panting. “You okay?” 

Thomas’ chest heaved. “You…killed her–why did you…why did you do that?” 

Dan pushed himself onto his elbows, licking his lips. “Didn't trust her. Did you?” 

“I don’t know,” he huffed. “I don’t know.”

“Are you upset with me?” Dan asked. 

Thomas pushed his hands over his face, breathing hard, trying to regulate the terror and confusion that rippled throughout him. “No. No. I’m just surprised. She was from your district.” 

“I don’t really struggle with the same sentiments you do,” Dan said breathily. They laid for a minute or two attempting to regain their composure before Dan seemed calmed enough to speak again, and he turned to Thomas. “How’re you feeling?” 

Bad. Thomas was utterly, horribly, sickeningly bad. His sister was gone, lost in a maze filled with those…those creatures, and he couldn’t do anything to save her. He couldn’t ever stand up, not with the way his legs felt as though they were made of water. 

“Not good,” he huffed, eyes squeezed shut. 

“Are you afraid?” 

Any part of him that wished to come off strong had disappeared from inside him. “Yes.” He sucked in a shaky breath. “Terrified.” 

At Dan’s silence he opened his eyes, finding the other’s hand to be hovering over his chest. Their eyes met, and Dan frowned. “May I?” 

Thomas swallowed. “Okay.” 

Dan pressed his hand onto Thomas’ chest, firmly, and in response his heart beat rapidly against it, still suffering from the adrenaline coursing through him. Thomas’ breathing remained frantic for another minute or two before it began to slow, the hand on him never faltering. 

It was weird, and he knew that. But for some reason Thomas only closed his eyes and let himself be comforted by the contact. He imagined his sister sitting over him, hand on his heart, whispering sweet, soothing words and assuring him that everything was going to be okay. A rare thing, but a memory nonetheless from their early days. 

“They have her,” he said after another minute. “Teresa. You heard it.” 

Dan’s head bowed. “Thomas…” 

“You heard it!” He sat up, Dan’s hand falling to the ground. “There’s only one way they could’ve gotten those…those sounds–only by…” He shut his eyes. “We have to go back.” 

The other was quiet for a few moments. Then a sigh came. “The other sounds were Mara’s baby cousin. And they aren’t torturing children.” He wiped a hand over his face. ”We can’t go back. What good are you to your sister if you’ve been torn to shreds?” 

“The same will happen to her!”

“Thomas, everyone in every important district has been talking about your sister for years.” Dan sat up, facing him. “She can hold her own, and she has to, because if we go back in there we’ll be killed. I can’t fight those things. Neither can you.” 

He swallowed bile. “I can’t…I need her.” 

“Stay with me,” Dan said. “She’ll find us. She’s strong, you know she is.” 

Thomas squeezed his eyes shut again, her screams playing in his mind on a loop.

The taller boy took a few deep breaths and hoisted himself up with a grunt, turning down to Thomas and pulling him up to stand. He wobbled for a moment, and Dan put two steadying hands on his shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. 

“We’re gonna figure this out, okay? Just stick with me.” 

“Okay,” Thomas uttered. 

Dan squeezed his uninjured shoulder, which was admittedly much less painful with the medicine in his system. That, and the adrenaline. “Okay.” 

“Are we interrupting?” 

Both Dan and Thomas whipped around, finding the District Seven tribute’s standing there, watching them intently. They looked worse for wear, clothes battered and a bruise or gash adorning their stoney faces. Thomas instinctively reached for his swords, withdrawing both as his stance hardened, legs aching beneath him. 

“Figured we’d run into you guys,” the girl—Beth—said, cocking her head to the side. “You look like you’ve been chewed up and spat back out.” 

Thomas felt like it too. The light breeze that kept to the center of the arena made him hyper aware of the sweat that coated his skin and soaked his clothes, and there wasn’t anything that could distract him from the violent, tremoring ache in his legs. 

Dan, however, stood tall, seeming unaffected outside of the sweat blanketing his own skin. It was then that Thomas realized the taller boy was empty handed, having likely lost his spear sometime in their run from the mutts inside the maze. He held one of his weapons out, and Dan gave him a small nod before taking it. 

“You two don’t look so good yourselves,” Dan told them. 

It was true. The boy—Gally, Thomas was sure—was sporting a thick gash across his eyebrow, and his clothes were bloodstained, practically in tatters. Beth seemed as though she hadn’t slept through the night, her eyes dark and half-hooded, movements in that nearly unnoticeable sort of delay. 

“Nothing we couldn’t handle,” Gally spoke finally, lifting up his spear, dropping the butt of it against the ground again. “Where’s the rest of you?” 

“Around,” Dan said quickly, smiling. “Is it just you two then? You had me worried for a second.” 

Neither of the pair reacted outwardly, but Thomas didn’t miss the slight, nearly impossible to catch fear that washed through their eyes. He was then reminded that they weren’t raised for this, weren’t raised killers like the rest of them. District Seven was lumber, so they had the strength, the looks, but not the mind. 

Had they killed before? There was a thick patch of dried blood over Gally’s stomach, was it his own, or someone else's? 

Dan seemed to be thinking something similar. 

“Are you just here for small talk?” the taller boy asked, giving the pair a smirk. “Or…?” 

“Figured we should give you a minute. Make it a fair fight,” Gally answered, and Thomas almost wanted to slap him upside the head. Honour. What a sickeningly stupid thing to hold. 

Dan snorted. “Alright, here’s how I see it.” He made a wide gesture over the two, sword in his right hand, waving around. “If you two attack us, one of you will die, if you’re lucky.” He dropped his arms. “Even if you manage to injure one of us, I mean look at you, look at us it’s just–”

“Your point?” Gally cut in, vicious. 

Dan’s face broke in yet another easy smile. “Ally with us.” Thomas looked at Dan, confused. “We’re a few bodies down and I’m feeling sort of…generous.”

“Generous?” Gally scoffed. “If that’s not an obvious trap, I don’t know what is.” 

“Understandable,” Dan said evenly. “Option two is that we kill you both now.” He crouched down a little, sword out at his side. Thomas copied the stance, eyeing the pair. “Do you think the odds are on your side?” 

“I could take you both with my arms tied,” Gally snarled. 

Dan raised an eyebrow. “Let’s give it a shot then, see now it works out.” 

“You guys are like birds trying to court each other,” Beth said suddenly, exasperated. “We’ll ally with you, put your dicks away.” 

Dan straightened with a grin. “Lovely!” 

Gally rounded on the girl at the same time. “What?”

“Oh relax, he’s—obnoxious, yes—but also right.” She stepped forward and offered a hand to the taller boy. “Truce?”

Dan took it, nodding. “Truce.” 

Beth shook each of their hands with a surprisingly genuine—albeit tired—smile, shaking her head as she began. “It’s been an absolute shitshow.” 

Thomas eyed Gally warily as he watched his fellow district member with a look akin to utter bewilderment. His spear remained facing the sky, however, and though he was obviously unhappy about it he followed Beth’s lead nonetheless. It was unexpected, but Thomas chose not to question it. He slid his sword into the holster on his back, wincing as his wound seared with the movement. 

“I haven’t slept in days and this morning we got nearly mauled to death by this psychopath cannibal fuck,” she went on, obviously ignoring the stare Gally had against the side of her face. “Oh, and don’t even get me started on the water situation.” 

Thomas frowned. “Water situation?” 

She turned on him, spear flinging around as she threw her arms up annoyedly. “We were staying in this cave right beside a river, and when we came out after the winds stopped it was gone! Just like that. If I have to live on my own spit for another hour I might just kill myself. Gally said we should drink the water from the swamp but I’d rather die. It looks like sewage.” 

Dan snorted. “Tastes like it too.” 

Beth looked at Dan, grimacing.

Thomas thought instantly of the three full water bottles in his bag from earlier on in the day when Mara had refilled all of their water bottles with the creek water and treated them. Suddenly her screams filled his mind, echoing around the confides on his skull. He could still see Dan’s hand wrapping around her nape, the muscles in his arms straining with the force he put into throwing her behind them. 

Shaking himself off, Thomas pulled his bag off of his shoulders—wincing—before digging through it and revealing one of his water bottles. “Here.” He handed it to Beth. “It’s clean and everything.”

She looked at him, raising an eyebrow. 

Thomas grabbed the water from her, twisting the cap off before taking a small swig. 

When he handed it back, she almost looked as though she could cry. “Holy shit.” She all but poured some down her throat before handing it off to Gally, who sniffed it before gulping some down himself. “Thank you.” 

Dan retrieved his own from his bag, and Thomas pulled out his second, and the four of them just stood there for a bit, rehydrating. The water cooled his body on its way down, settling his stomach from the jumps of bile that had been shooting up since Teresa’s disappearance. He didn’t let himself dwell on it, however, reminding himself of what Dan said. 

“Really not poisoned then,” Gally said under his breath as he handed the mostly-empty bottle back to Beth. 

Dan caught it, however, and shrugged. “Not our style.” 

Gally frowned. “What is your style then?” 

“Up close and personal,” Dan answered, and Thomas suddenly got a flash of Dan and the boy in the bloodbath. How close Dan held him as he shoved his spear into his skull. How he smiled at Thomas after. “Usually, at least.” 

“Not me,” Beth said, ignorant to the skeptical way Gally was eyeing them. “I hate blood.” 

Gally crossed his arms over his chest, spear tucked in the crook of his elbow. “Are there really more of you?” 

“No,” Dan said simply. “They’re all dead.” 

“Except for my sister,” Thomas added quickly. “She disappeared inside, er–” He gestured behind him. “The maze.”

Beth’s eyebrows shot up. “Maze?”

“Your sister?” Gally said at the same time. 

Both of them looked at Dan for a moment, and when Thomas looked over the taller boy smiled down at him, then turned his attention back to the pair. “How many cannons have gone off today? We’ve been…preoccupied, the last little bit.”

“Two in the morning, I think that’s it,” Beth answered, then suddenly got a dark look about her. “Ah, three, actually.” 

Dan frowned. “You guys…?”

“Yeah,” Gally said quickly. “But that’s it, I’m pretty sure.” 

Thomas looked back into the opening behind them. “Wait…” He glanced at Dan, then back to the others. “None in the last few hours?” 

“Ah, no,” Beth said. “Why?”

“Mara,” Thomas breathed, looking to Dan. “She’s still alive.” 

Dan shook his head. “Not possible.” 

It didn’t seem like it, because Thomas had heard her screams, the same screams that had been more animal than human. But Gally and Beth never heard a cannon. She must’ve still been inside the maze, crawling along the floors in excruciating pain. He wondered what had been done to her, what the mutts were capable of. 

“What do we do?” he asked Dan. 

The other shrugged slowly. “Nothing we can do, she’ll die eventually.” 

“We could go back?” Beth offered. 

Dan and Thomas’ eyes both locked on her as they huffed out a  “No!” in sync. 

“What’s in there?” Gally asked. 

Dan licked his lips. “Couldn’t explain it if I tried, but nothing you want to see.” 

Thomas looked back at the door, the corridor beyond it. His sister’s screams still echoing in his mind, Mara’s too. “Can we leave?” 

Beth handed the water bottle back to Gally after having nursed it awhile. “Definitely–follow me.” 

It wasn’t until far later that Mara’s cannon—or what they thought had been Mara’s cannon—sounded. Thomas couldn’t stop imagining how she must have felt there, all alone, cold and slowly bleeding out without anyone to help her. He suddenly felt guilty that Dan had chosen to throw her back instead of him. He didn’t know what he was worth that Mara wasn’t.

Gally and Beth had brought them back to a shallow but somewhat wide cave that was made from thick boulders leaning against the West Wall in the forest. The area surrounding it wasn’t as attractive as the creek side they had previously inhabited, but it was decent enough. Thick trees offered coverage, and the grass was soft enough to be decently comfortable while sitting on it. 

From what they’d been told, Gally and Beth had stayed in the area for the majority of the past day—almost two days—and mostly avoided other people. It was both a shock and not one at all. Thomas seemed to have it in his mind that the two were as bloodthirsty as they looked, but he had been right in thinking that they weren’t killers in the mind. 

In fact, they didn’t seem all that interested in going after anyone at all. The pair got quiet when another cannon sounded, and Dan had spent nearly half an hour trying to conduct some sort of plan, and Gally seemed rather quiet throughout it all, eating a fruit pouch from Thomas’ bag while Beth offered alternative plans. 

“How are we going to win if all you guys want to do is sit back on your asses?” Dan huffed. “Do you want to be here for weeks?” 

Beth put her hands up, defensive. “I’m just saying, why risk anything when they’ll…you know, die some other way.” 

Dan gaped. 

“Okay, well if there really are massive monsters behind the walls, and the falling box, and the er–” She gestured to the wall near them. “The strangling ivy, then we don’t have to do much, do we?” 

Thomas was tense. Dan was the sort of person you couldn’t read, couldn’t know. The sort of person who felt very little, or at least displayed very little feeling. He could be truly seething at Beth’s reluctance, and his expression—even while dramatic—couldn’t clue anyone in one what it was he was planning.

And so Thomas was waiting for him to do something, to jump up with Thomas’ other sword and cut the pair to pieces. It seemed that Gally felt similarly, as his eyes kept flicking to the spear sitting idly beside him, which was yet another reason for Thomas to be on edge. 

“I’m just going to ignore you,” Dan said playfully to Beth before turning on Thomas. “We’ve got to draw them out, get them interested.” 

Gally cleared his throat. “All the stuff in that box-thing, stay there, guard it.” 

Dan considered it, then groaned. “I mean, if you guys are armed then so are the rest of them.” He palmed at his eyes. “Where could they be hiding, anyway? They can’t be past the walls.” 

“Alby has a bow,” Thomas told the pair. 

“That too,” Dan hummed. “And we think he’s in the woods. Or he was. At one point.” 

“Alby?” Beth questioned. 

“Eleven,” Dan answered. 

“Oh, right,” Gally said. “We saw him earlier.”

Dan and Thomas both looked at him. Dan leaned forward. “Did you kill him?” 

“No,” Beth said quickly. “We were pretty far apart and when they saw us they ran.” 

Somehow, like he could read their minds, Thomas already knew the question that was soon to fall from Dan’s lips, just as he knew the answer that the pair would offer. 

“Who was he with?”

“The er, blond one from Twelve,” Gally answered. 

Dan shoved Thomas’ shoulder. “Oh he’s not a threat my ass!” 

For some unfathomable reason, Thomas felt as though he’d been shot. Like the idea of Newt—rooftop Newt, the one who read stupid books and could possibly levitate—being allies with Alby was sickening, when it wasn’t. In fact it was perfectly normal. It was. 

“I didn’t think he was!” he insisted. “I don’t believe it–he’d never…” He dropped his face into his hands, scrubbing at the exhaustion. “I don’t even know anymore.” 

“He’s just as much a threat as the Eleven kid is, now,” Dan muttered. “We’ve got to find them first, and get that damn bow.” 

Beth looked between them. “I’m confused.” 

“Ah, well. My sweet Thomas here seems to think that The Golden Boy is just that.” He squeezed Thomas’ shoulder. “Golden.” 

Gally raised an eyebrow. “What?” 

“They were buddies before the Trials,” Dan hummed. 

“We weren’t,” Thomas said, rolling his eyes. “We just talked, and he…well, lied to me, I guess.”

Beth gave him a scrutinizing look. “Kind of idiotic to trust someone's word–especially here.” 

He waved her off. “Whatever.” 

The day went on like that, the four of them talking about strategies for finding Newt and Alby, who had apparently allied together. The idea of it didn’t sit right with Thomas. It didn’t seem real, with Newt being so righteous and Alby…well Alby had a bow, didn’t he? And obviously he was intending to use it. How did Newt feel about that?

Or maybe Alby needed it to hunt, and maybe Thomas didn’t know him at all. Because he didn’t. All he knew was his polite smile and nod of compromise, and the silver of the bow he carried in hand. Nothing else. 

They put all their food in a pile a few hours before dark, rationing it around. Thomas still had quite a bit of his own food that he’d packed—as he hadn’t really eaten much—and Dan put up at least five pouches of the dried meat he seemed particularly fond of. Gally and Beth had a collection of rabbit meat, a few pouches from The Box, and the headless body of a bird. It looked like a chicken, but smaller. 

They divided it evenly and then put it all away, outside of the bird, which Dan set a fire to cook while Gally tore the feathers from its body. Thomas curled onto his side beside Dan shortly after Beth went into the cave to sleep, and shut his eyes. 

The painkillers he had taken early on in the day seemed to be beginning to wear off, however, so he sat up in a huff, body arguing against his consciousness. 

“Hurt?” Dan asked, and Thomas nodded. “Alright, strip. Let me see if it’s infected.” 

Thomas clicked off his holster and then tugged his two shirts over his head, leaving them to lay on his lap as Dan unzipped his bag and retrieved new bandages, moving to sit behind him. A calloused hand came to rest against his side, eventually, the other working the gauze off.

“What happened?” Gally asked. 

Dan’s smile was obvious in his voice. “Shithead from er…what was it? Five? The girl. She tackled me and Thomas came to my rescue.” He pulled at the tape, Thomas wincing. “But our idiot ally tried to have him killed, hence…” He made some sort of gesture, Thomas guessed, because Gally hummed his understanding.

Gally sat in silence for a few moments, just watching. Dan assessed the damage, and in his words, it could be worse. 

“There’s a little yellow, but I’m sure that’s just the body healing,” he said. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.” 

“We have a salve,” Gally grumbled after a quiet moment. “We ran into that guy from Three, and he was…” He shuddered. “Anyway, we got a Sponsor—well, Beth did—and it helped heal–” He pulled his shirt up, revealing a pink slash across his stomach. “This. And a cut on her arm. A deep one.” 

Dan cocked his head. “Mind if we borrow a bit?” 

Gally licked his lips. “No. But you owe me.” 

“‘Course,” Dan replied. 

Dan took the salve and scooped a bit onto his fingers, then used his left hand to grasp Thomas’ shoulder, holding him in place. “This might hurt.” 

Thomas nodded and bit down on his fist, though nothing could have aided the utter burn of Dan’s calloused fingers smearing the substance over his open wound. It took a minute for the healing factors to kick in, and by then Thomas was dripping sweat, but he still felt the effects roll through him ten fold. He hadn’t realized how truly bad the pain was until it began to fade slightly, and the exhaustion only enhanced further. 

Dan helped him tug on his shirts after applying a new bandage, then handed Thomas the thin container and pulled off his own. “You mind?” 

“No,” he muttered, and smeared a small amount of the substance onto his fingers. He was soon faced with the wound on Dan’s bare shoulder after the bandage was pulled off. It wasn’t as thick as his own, but far longer. He crawled forwards and carefully swiped his fingers over the crusted slit. 

Dan didn’t so much as flinch throughout it all, and instead took to watching Thomas as he worked it over the torn flesh. It was odd, the energy Thomas got off of Dan. It was intense and fixed, and…hungry in a way he couldn't exactly describe. 

When he finished he closed off the container and handed it back to Gally, humming his gratitude before subtly wiping the remaining product on his finger to the small cut on his arm. When Thomas slumped back he could tell his exhaustion was rolling off him in waves, because Dan gave him a long look. 

“Rest. It’ll heal quicker that way,” the taller boy said. 

He nodded, looking around the woods for a moment. “You’ll wake me up if Teresa comes back?” 

Dan smiled. “Of course.” 

And then he was lying on the soft grass on his side, curled up into himself. Dan was close, so Thomas focused on the low hum of his voice as he and Gally spoke of one thing or another. Teresa would be back when he woke, he knew. If anyone could survive those… things in the odd maze, it was her. 

Soon his sister would go home, and soon Thomas would be rid of the sick, dreadful feeling that clouded his mind, just as well as the sickness that lived in his core, spreading, spreading, spreading. 

When he woke a long while later, Thomas didn’t move an inch. He felt impossibly better, the pain in his back having receded almost entirely, but he still felt as though he could sleep for another year. The fire was still crackling, and the air smelt of unseasoned meat, all of it falling over Thomas like a soft, warm blanket. 

He didn’t bother to open his eyes, instead opting to imagine as though he were elsewhere. Somewhere with Teresa, Brenda. Chuck. Dan, Mara, Rachel, Aris. Even Beth and Gally. Poppy too. He pictured them all in someplace kind, laughter filling the air as opposed to screams, joy between them instead of rivalry. 

But it didn’t last long, Thomas’ mind staining the image and making a shiver run up his back. So, he stopped thinking entirely, and began listening to the idle conversation that Gally and Dan exchanged. 

“You ever gonna tell me what happened to them all?” Gally asked. “Sort of hard to believe that all of you er… Elites just up and vanished.” 

“He killed the two from One,” Dan said simply, and Thomas suddenly felt a large hand card through his hair lightly, and he fought away a flinch at the startle of the contact. “And I killed the girl from my district.” 

Thomas’ heart was beating furiously in his chest. Gally was quiet for a few too many moments. When he spoke again, it was incredibly stilted. “Why?” 

“Aris—the boy from One—he uh…said some things that he didn’t like,” Dan said carefully. “And Rachel tried to leave after. They were both useless anyway” He paused. “And Mara, well, she didn’t like him. Thomas, I mean. Besides, if I hadn’t we would’ve all died in the maze.”

Gally was nervous. Thomas could hear the way his foot was shifting over the ground. “You did it for him?” 

“And myself.” 

“Why?” 

“I wanted to live?” Dan commented, and when an expectant silence followed, the taller boy sighed. “He’s like me.” There was something in his voice Thomas couldn’t put a name to. Something light. “If you saw him when he’s really worked up, you’d understand.” Another pause, Thomas’ pulse nearly drowning out the noises of the forest. “He’s fun to have around.” 

“Until he kills you in your sleep,” Gally said gruffly. 

“Believe it or not, he’s not the one you should be worried about,” Dan said, hand pulling away from Thomas, voice dropping low. “He won’t do anything unprovoked.” 

“And you will?” 

“Yes.” 

The tense air was suffocating for a moment. But it eased as Gally dropped the subject. “And er…his sister? What’s her name?” 

“Teresa,” Dan said. 

“Teresa,” Gally parroted. “She’s…lost?” 

“You’ll have to ask him about that,” Dan hummed. “He’s the one who saw it happen, not me.” 

Thomas rose after a few minutes of intense silence, giving a yawn and stretching his arms far over his head. Dan greeted him happily, but Gally only watched him with something dark in his eyes. Mistrust, it seemed like. Honestly, Thomas didn’t care. He knew himself, knew his intentions, and Gally only knew what had been told to him by Dan. 

It wasn’t as though Gally’s thoughts on him mattered, it wasn't like he had any idea of who Thomas truly was. He was protecting his sister by killing Aris, and he didn’t touch a hair on Rachel’s head. Dan thought something of him, saw something in him, but that didn’t mean it was there. Even if it was, it didn’t mean Thomas couldn’t fight it. 

Beth rejoined them shortly after, a grand smile on her face seemingly brought about by a decent nap. So they sat around the fire, and began to talk. For the most part, Gally opted out, Thomas only chiming in here and there, but Dan and Beth seemed to bounce off each other, dissolving in laughter. 

Beth was one of those people who just smiled a lot. Even here, in the depths of the Trials, she smiled. He decided he liked her quite a bit, and couldn’t help but admit that her joyous energy seemed to fill the air and intoxicate everyone around her. After enough time had passed, even Gally was subtly smirking to himself. 

He learned that Beth had volunteered for her twin sister, and Gally had been chosen alongside her. They just happened to be old classmates, and had a decent friendship going into the trials. Gally had no family, and Beth was the oldest of five. Gally had a dog called Bark. Beth hated carrots. Gally was going to be a baker before this. Beth broke her arm when she was eight.

He also learned that the rest of the districts didn’t call the choosings, choosings, and instead they were labeled reapings, which made him feel sickeningly guilty for a few moments. 

On and on the conversation went, and when Thomas told the other three about the time when he and his sister got suspended from school for having a savage fight in the middle of their classroom, no one spared him an odd glance or an annoyed look, they just laughed. It felt like he had friends, all things aside. Friends that were his, not his sister’s.

Though, when it came down to it, Thomas would’ve done anything to have his sister there alongside him. To hear her laughter alongside the rest, even if she stole the attention away from the others, even if she left him in the background. It didn’t matter. He just wanted her there, safe. 

As the sun was well on its fall into night, Thomas felt an odd prickle on the back of his neck. 

It was unlike the haunting of the dead that rose bumps against his skin, it wasn’t in his mind. It was physical. No unusual sounds came from the forest around them, but there was a presence there, one that smelt of raw danger and had him sitting up, silent, every nerve on end as he waited, waited, waited. 

It wasn’t long before the others caught on, Gally and Beth arming themselves as they slowly, carefully rose from their seated positions, looking around the area with fearful, yet determined eyes. Dan gestured for them all to scatter, and they followed his orders without question. 

Thomas picked up his remaining sword—Dan having taken the other—and ventured off quietly into the forest, every sense on high alert. Oddly enough, fear didn’t intermingle with the rest of his emotions. He was high-strung, but not afraid. Facing the mutt seemed to have rebooted his confidence. No tribute could be as deadly as the creatures that walked the maze.

He suddenly stopped short. 

What if it was Teresa returning to him? 

Could she have been overly cautious about Gally and Beth, unsure of how they would react to her? What if they found her and didn’t know who she was?

No, Thomas told himself as he continued on. They knew who she was. And Teresa knew she could trust him. She knew he wouldn’t let anything happen to her. 

The orange-y light filled the arena once more, but its colours hardly bled into the woods. It was dark, but Thomas could still see far, far ahead. It was dim, more than anything else. He studied the fog, looking for odd movement or anything of the sort, but came up empty handed. 

The further he went, the more still the forest became. It wasn’t long before he stopped short, his nerves buzzing slightly. Something was happening, he could feel it. But no sounds arose, no movement. Slowly he turned on his heel and started back towards their fire. 

Suddenly he heard a noise, like blubbering water or maybe–

Or maybe someone choking on their own blood. 

He was off in an instant, bolting towards the direction he heard the sound from until it grew louder and louder. He rounded a particularly thick tree, finding someone flailing on the ground, but quickly his attention was stolen by a figure disappearing into the tree ahead. 

His eyes traced them, then dropped down. 

Beth. Beth was clutching at her throat below him, strangled cries clawing their way up her throat. 

He should go after her attacker. He should hunt them down. 

Beth’s hands swiped at his legs, and in a second Thomas was on his knees, sword thrown aside, pulling Beth’s head into his lap as tears slid down her face. “It’s okay,” he told her softly. “It’s fine, it’s okay.” He looked around, waiting for something, waiting for help or…or something, anything. “Everything’s going to be okay.” 

She looked terrified. Her blood was pouring from her throat and mouth, onto his lap, his hands, everywhere. There was so much of it, and she was so, so scared. He pressed his hand over the wound, and realized that he was scared too. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Because he should’ve been there. He should’ve caught whoever it was and kept this from ever happening. Beth didn’t deserve death. She deserved to live a life of talking loudly, of laughing and filling the air with her energy that made the world feel a bit brighter. 

“Oh, Thomas,” he heard behind him. 

“Dan,” he breathed, turning as much as he could as Dan crouched behind him, looking over his shoulder. “I didn’t do this. I didn’t. Help–I don’t–I don’t know what to do…I can’t…”

“It’s okay.” Dan’s hand came around him to cup Beth’s cheek as she slowly bled out, her eyes wide and frightened as she fought to live. “What do you feel right now, Thomas?” 

He frowned, eyes darting between Dan and Beth. “I don’t know, I don’t know. I want to help her, I want to help her.” 

“You can’t,” Dan said simply. Thomas watched as Beth choked up more blood, watched as it dripped over Dan’s hand. “Do you feel the buzzing?” Dan asked. “Behind your eyes, in your skull, in your bones?” 

“Yes,” he muttered. “Yes but I–” 

“Calm down,” Dan hummed. “We have to go before she dies, before the cannon sounds. But first…” He brought his bloodied hand up and nudged Thomas’ head to look at the dying girl fully. “What do you see?” 

Big, blue eyes, staring up at him as drowned cries barely escaped her throat. Hands twitching, trying to grab, trying to do anything. Blood. So much blood. Pouring out from her throat and her mouth, pooling on Thomas’ hands and soaking into the material of his shirt and pants. Agony. All over her features. 

Fear. Pure, unadulterated fear. There was so much of it laced throughout her every feature. She didn’t want to die, she was terrified of what came after, she was mortified by the pain of it.

“I don’t–I don’t know,” he mumbled. 

“Her eyes,” Dan whispered. “Quickly, look.” 

And he did, again, just as her skin was growing colder and colder against him. She wasn’t so frantic now, and her arms flopped to the side, giving up. Blue eyes found his. They were darker than Teresa’s, but blue all the same. And suddenly the fear went away, as did the agony. All of it sunk away until there was something…almost calm, taking her over. 

Her chest rose shakily, shallowly, and she looked peaceful. 

“I can see her dying,” he said finally. “I can see it–like a…like a light dimming. But she looks…she looks…” 

“What do you feel?” 

“Guilty.”

Dan didn’t say anything to dispute his answer, instead he leaned into Thomas’ ear, words warm against it. “Do you feel the rush? The heat?” 

Beth fell still, eyes turning up to the sky, glassy, lifeless.

And he could. He could. 

“Yes,” he breathed. 

“Don’t forget it.” Dan got to his feet, and pulled Thomas up with him, Beth flopping onto the ground. “We’ve got to go, now.” 

Her cannon shot. 

“What about Gally?” Thomas asked, feeling numb and…something else as Dan dragged him throughout the woods. “And our bags?”

“He’ll want to kill us both when he finds her. Death causes a sort of…lack of reasoning, in most, as you saw with Rachel.” Dan hooked their arms together and began a slight jog. “We’ll go back to The Box in the morning, but for now we’ve got to find somewhere to escape the wind. And, more importantly, Gally.” 

“But I didn’t kill her,” Thomas said weakly. 

Dan didn’t answer. 

They steered through the woods, Thomas’ mind still stuck on Beth. On the wound in her throat, on the blood that was caked over his legs and stuck to his hands. Her eyes, once so full of life, were now locked in his memory all clouded, glassy. Gone. Thomas didn’t kill her, he didn’t, but her debt joined the rest that floated throughout his mind, and the weight on his shoulders grew heavier. 

He focused on Dan for a few moments as they bolted through the woods. He could’ve killed Thomas then, could’ve killed Thomas at essentially any time, but he hadn’t. Not just that, but he was making a decision that would make things harder for him on Thomas’ behalf. Ditching their food, their supplies, just to ensure Thomas’ safety. 

If Dan told Gally Thomas had done it, the bulky boy would’ve killed Thomas in an instant and they would’ve been done with it. But he didn’t do that, and instead decided to save him, save Thomas. 

Less than a second later, Gally’s booming voice called through the woods, Thomas’ name practically vibrating off the trees around them. His stomach sunk, heartbeat throwing itself against his ribs. Dan squeezed his arm lightly, but didn’t react otherwise. 

They came up upon the South Door, and the taller boy skidded to a halt. Dan dropped Thomas’ arm and took a few steps forward. He stuck his hand into the inside of the corridor, then took a few steps until he was standing on the threshold. Thomas stayed put, staring out into the woods as though Gally were seconds away to break through them and rip him to shreds. 

“Thomas,” Dan hissed. When he turned, the taller boy beckoned him forward. “There’s no wind in here.”

He moved closer, but came to a stop around three paces from Dan, eyeing the maze beyond warily. “So?” 

“We have to go inside,” Dan said quickly. 

Thomas stepped back. “We can’t.” 

“If we don’t we’ll get stuck in the wind storm or found by Gally,” Dan said quickly, gesturing to the corridor behind him before he leaned slightly against the right side of the gap. “It’ll be fine, Thomas. If one of those things finds us then…then we’ll run. We’ll figure it out, okay? Do you trust me?” 

Thomas thought of his sister’s screams that spilled from the mouth of the mutt, of how truly agonized her voice sounded. “Dan I…I can’t. I can’t go back in there.” 

“Look, I don’t want to either, alright? But we don’t have a choice.” He worried his lip for a moment, the winds brushing against their clothes. “We don’t have time, the anthem will play soon and after that…” He looked to the woods. “We have to go. Now.” 

Dan was right. He was. But Thomas couldn’t move. “We could go back to The Box. Find a…a cave, somewhere.”

“Thomas…” Dan huffed. 

Thomas felt like screaming, his eyes darting between the woods and Dan standing in the threshold of the door, the concrete halls behind him, awaiting them. Dan was right, they couldn’t survive the wind storm. But their chances were just as slim going into the maze, and Thomas didn’t think he could face his sister’s cries again, didn’t think he’d be capable of ignoring them. 

Gally shouted Thomas’ name into the air again, closer now.

“I can’t deal with…with the screaming,” he told the other quickly, shivering. “I can’t. I can’t. I can’t help but think that…that they have her, have Teresa, and I–” 

“Thomas!” Dan half-shouted. “Your sister’s dead!” 

Thomas heard some sort of odd, distant click, similar to the one he had heard earlier on in the day when they had first gone into the maze. For a moment he listened for a second one, but when it didn’t come he looked back at the other. 

“She’s not,” he told Dan. “She’s just lost–” 

“She’s dead,” Dan cut in. “Alby killed her in the bloodbath, okay? We all saw it. She’s dead. And we need to go, Thomas. Now.” 

“The bloodbath…” he murmured. “No she…” 

Another large, distant click.  

“Thomas!”

“She–” 

Cutting him off, the door snapped shut.

Chapter Text

The first thing Thomas registered was blood. Not the smell of it, metallic and stained with a slight, nearly undetectable sweetness to it. Not the sight of it, either. Even despite the fact that it was the only thing he could make out, the only thing he could see. 

No, it was the overwhelming taste of it. The warm, sticky, iron-rich taste that had been splattered into his open mouth as the wall—once gapped—sealed itself shut. It made his throat ache, oddly. And quickly he pulled as much spit into his mouth as he could, only to swish it around and spit it out, feeling it slide down his chin and settle under his jaw, dripping onto his shirt. 

Maybe he would be discomforted by it. Like how the Three girl’s blood had caked against his clothes, reminding him of her speared face every time the crusted material scraped against his shirt. But it didn’t matter how much blood Thomas flushed out from inside his mouth and spat onto himself, none of it could rival the splatter that had hit the rest of him. 

He didn’t move. Couldn’t move. He only stood there, half-blinking at the horrible sting in his eyes, staring at the red blur clouding his vision. No thoughts lingered in his mind. Nothing did. He was empty. Gally must’ve found him already, gutted him and scooped out his rotten insides, and left him to dry. That’s all he was now. Something hollow, something vacant. 

It was only when he heard yet another massive click, and then a lightning-fast grumble of stone against stone, that Thomas was jolted back into his body, into his mind. His hands immediately came up to pry the blood off of his face, out from his eyes. Every touch to his skin felt alien, like his hands weren’t the ones clawing at his face, like he was both himself and someone else simultaneously.

And then he was breathing, and only then had he realized his lungs had been tight and refusing air. He sucked in heaving, frantic breaths, vision turning from blurry to clearer, clearer, clearer. Clear. Clear as he looked up, clear as his eyes took in the scene laid out before him. 

Dan, once so tall, so built, so powerful, was now nothing more than a…a puddle. That was the only word Thomas could scrounge up to describe it. Pieces of his ally, his friend, stuck to both sides of the door. Tendons, flesh, bone. Blood was trickling down the concrete, some absorbing into the slate of gray, some too thick to do so. 

On the threshold itself lay a wide scarlet smear, chunks of what was once a person laid here and there. Crushed bone, tangles of mangled body parts, all kinds of liquids mingling together, and strands of long, sullied blond hair topped it off. The blood that hadn’t landed on Thomas sparkled in the sparse light, and after what must’ve been a full minute of staring, he doubled over. 

The first round of vomit that shot out from inside him was sharp, and the second threw him onto his hands and knees. The remnants of food pooled and mixed into the blood that stained the grass, but his body wasn’t finished. It kept going until all that came up was bile, and kept going after that, too. Thomas sat there, dry heaving, shaking, tears streaking through the blood staining his cheeks. 

When it finally stopped and his body turned still, Thomas just slumped onto his side, clutching his arms over his chest. Outside of the tears the exertion of it brought out from him, Thomas didn’t sob, didn’t cry. He didn’t do anything. He didn’t feel anything. A part of him was certain he never would again. 

He was curled into himself, laying in a pile of his own stomach content, soaked in the blood of his ally, his friend, entirely and completely alone. There wasn’t anything to do. Wasn’t anything to feel. He could only remain there, watching Dan be flattened on a loop in the eye of his mind. The clicks. The grumble. The wet crunch. The distant cannon. The remains. Again and again. Again. Again. 

It wasn’t long before the anthem sounded, and he didn’t make a single move to look up. He only continued to stay entirely still, feeling the increase of cool wind against his blood and bile-soaked skin. It went on for what felt like a long time, the white light of it reflecting against the liquids staining the ground around him. He knew that the Five girl’s face was up in the sky. Mara’s. Beth’s. Dan’s. 

And when it ended, he still didn’t move. Gally would find him soon if he remained there. Thomas didn’t think the wind would stop the tall boy, not by the way he had been screaming Thomas’ name into the air with all his agonized rage. Beth. Poor Beth. Laid on the forest floor just like Thomas was, though she had been bleeding out, and Thomas only felt like he was, looked like he was. 

Someone who was both intimidating and sweet, Beth. She didn’t deserve her fate. She didn’t deserve to lay on the cold ground with nothing more than a stranger to sit there and console her, tell her everything was okay when it was everything but. And he had tried to console her. Uselessly.

Thomas deserved it. Thomas deserved to be cut into, left to die. He should’ve been, long ago. A part of him could feel it, the wound in his throat. As if it had happened to him. He could feel the blood filling his airway, feel the panic, the confusion. 

Let Gally find him, Thomas thought. Let him unleash a wrath unlike any other onto Thomas and tear him limb from limb. Diminish him to nothing more than what Dan was now. He was dead the moment he volunteered, just as the rest of them were. Maybe Thomas had been dead the moment he was born. Maybe he had been walking around a husk, mind far gone and the shell of a body yearning to join it. 

The wind grew to be almost painful against his skin, the blood crusting, his clothes growing colder and colder. The sun was far past the West Wall, leaving him in a loud darkness. Eventually—Gally’s presence nowhere near—Thomas pushed himself up to sit, crawling towards the South Wall. There was a massive boulder pressed against it, so he settled himself in the makeshift corner, escaping the wind, waiting. 

The winds picked up and up and up, but there Thomas remained. The harshities increased with every second until all he could hear was the way the air whipped past his ears in alternating directions every few seconds. Even with the coverage in the little corner he’d shoved himself into he felt the icy chill of it, but there was nothing to be done, nothing he wanted to do. 

So he pulled his knees to his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and bowed his head into the bowl of his lap. It was enough to block the wind from assaulting his ears, but nothing could ever be enough to stop the screams that inhabited Thomas’ mind, the sharp whistle, the wet crunches and the gurgles. They were growing louder, as he sat there. Louder. Louder. 

Inside his skull, flowing through his veins, nestled between his bones. It was taking him over, swallowing him whole. He needed out. Out from his body and out from this terrible, horrible place. Out, out, out. 

So he screamed into the hollow of his lap. Screamed like he never had before, screamed until his throat was so raw he was certain it was bleeding, and then continued. It was a wail, a cry for help he knew wasn’t coming and he didn’t deserve. It was a punishment. It was all of the things he couldn’t feel forced into a sound and shot out from him with all the strength he could muster. 

The wind drowned it out, but he kept going anyway. It silenced the rest. His pain muting theirs when it was bellowed out of him. It hurt. Everything hurt. But he kept going. Going and going and going until he started to get lightheaded, and the world faded from dark to nothing at all. 

Waking the following morning—if you could call the way he was forced into consciousness waking—was nothing but painful. He was slumped onto his side, away from the reaching tethers of ivy, and surrounded by a nest of leaves, thin branches, and rocks. His breathing was shallow, slow, like it took energy to bother with filling his lungs. And it did. 

The skies were still, the light of the sun—which was farther up than he’d expected—burned through his eyelids, and burned more so when they fluttered open. As they did, Thomas was moving almost absentmindedly, pushing leaves and sticks and rocks off of himself as he made to stand. 

Nothing felt real. He was tingling all over, and far from himself. Dirt dusted the stained red of his clothes, and he made a feeble attempt at brushing it away as he wobbled still. For a moment, he just stood. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. Didn’t know if there was a point in doing anything at all. 

Slowly his feet took him back to the South Door, which he now knew with certainty was actually a door. Something that opened and closed. It didn’t seem possible, not with the size of the walls, and certainly not with the speed at which it had slammed shut. But it was. He shouldn’t have been surprised.

The right side had shoved itself against the left, crushing Dan between them. There was mercy in that, Thomas thought. Dan didn’t even have time to register it. The scene that arose the previous night looked nothing like the one that stood before him now. All remnants of Dan had seemingly been scraped from the ground, leaving nothing more than smears of half-heartedly scrubbed away blood. It was browning, nearing a look of rust against the gray. 

Slowly, Thomas walked onto the threshold breaking the center and the maze, or the Glade and the districts, as the Makers so cleverly insinuated, and bent down to scrape a finger over what was once his friend. He traced around the shape of the stain, closing his eyes to focus on the count he had taken to. 

Ten, eleven, twelve…

On and on. Now that he knew what was to come, Thomas could almost feel the ground and sides of the doorway tense around him as it awaited its mark. It was almost as if it was living, capable of emitting anticipation. Of course, such a thing was impossible if not wildly improbable, but at this point he wasn’t sure what to put past the Makers. 

Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six…

Thomas had felt a lot of things since being brought into the arena just a few days prior. Agony, terror, pain not of the body but something more, something indescribable. But now—when he felt as though he should feel the most—there seemed to be nothing. He felt soft. Soft like if he pressed hard enough, he would melt. Melt like the Shade had. As though he were non-existent. 

Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four…

Was it the rot? Had it taken him over, replaced him with something else? Something non-human, something other. Something that didn’t feel anything at all. Something that existed because it had to, not because it wanted to. Something that shouldn’t exist at all. Should’ve never existed to begin with. 

The first click sounded at the one-minute mark, and Thomas rose to his full height. 

He knew death now, knew it better than he knew himself. How it could be instant, how it could be slow. It was what their country obsessed over, what they craved. It was so easy to get through the year, knowing that the Trials were in the works, and soon enough they would gather, celebrate, watch as twenty-four tributes were rounded up and set on each other. 

They were watching now, Thomas knew. They were hungry. Insatiable. Drooling over the blood spill. He wondered what they thought of him now, as he stood there, seconds from being crushed just as Dan was. He wondered if that was exactly what they wanted, to see him so driven to the edge that he couldn’t handle it a second longer. 

The second click came at two minutes and thirty seconds, and Thomas moved to the very edge of the threshold, the gentle wind of the center brushing against his back. 

It wasn’t uncommon. Tributes jumped from the plates before the countdown sounded. Tributes threw themselves off of cliffs. Tributes did whatever they needed to do to get out, to take their fate into their own hands so that the knives and swords and spears of others couldn’t do it for them. 

Weak. Pathetic. Cowardly. 

A few of many names for those tributes. Spilled from the lips of those Thomas had known and many others he didn’t. A tribute who took their own life deserved a fate far worse than the rest, because they refused to face the torment that those who came before had, those who died in the rebellion. A rebellion that ended long ago. 

Maybe at one point the tributes really did die for retribution. Maybe at one point the people of the Capitol just needed to see them punished for all that had been lost. Unreasonable or otherwise. But things had changed, time had passed. And it wasn’t about that anymore, not at all. 

No. To the Capitol, it was entertainment, something to look forward to. For the Elites, it was the greatest honour, it was something they dedicated their life to, something that would earn them endless glory, endless praise, or the ultimate defeat. Death. And to the rest of the districts, it was a threat. It was a reminder of just how powerful the Capitol really was. 

In the back of his mind, Thomas made himself a promise. If ever he escaped the arena, if he impossibly survived, he would kill every single person in the Capitol. The Makers, the president, all of those who funded the Trials, all of those who made it happen. And the bystanders, too. He would butcher them all. He would tear their homes from the ground and show them what it was like to lose all that mattered. 

Because that was who he was raised to be, who they had raised him to be. A killer.

The stone of the door seemed to tense up further, and Thomas pushed off at the very last second, landing on his back as the right side slammed into the left. He propped himself up on his elbows and stared at the now-solid wall. Blood didn’t drip from the stone anymore, but he could still hear it. It snapped open again a minute later with its great noises and effort, and Thomas smiled at the sky. 

Smiled because they were all wrong. Not about him, but about the world around them. The Capitol, the districts—even the Elites—and even the rebels that still existed today. None of them truly knew. None of them understood. They were all idiots biting at their own tails. The world would continue to look like this, because they were all too selfish to make real change. 

Elites turned a blind eye to what was happening around them because it benefited them to be blind. The middle districts likely despised the way the world spun, and yet did nothing because they didn’t think they could. And the outlying districts, abused and neglected, giving up. Receding into the shadows and taking what they could get. Letting their children die in the process. 

Around and around and around. Rebels would make pitiful efforts, and the Capitol would stomp them into the ground with the force of an army. Again and again. 

And then he was laughing, the sound raspy and sore against his raw throat, but he kept on anyway. Laughing and laughing and laughing. 

Because the rebels had tried to take power over the Capitol, for whatever reason, and set the Trials in motion. Heroic actions causing horrific consequences. And there was something beautiful in that, at least the old parts of Thomas thought so. To be able to cause such drastic pain because someone went against you, to leave the rest cowering in your shadow. 

Power was an odd thing. You could have it, and people would fear you. You could pretend to have it, and people would still fear you if you were convincing enough. 

Soon he calmed, lying there with a smile still etched onto his face. He didn’t feel like smiling, didn’t feel like laughing, but it was there anyway, wasn’t it? Lingering on his features, evidence aching in his chest. He was unarmed, thirsty, hungry, likely a day or so away from death, and yet there he was. Laughing, smiling. 

When the distant screaming started, Thomas didn’t so much as flinch. It was familiar, if anything. He wondered who it was. He wondered what was happening to them. But he didn’t move. It wasn’t his business. And he bore no weapons, so it wasn’t as though he could even do anything. 

Even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. 

He thought of Beth, the peaceful shift in her features right before the end. Death was a mercy, here. It was the only kindness offered in such a place. That was what he told himself. It was what he told himself when he shakily pulled himself up off the ground, too. He reminded himself of it once more as he began slowly walking towards the source. 

The closer he got, the more unclear the situation became. There was an excess of snarling, shouting, a few pleas here and there wedged between the anger and the pained cries. It was a fight. But one that was lasting far longer than any other Thomas had seen before. His pace had picked up, slightly. Curiosity. Maybe. 

Eventually, he broke through a clearing, stepping over logs and shrubs, and found two bodies in the middle. Alive, he realized a moment later, though their movements weren’t drastic. A girl laid on the ground, bloodied and crying, and a boy stood above her. Her feet were lined up on his hips, keeping him as far as she could while her hands batted away his. 

As he drew closer, more details made themselves obvious. For one, the girl had been all but torn into. As if human hands had clawed their way deep into her flesh. And it seemed as though Thomas was right, the boy—Ben, he remembered—drove yet another curled hand to her chest, ripping it away as his jaw snapped open and shut. 

And as Thomas’ eyes climbed over Ben, he suddenly stopped short, breath caught. Veins protruded beneath his green-tinged skin, thick like rope and as dark as the night sky. Blood just as black dripped from the boy’s mouth, splattering the girl’s face with every snap of his teeth. There was something very, very wrong with him. 

Their collars were easy enough to see despite the way blood covered them, one something sandy-brown and the other the same yellow as the first boy Dan had killed in the bloodbath. Eight or Nine, then. Eight, he thought quickly, seeing the dark hair of the girl, the wide almond shape of her terrified eyes. 

There was something significant about that, but he couldn’t put his finger on what. He didn’t remember her name, though, so it couldn’t have been all that concerning. 

It was an awful sight, but Thomas felt nothing at all. He started again, however, walking slowly, carefully behind Ben as he tried desperately to tear more into the Eight girl. When Thomas’ hand brushed by the boy’s shoulder, he didn’t so much as flinch. When Thomas’ arm secured around his neck, the boy’s focus remained on the girl below him. 

Ben was cold to the touch. Not as cold as one would be in death, but far too cold for the warm air that surrounded them. His pulse beat hard against Thomas’ forearm, increasing further as he squeezed harder and harder. It wasn’t long before Ben began to gasp, and yet his attention never wavered. As though he didn’t feel it, as though killing the girl was all that mattered. 

After far too long, Ben went limp. With a small push, the boy fell off to the side, and Thomas watched him. Fingers covered in blood—both red and black—twitching every few seconds. Discomforted, he took a few steps until he was standing by the other boy’s head, then raised a foot, pushing all of his weight into it as it came down onto Ben’s skull.

With a crunch, the sick boy was dead. 

As the cannon shot, Thomas didn’t feel a single twinge of guilt. Not as he looked down at the boy and saw only the sickness, the violence. It would’ve been cruel to allow him to live, if anything. Thomas remembered seeing him be chosen—reaped—and how he’d cried up on the stage, how repulsed Teresa–

His attention turned to the girl, who was sucking in quiet breaths, and he moved until he could crouch at her side, his eyes scanning over her body. Her shirt was drenched in fresh blood, and her cheek was all but clawed off, pink flesh staring back at him. She was dead, and they both knew it. 

“Isabelle!” a voice called, and Thomas’ insides went cold. 

The Eight girl, Isabelle, turned her head as much as she could to greet the small—young, little, innocent—boy as he ran over, falling to his knees as he took one of her hands in both of his. Chuck was pale, tears pouring down his face as her bloodied hands stained his own. 

“I’m so sorry,” Chuck blubbered out between sobs. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Isabelle’s face flickered with a sad smile, but then it faded, her head lolling to the side without so much as a goodbye muttered. Chuck held her hand tighter as it fell limp, still muttering under his breath rapidly, voice growing more frantic and incoherent as he went on and on. As the cannon shot, Thomas’ eyes traveled all over the younger boy.

Chuck was twelve, Thomas remembered. He had turned twelve shortly before the choosing—the reaping—and his name, which couldn’t have been in the bowl more than once, was plucked from the hundreds. Against every odd, every single odd, Chuck was selected as a tribute. 

Flashes went through Thomas’ mind. Chuck holding the nunchucks, big eyes looking up at Thomas all nervous and terrified because Thomas was so much taller, so much older. Chuck in the white suit dotted with cow print, hands wringing as he told Toad of his skill, how fast he could run. Chuck on the Berg, frozen and terrified of what was to come.

And now dirt was smeared over his young face, and blood was covering his pudgy hands, leaving it impossible to make out the little freckles Thomas knew to be on the backs of them. His eyes were still blue, but there was something nearly vacant about them as he looked down at Isabelle. The boy didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand. How could he? 

His parents were watching, Thomas knew. They wouldn’t have wanted to, they wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, but they did anyway. How could they not, knowing their son—their only son—was trapped in constant danger, struggling to make it from one day to the next? They were watching their son now as his small hands tried to wipe blood off his ally’s face, to no avail. 

They saw Thomas, too. They must’ve watched as he stomped into Ben’s skull, must’ve watched him as he strode over slowly, tiredly. Maybe Isabelle could’ve lived, had he run. Had he cared. Maybe Chuck wouldn’t be sobbing over her body if Thomas hadn’t been so wrapped up in his own pitiful emotions. 

Thomas heard the telltale whirs of a Berg nearing them, and he rose from his crouched position. “Chuck.” The boy didn’t look up. “Chuck, we have to go.” 

The loud hum of the Berg neared and neared and neared, and only when the hot air of the engines blew down from above did the younger boy finally look up, watery eyes staring up at the aircraft with something…something almost angry. It didn’t belong on his face, Thomas decided. Chuck was too young to have anger like that, anger at the world.

But the boy bent over Isabelle’s body, pressing his lips to her hair before he shakily rose, walking off to the side to let the Berg’s do as they would, as he had likely seen in the Trials before. Thomas followed him until they were a dozen paces away, where the two turned on their heels and stood, watching as a claw descended and plucked up the girl, dragging her into the belly of the ship. 

Small, wet fingers touched his own, and Thomas opened the fist his hand had been clenched into, allowing the younger boy to hold it. Chuck didn’t spare him a glance, watching as Isabelle was carried away, then watching as a second claw descended for Ben, too. 

The open belly slid to a close, but neither of the two boys moved. They remained there as the aircraft drifted off, its hum fading and fading until it vanished entirely. Even then, they were still. It felt surreal, in a way. Surreal just as the rest of the morning had, just as the entirety of the Trials had, if Thomas were honest with himself. 

They made a picture, Thomas and Chuck. At least he thought so. There was a room in the Justice Building Thomas’ academy teacher had brought his class to annually. It was a gallery, of sorts. Captures of Victor's moments in the Trials, usually a particularly impressive kill or the look on their faces when their victory was announced. 

He and Chuck would make a different sort of picture, Thomas thought. The kind that didn’t inspire, but hurt. A twelve-year-old boy standing hand in hand with Thomas. Thomas, who was sullied with dirt, blood, and bile. Thomas who—by his own hand or not—killed each of his allies. 

Thomas, who didn’t deserve to feel the warmth of Chuck’s hand in his. 

Thomas, who should’ve been dead. 

But he wasn’t dead. He was alive, as much of an inconvenience as it was. And his annoyingly pulsing heart had led him here, to Chuck. So there he would remain. What else could he do?

“Come on,” he said after a sullen few minutes, gently tugging the boy along. 

It was less than an hour—or so he thought—later that they came upon the treeline that led into the clear area around The Box. He peeked out through the shrubs, eyes scanning to ensure the place was vacant, and when nothing moved out of place, his stomach settled.

He pointed to the base of a thick tree that was shrouded in shrubs, and Chuck wordlessly obeyed, plopping down. Thomas adjusted the bushes slightly to give the other more coverage, then backed up, checking out his work. It was decent enough, no one would suspect anything in passing. It was enough. It would be enough for the few minutes he needed. 

Giving Chuck a gentle instruction to stay quiet, Thomas turned off, pushing past the forestline and quickly jogging towards The Box, sending a silent plea to no one that it hadn’t dropped down into the depths. His wish was granted, though unnecessary. 

The Box itself was emptied. Grated walls that were once lush with wired-down weapons were bare, and the floor was entirely and completely clear of the many parcels Thomas had seen a short time prior. All of it was strewn about the field, though the weapons themselves were scarce. There was a shortsword and a hammer, and Thomas grabbed the former then collected the supplies he needed. 

In his rush, he only had time to grab two emptied bags, then shove them full of whatever he could get his hands on. A few baggies of food, a blanket, and some things he didn’t know the content of, but grabbed anyway. His eyes kept jumping back to where Chuck was hidden, and his senses were prickling uncomfortably. 

“Tom?” he heard. 

Grabbing the bags and his sword, Thomas stood up, eyes darting around frantically until he watched as Teresa came into view with a bloodied axe on her shoulder. “Tom!” She jogged over, and he met her in the middle, feeling his heart pound hard, legs trembling. 

“You look like a ghost,” she told him, head cocking, braid moving with it. “Feeling okay?” 

“Teresa,” he whispered. 

“You guys are alive!” Dan’s voice came from behind. Again. Again. It was happening again. “I was thinking the worst.” 

Thomas couldn’t move. He couldn’t move. He wanted to move. He needed to move. 

“In your dreams,” his sister said. 

Mara joined them, using her shirt to clear blood from her face, talking. Words were coming from her mouth, but Thomas couldn’t hear them. All he could think about were her screams echoing around the massive stone corridors behind him as Dan pulled him along. All he could think about was how long she suffered against the stone before death finally took her. 

And then Dan was looking around, and Thomas followed his gaze. Behind them stood Aris and Rachel, eyeing the contents of The Box. It wasn’t long before Rachel jumped down, Aris following, the pair beginning to shift through the supplies as conversation he couldn’t hear went on between them. Aris looked happy, almost. Content. 

When he turned back, the others were talking. Mara’s eyes were searching for whatever was keeping the cannons from sounding, and Teresa and Dan were arguing about who was going to lead. Thomas couldn’t move, couldn’t escape. He could only stand there and listen, listen and look. And look and look and look. 

And he did. But it wasn’t aimless. It wasn’t random, now. 

His eyes gravitated to the woods that sat so far behind his sister. It wasn’t long until he found him, until he found Alby. It wasn’t long until his eyes caught on the glare of his silver bow as it peeked out from behind a tree, and he knew it wouldn’t be long until Mara saw him, too. 

“Don’t be childish,” Teresa said to Dan, and Thomas internally begged, pleaded. 

“I’m not,” Dan replied, and Thomas wished the ground would swallow him whole. 

“You are.” Please, please.  

“Am not.” Not her. Anyone but her.  

“Seriously?” 

He heard it again, the sharp whistle that came before the massive clang. Then his eyes snapped to Teresa’s. She was looking at him, too. Eyes wide, lips parted as a small puff of air released from them. He could see the surprise in her features. And as he looked down, he could see the shiny head of an arrow sticking out from her throat, sparkling in the morning light. Taunting. 

“Shit!” Aris’ voice called, again, again, again. “Watch out!” 

Thomas closed his eyes, waiting. 

But the Three girl never came. And when his eyes fluttered open again, all he found before him was a space of grass leading to the forestline, the same forestline, though empty. Empty of all but Chuck, as far as he was aware. He stood there for a moment, staring at the ground. He wondered how much of her blood was dried in the dirt below. 

And then he stopped wondering. And he stopped thinking. And he quickly realized that he wasn’t frozen, not anymore. 

He ran off towards the woods once more, where Chuck was waiting for him, the bags swinging in his left hand as he tucked the sword into his belt. It wasn’t long before he broke through the shrubs, where the younger boy popped up upon his arrival. 

They made their way into the woods once more, walking over large stones and avoiding especially muddy puddles. It wasn’t until what must’ve been a few hours later that they came across a medium-sized river, the water quick but not deep enough to swim in. Thomas felt true relief wash over him as he set down the bags and his sword, looking over the rushing water. 

He recognized the place, if only vaguely. He, Dan, and Mara had passed through it at one point or another, though then the river was nothing more than a dry, rocky trail leading down. He thought of Beth and the creek that lived outside their cave, how it disappeared. He quickly stopped thinking about her. 

“Get cleaned up,” he told Chuck, eyeing the blood on his small hands and the dirt on his young face. “Give me your clothes, I’ll fix them up for you.” 

Chuck nodded and began tugging off his clothes until he was left in his underpants, placing a knife that had been tucked in his belt aside, then left them in a pile that Thomas immediately took to. The kid walked a few feet upstream and sat down, tracing shapes into the water with a sort of dazed look on his face. Thomas felt sick wondering what was going through Chuck’s mind, but he put his focus into the task at hand.

Blood didn’t belong on Chuck’s clothes, Thomas thought to himself as he scrubbed at the mostly dry red liquid that had seeped into the fabric here and there. It was hard to tell against the black, but it ran scarlet in the water and made his stomach swirl uncomfortably. 

Afterward, he hung the clothes up on a tree branch and settled beside Chuck, who had his knife in hand and was cutting away at a piece of wood. Thomas refused to let his mind wander, senses entirely focused on the area around them, on possible danger that could arise from anywhere. He laid his sword over his lap, the sharp of it away from the boy, and he stared at the shine of the steel. 

“I can watch things while you clean up,” Chuck said after a quiet minute, focus still on the knife slicing away at the stick.

Thomas shook his head, looking down at the state of himself. “That’s okay.” 

“You sure?” 

He was afraid to turn his back, to be in any state of vulnerability and to put Chuck in the same state by proxy. He was afraid to wash the blood off and be rinsed of the situation as a whole, as if the loss of the crunchy sensation against his skin would rob him of the evidence, rob him of the memory. He couldn’t say that, though. 

“I’ll just get dirty again,” he settled on instead. 

It seemed to be enough for Chuck, and Thomas sat for a few moments watching as the other carved away. He was making something, Thomas realized. 

“What are you making?” 

Chuck smiled a little bit, then crawled over to where Thomas had left his boots and plucked something out from inside them. He handed two small pieces of wood to Thomas, who rolled them over in his hands. Chuck settled to his spot once more. “It’s my parents,” he mumbled softly, starting to carve away again. “I’m making me now.” 

The figures were a little messy, but Thomas could still make out what they were meant to be. A woman and a man, standing with little smiles on their lopsided faces. He swallowed through the way his throat caught. “That’s really cool.” 

Chuck nodded. “Do you miss your parents?” 

Thomas faltered a moment, remembering the lie he rushedly told the boy back in the gym. “I uh, I do. ‘Course I do. Everyday.” He bit at the nail of his thumb. “Why d’you ask?” 

“I like to think that no matter how old you get, you always miss your parents when they aren’t around,” Chuck said in a quiet voice, lips quirked up in a small smile. “Like, it doesn’t matter if you get old and wrinkly. Your parents always stay your parents.” 

Thomas wouldn’t know. “That is how it feels. I mean, I think so. Don’t know if I’m old enough to tell yet.” 

The day went on slowly, and it seemed as though the place was empty of the other tributes. Thomas took the opportunity to go through the two bags he had hurriedly packed up, dumping out the supplies onto a rather large flat rock, sorting through them as Chuck stayed within his view, redressing once his clothes dried and continuing on with his figures. 

Food-wise he came out with four packs of dried meats, one pack of trail mix, and three of dried fruits. He kept two bags of meat for himself and dropped the rest into Chuck’s bag. He found two empty water bottles and filled them both, gulping one down—he hadn’t managed to get his hands on iodine—before refilling it again then sealing it, telling Chuck to do the same with his own before he packed them up.

Otherwise he came away with matches, twine, rubbing alcohol, bandages, and a handful of things that could eventually be useful, if he stayed alive. He ended up shoving the wool blanket into Chuck’s bag, then instructed the little boy to stand, and they ventured off into the woods once more in search of a place to hide out. 

They couldn’t exactly hunt, not that Thomas wanted to, but their only other option was to hole up somewhere and hope they weren’t found. Gally had either given up on looking for him, died in the night, or was currently tearing through the arena in hopes of finding him. The other tributes—however many there were—seemed to be hiding themselves, if the empty forest was anything to go by. 

It gave him a moment to breathe, if anything. A moment to clear his head, look around, and try to figure out what exactly he was doing. What exactly he had done. 

In his mind, he thought of all of those he had watched die, and it was only seconds later that he considered the fact that he had caused most, if not all of the ends of those around him. Whether it be by his hand, or his decisions, Thomas bore the weight of at least a dozen deaths on his shoulders. He looked down at the boy walking at his side. 

Chuck, all things aside, seemed okay. Better than he had earlier, at the very least. He was talking about one thing or another—keeping to a quiet tone, as Thomas had instructed—and his small freckled hands were moving about, eyes happy and focused and far less clouded with the pain of loss. While it warmed his chest slightly, it also made Thomas feel uneasy. 

How much longer did Chuck have, under his care?

But he couldn’t let such worries consume him, not here, not now. 

“–and then she laid all these eggs, and there was this one that, I swear, was the biggest egg I’d ever seen! And since it was from our own hen house I asked Dad if I could keep it, and he said yes, so I did. But when it hatched the chick was like–” The little boy made an ‘O’ with his thumb and index. “This big! The smallest ever. Smaller than a coin.”

They were walking through the woods against the East Wall, Thomas humming and nodding along to each of Chuck’s many stories while still keeping himself alert, waiting for something to jump out, waiting for someone to cross paths with them. Thomas didn’t want to kill again, but things were different now. He had Chuck, now. 

“I decided to keep her anyway because usually chicks like that die on their own, and I named her Cluck.” He paused, looking up at Thomas with a wide grin. “Get it? Cluck? Like Chuck?”

“Very funny,” he commented. 

“I thought so too,” Chuck hummed. “Now she’s all grown up and lives in my room. I tried potty training her but it didn’t work so my mom just made her a diaper. She’s a little weird, only really walks in circles, but I like her.” 

Thomas stepped over a log and gave Chuck a hand, smiling when the younger boy leaped dramatically onto the other side. “Do you have any friends that aren’t chickens?”

“I go to school,” Chuck said. 

“That doesn’t answer my question,” Thomas replied. 

Chuck shrugged. “Kids at school don’t really hangout with me, but I don’t mind.” He swatted at a low-hanging branch a foot above his head. “I have a teacher I like though. She taught me how to carve stuff.” 

“Sounds like fun.” 

“Do you have friends?” 

Thomas shrugged. “I have a friend. His name’s Darnell.” He looked up at the sky, hoping Darnell was too busy to be watching. “He’s my best friend, I think. Outside of my sister.”

“That’s cool,” Chuck hummed. “I always wanted to have a brother or sister, I figured it’d be just like having a best friend but you can have sleepovers whenever you want and do everything together. Your sister is that…” The younger boy slowed to a stop, and Thomas’ gut clenched as he halted beside him. “Oh.” 

He swallowed. “Chuck…” 

“I’m sorry,” the other mumbled. “I didn’t mean to–I forgot–I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.” 

“It’s okay, let’s keep moving,” Thomas huffed, a hand guiding the younger boy to begin walking again. 

They walked in silence for a few minutes, but there were words Thomas knew Chuck was biting down, questions he wanted to ask. Thomas chewed hard on the inside of his cheek to keep his composure. Chuck was only a child, he didn’t understand. It would be wrong to be upset with him. 

There was at least ten minutes of quiet before it came. And when it did, he felt himself fall cold.

“I’m sorry she died,” Chuck said, his words deafening the forest, leaving them in silence. “I thought she was cool. I mean, I didn’t know her, of course, but she looked cool and everyone was always talking about her. Even my escort was always talking about how cool she was…” 

Thomas had stopped walking with his eyes squeezed shut, fists clenched, jaw set, and he listened as Chuck trailed off, listened to the shuffle of his feet as he walked over.

“Thomas?” The younger boy whispered. “Are you okay?” 

And when he opened his eyes again, Chuck was gone, and the world was orange with the setting sun, grass soft beneath his feet. Aris was sitting in front of him, looking up with eyes wide and fearful, yet determined. He could sense the others around them, Dan, Mara, Rachel. They were waiting. Watching. 

“Stop talking,” Thomas said in a low voice. 

“Alright,” Aris said quietly, licking his lips. “I was just trying–” 

“I’m fine,” he spat out. “I’m fine. You need to shut your fucking mouth.” 

“Okay,” Aris said. 

But the other didn’t mean it, didn’t believe Thomas, and he knew it. He could feel it in his bones. He could feel it thrumming through him like blood. Aris was bad. Aris was going to hurt her. 

And then his eyes flickered down to the knife laid down by Aris’ hand, just a reach away from his fingers. 

“It’s okay, Thomas,” Aris said after a tense moment, voice gentle and wrong, wrong, wrong. “It’s okay. We can help you. We can avenge her. He attacked her when her back was–wait, no!” 

Thomas had lunged forward, thrown Aris onto his back, the front of his shirt clutched in Thomas’ fists. “Shut the fuck up.” 

Aris was panicking, and Thomas could see it in his eyes. It sent a surge of something through his veins, something prickly and elating. “Get off of me!” 

“You’re a liar–you’re trying to get into my head,” Thomas seethed, his knees on either side of the other boy, weight pinning him. “Stop fucking lying.” 

Aris’ hands clutched at his, trying to tear them away. “I’m just trying to help you!” 

“Liar!” Thomas picked him up by his shirt, then slammed him back down onto the ground, listening to the wheeze of air escaping his lungs. “You’re fucking with my head!” 

Aris shoved a knee into Thomas’ back, but he didn’t relent. “Get off!” 

“Teresa’s fine,” Thomas growled, pulling Aris up again, shoving him back down twice as hard. “Fucking say it.” 

Aris cried out, wheezing. “Get–Get him off!” 

“SAY IT!” he roared, pulling, shoving. 

“She’s–” Aris slammed against the ground, the impact pulling a dry sob from him. “She’s dead! She’s fucking dead!” 

“LIAR!” Pull, shove. Pull, shove. Harder and harder until his arms started to tremble. “FUCKING LIAR!” 

Aris was choking, unable to catch his breath, tears dripping down his cheeks. Once his face had flushed a bright red, Thomas finally stopped, panting on top of him, eyes locked on the other's. 

“Okay,” Aris said raggedly, sucking in air. “Fine, fine. She’s fine, she’s fine. M’sorry. Sorry. ” 

Thomas held him there for a few more seconds, spewing all of his fury into his gaze that bore down into Aris’ own. He dropped the grip on the other, finally, and shakily rose off of him, taking a step away to allow Aris to stand. His blood was burning hot, sweat dripping down the bumped slope of his nose, vision blurry at the edges. He felt out of control, and tried to let the cool dusk air calm him. 

Aris rose, dusting himself off, wiping the tears from his cheeks. He looked at Dan, words coming out in a whisper. “Fucking nutcase.”

And then Thomas turned back and grabbed the side of Aris’ head, pulling all of his strength into slamming the boy into the ground, falling to his knees in the process. He’d pulled him up by the hair, then slammed him down again. Again and again and again. Blood flew into the space between them, skull cracked, but he kept going and going and going until the cannon shot. 

His eyes shut, breathing rapidly.

“Thomas?”

Chuck. Chuck was there. Chuck’s hand was on his forearm, his voice was small and afraid. Chuck. Chuck. Chuck.

And then another memory surfaced. It wasn’t as if he had shoved it away, because he hadn’t. There hadn’t been a reason to, until now. But as his vision blurred and his mind began pumping itself full of the thoughts he had pushed away, it swam to the forefront of his brain. 

Thomas’ shaking fingers twirling the wire holding his swords in place, the presence that appeared beside him, the tension that ignited in the air of who would get to who first. And then he’d unsheathed a sword and turned it on the other, whose bow was empty, who bore fear in his gaze. 

Connected, was what he thought he and Alby were. Two boys who were afraid of what was to come. So they compromised, Thomas let him run away. He had seen his own fear reflected back to him and he let himself feel bad, let himself think for a moment that Alby was like him, that Alby didn’t deserve to die any more than the rest of them. 

An arrow was what pierced his sister’s throat and ended her life, that much was true. But behind that arrow sat a bow, sleek and silver. Behind that bow stood a boy, a boy who shot it with intention to kill. And behind that boy sat Teresa’s brother. 

Thomas had killed his sister. 

He opened his eyes, looking down at the younger boy, skin all but sparking with the heat that overtook him. 

“Chuck I…” His voice shook as he spoke and he swallowed, trying to steel it. “You’ve…you’ve got to go.” 

“What? Why?” Chuck asked, frowning, fearful.

Thomas’ eyes were hot, vision blurry. His hands were trembling, he was ticking away, away, away. “Please, please just go. Go.” 

The other shook his head. “I…I can’t go, I don’t…” 

And then something snapped. 

It was ugly, the way he slowly crumpled to the ground as if he’d been stabbed. His knees met the forest floor first, numb to the poking of sharp sticks, and the palms of his hands came next. The dry sobs that followed were uglier, even though he caught them before they could sound into the air. They racked through his body in jolts, and his fist came up to muffle what his throat couldn’t. 

It was as if something was living beneath his skin, and was trying to tear out from inside of him. Ripping through his flesh and snapping his bones in the process, the pain unbearable. When the noises escaped, they were raw, animal, even muffled by the fist he bit down onto. It felt like torture. Like every fiber that made him up was screaming, loud and agonized. 

“Thomas,” that small, scared voice said, small freckled hands touching his shoulder, trying to push him to sit up. “It’s okay. It’s uh…everything will be okay. I’m er…I’m here for you.” 

He stifled himself, if only slightly, so he could look up and into the eyes of the young boy sitting on his knees before him. The fist fell from between his teeth and sat over his heart, trying to soothe the pain that pumped through him with its every pulse, and he held Chuck’s wide blue eyes, trying to find ground, trying to find something, anything. 

Just twelve, kneeling there, trying to fix what was broken inside Thomas, trying to fix what couldn’t be mended. Thomas wasn’t good like Chuck when he was that age, didn’t bleed innocence and purity. He had always been rotten. Always been wrong. He was born that way. Born to kill and born to die. 

But Chuck, oh no. No, Chuck wasn’t born to do anything other than exist, and do it well. Chuck was born with the same childish wonder that laced his features now, even if it was tainted with memories that shouldn’t be weaved into his mind. He was so kind, so good. And funny, he was funny. 

And yet here he was, sitting in an arena, days away from death. 

Thomas might deserve what was to come, might deserve the horrid pain that ripped through him. But Chuck didn’t. Chuck deserved his mother and his father. Chuck deserved to return to his odd chicken, deserved to see every sun rise and set, deserved to feel the breeze of pure air brush against his cheeks still rosy with youth. 

Thomas lurched forwards, taking the younger boy in his arms, holding him close as his sobs returned and bled into the other’s shoulder. Chuck’s small hands patted his back awkwardly, but it didn’t matter. 

Teresa was dead. 

His sister was dead. 

And he had killed her. 

“It’s alright,” Chuck told him, hands still patting, voice still nervous. 

“Teresa,” was all Thomas could manage back. 

“You’ll see her again, someday,” Chuck said, and sounded sure of himself. “Just like I’ll see Isabelle.” 

And Thomas’ mind reared to a halt, because he would see her again someday. In death they would be reunited, her death would be retributed by his own, and he would never have to feel the guilt cutting up his insides ever again. He could make it right, he could make everything right. He could fix this. 

It was so simple, so simple. He would bring her justice by killing Alby, by making him feel the pain that her death had caused, then he would kill himself and end the cycle, and she would find peace. It wouldn’t punish the Capitol for their wrongdoings, but it would heal the wound he all but inflicted into his sister’s skin. 

But he could punish the Capitol, couldn’t he?

Embarrass them, humiliate them, show the people what they truly are. They run the Trials to single out a Victor, to create a monster and celebrate their viciousness. They raise proper killers and send them into arenas with filler like Newt and…

“Chuck,” he said frantically, pulling away from the boy and grabbing his face in his hands. “Chuck, you have to win.” 

Chuck looked confused, if not afraid of the desperate tone in Thomas’ voice. “What?” 

How could he have been so blind, when the answer had been alongside him for hours? 

“I’m going to get you home,” he told the boy. “You’re going to see your parents again, Chuck. I’m going to get rid of them all, the rest, and then you’ll go home, you’ll go home.” 

“I don’t understand,” he murmured. 

“You’re not going to die,” Thomas breathed. 

Chuck looked between his eyes for a moment. “But…what about you?” 

“I’ll deal with that,” he said, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it, okay? Just think, Chuck, just think. Your mom and your dad, your…your chicken–” He sucked in a breath. “You’re going to go home. See your family again.” 

“What about your family?” 

“I don’t have any,” he said quickly, taking his hands off Chuck’s face. “I’ve got nothing. Nobody. No parents, no family, only…” He shut his eyes, reopened them. “Teresa needs me. I have to go see her, I have to be with her. She’s all I have.” 

Chuck frowned. “But, Thomas…”

He shook his head. “It’s okay.” He grabbed the boy’s shoulder, squeezed. “I’m gonna get you home, okay? I swear it. I swear on everything there is.” 

A moment passed before Chuck met his eyes, bottom lip quivering as he nodded. “Okay.” 

Thomas grinned, laughing wetly, patting the other’s shoulder. “Okay?” 

Chuck snorted. “Okay!”

Thomas pulled the other into his chest again, tears still spilling down his cheeks but a new sense of purpose burning through him like fire. He couldn’t erase what was written, couldn’t bring those who died because of him back to life, but he could right their deaths. He could bring them peace with his own blood. It didn’t have to hurt anymore, not with his own end so near.

“I’ve got to pee,” Chuck said suddenly, and Thomas laughed, releasing him from the embrace and watching as Chuck started off. “Be right back.” 

“Don’t go far,” Thomas called after him. 

An hour or so later the pair found themselves yet another small cave. This one was deeper than Beth and Gally’s, but thin, barely big enough for Thomas to sit up straight in. He spent a while covering up the cave with large rocks and the branches of bushes to offer them as much concealment as possible. Eventually they both shoved themselves into the space, Chuck sitting at the back with Thomas acting like a door nearing the entrance of the cave. 

Thomas sat against one of the cave walls, head and shoulders bowed to make room for himself, and laid his sword over his lap again, bag out at his side. His eyes followed the sharp edge of the sleek silver blade, watching as the minimal light reflected off of it. He thought of it piercing Alby’s skin, pushing through the muscle coating the other’s stomach, drawing life out from inside him.

The image alone felt like heat, filling his veins and coursing throughout his body. There were few people Thomas believed deserved death, but Alby did. Thomas had granted him his life, granted him a chance, and he turned around and shot that arrow through her throat. 

He would pay. He would suffer. Thomas would make sure of it. 

“Who’s left?” he asked quietly, finger pressing into the point of his sword until blood drew. 

Chuck’s brow pressed, eyes staring out into nothing. “Uh, well on the first day–”

“Eight,” Thomas told him. 

“Right,” the younger boy huffed. “And er…yesterday it was a lot I think. Two early on, then a bunch more before dark.” 

Thomas recounted who he had watched die. There were five in the bloodbath, three he’d seen…four, really. Then Poppy, then the girl from Twelve, then Aris. The Five girl, Mara, Beth, Dan. Suddenly he felt hyper-aware of the blood dried into his clothes, on his skin, under his fingernails. 

It wasn’t often that people died this quickly, Thomas soon realized. It was the third day and he was decently sure well over half of them were dead. It felt…wrong, somehow. But he didn’t need to think about that. He shook himself off. 

“Okay, new question,” he hummed. “Who do you know is alive? Us, obviously. That’s two. Then there’s a guy from Seven, Gally. Three.” 

“The boy from Nine,” Chuck said. “We saw him before the winds started last night, going into the weird place.” 

“The maze?” he asked. “Why would he go in there?” 

“It’s a maze?” Chuck questioned. “Have you been in there?” 

“Yeah.” He shuddered. “It’s awful.” He shut his eyes for a moment then opened them again. “Okay, that’s four. And…well I’d bet Alby’s alive. Newt too.” 

Suddenly Beth was on his mind, Dan speaking low over his shoulder, blood soaking his clothes as she gasped for air and found only blood filling her airway. He thought of the wound pumping scarlet from her throat, the emptiness of it, the figure running off into the darkness of a new night as Thomas stared after them. 

“Shit,” he muttered. 

The arrow sunk into Teresa’s throat, staring back at him.

“Fuck!” 

“What?” Chuck said. 

“Alby—the guy from Eleven—he…” He swallowed. “He killed my sister.” The words lingered in the stale air of the cave, and he let them, if only for a moment. “And now I’m starting to think he killed another one of my allies, too.” 

“Who?” 

“Beth,” Thomas said quietly. “From Seven.” 

“I met her,” the boy hummed. “She was really nice. She taught me how to make a fire.” 

“We have to get Alby out in the open,” Thomas said in a low voice. “Somewhere he can’t run, can’t hide.” He looked at the droplet of blood that arose from where he’d pricked his finger against the sharp of his sword. “We need to lure him out so I can fucking…” 

“What?” Chuck urged as he stopped. 

Thomas sighed. “I shouldn’t swear so much. I’m sorry I’m just…” He huffed. “I’m just upset, is all.” 

“You can curse around me,” Chuck said, straightening up as if to appear taller. “Dad always does.” 

Thomas smiled at him. “Alright, we’ve got to get this over and done with and get you home.” He scooted forwards, head scraping against the roof of the cave. “We’ll count what we know, okay? Nine, he’s in the maze. Twelve and Eleven, they’re in the woods, with my luck. And Seven…well, Gally’s looking for me, so we’ll assume he’s also in the woods. Now, what’s the Nine boy look like?

“Skinny,” Chuck supplied. “Kinda ugly.” 

“You think he could take me in a fight?” 

Chuck looked him over and grinned. “No, definitely not.” 

“Okay, so we’ve got to get people out of the forest,” he hummed thoughtfully. “Alby’s got a bow, so we’ll have to have somewhere to take cover. And Gally, er, let’s just say I’m not totally sure I could win against him, so we’ll need somewhere to hide without being discovered.” 

The little boy frowned. “Uh…how are we going to do that?” 

Thomas pursed his lips, hesitant at the idea of telling the younger boy about his plans with Alby. “No idea–but I’m starving. Let’s have something to eat and then we’ll start brainstorming.” 

The other grinned. “M’kay.” 

Chuck pulled his bag onto his lap and carefully opened it, hiding whatever was inside from Thomas despite the fact that he’d been the one who packed it. Thomas frowned, and then noticed something inside, wiggling. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Hey, Chuck?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Why is your bag moving?” 

“Oh, er…” Chuck pulled his food out hastily and scooted the bag back behind him. “No idea. Sort of weird.”

“Chuck?” 

“Fine!” The younger boy pulled it back and opened it, tilting it and allowing a little black rabbit to jump out. It started sniffing around, floppy ears dragging on the ground. 

“A rabbit,” Thomas said. “Why do you have a rabbit?” 

“When I stopped to pee I saw him,” Chuck said. “Figured he’d get eaten so I…I grabbed him.” 

Thomas opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it and just sighed. “Alright.” 

“His name’s Shuck.” 

“Shuck?” 

“Yeah, like Chuck.” 

“I’m starting to see a pattern here.” 

The pair ate a rather grand meal, Chuck taking down a series of dried meats and fruits, and a nut or two on the side. Thomas had a few pieces of his own dried meat, watching as the younger boy fed his rabbit long blades of grass that had grown in the cracks along the cave walls. The creature was oddly friendly, more so than any other animal Thomas had ever known. 

He wondered if that was the point, knew that it was the point. It targeted those with soft hearts, like Chuck, and it made Thomas feel a whole new kind of anger that mixed in with the rest, feeding the fire that burned under his skin.  

Eventually they did get to planning, though Thomas found it especially difficult to talk about with Chuck’s presence looming over him like a bright, neverending light. Thomas was afraid that his own darkness would dim it, that if he spoke his wishes aloud his rot would infect the other and he would ruin the only good left in his life. 

So he spoke lightly, never telling the other directly that he had every intention to cause Alby the harshest, most painful death he was capable of. They got through it nonetheless, and Thomas ignored the fact that his own planning mostly revolved around Alby, and he wasn’t all that concerned about the rest of the tributes. He needed to be, but he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. 

So long as the Eleven boy sucked air into his lungs, Thomas wouldn’t feel at peace, wouldn’t feel right. Alby needed to die. Alby needed to suffer in the same way he had made Thomas suffer, or at the very least needed to get as close to it as Thomas could get him. 

His bias didn’t matter. Because alongside Alby came Newt—apparently—which meant two tributes down on top of avenging his sister. The others…they’d figure that out when it came down to it. Thomas wasn’t worried about any of them outside of Gally. If Gally were to show up at any point, Thomas could only take his sword and beg the Creators to bless him beyond belief. 

Thomas’ mind reared to Newt and their brief interaction a day prior. Then, Thomas had seen the boy who valued life over everything and held himself above the Trials. But now he realized that Newt had turned into exactly what Thomas thought he would. For a moment he relished in the idea of rubbing it in the blond’s face, the fact that he’d been right all along. But he found too much anger inside of him to see joy in that. 

Because Newt walked alongside Alby. He was more than willing to team up with another tribute, one who slaughtered Teresa and Beth and likely more, and there wasn’t any golden morality in that, wasn’t any value in it. Newt turned into just another face among the masses, and Thomas scolded himself for ever believing him to be otherwise. 

Once they had come up with something sound, the pair decided to just remain there for the rest of the day, safe in the cave, and talk. They spoke of home lives and past memories, and even attempted to teach the rabbit—Shuck—a few tricks. It was unsuccessful, of course, but the way Chuck’s face lit up whenever the animal did something slightly different than the usual sniffing and twitching was more than enough to keep him entertained. 

When night fell after the thankfully uneventful day, Thomas and Chuck squeezed together to stare out the cave entrance, watching for the anthem and waiting to see if they’d missed a cannon.

“Maybe that Alby guy is already gone,” Chuck said. 

Thomas snorted. “I’d never get that lucky.”

And sure enough, the only two faces that appeared in the sky were Isabelle’s and Ben’s, and Thomas was unfortunately reminded of the odd plague that seemed to have taken over the Three boy. Sickly green skin and bulging veins that coursed with black blood. His stomach clenched. 

“What happened this morning?” Thomas asked after he and Chuck had scooted back into the cave, the latter now curled up on his side, stroking the soft between the black rabbit’s ears. Suddenly he realized it was a rather insensitive question, and he licked his lips. “If you want to tell me, you can. It’s okay if you don’t, though.” 

Chuck sniffed a little. “We were looking for water.” He met Thomas’ eye. “We heard that guy talking, so we hid. But it was like…like he could smell us or something. He found us really quickly, but Isabelle jumped out and attacked him…” He looked at the rabbit again. “But she didn’t have her knife.” 

There was something familiar laced in Chuck’s features, something that made Thomas’ stomach clench. “It’s not your fault. You know that, don’t you?” 

There was a long pause, the wind outside brushed against the shrubs hiding them. After what must’ve been a full minute, the younger boy sighed. “She didn’t have her knife because I borrowed it for my carvings.” 

“It’s still not your fault,” Thomas said quickly, firmly. “Those things just happen, Chuck. You couldn’t have known.” 

“Maybe,” Chuck mumbled. “But I just wish I’d done something. I had the knife, I could’ve saved her.” His lip pouted out a bit. “But I was too scared.” He sniffed. “I wish I was brave. Strong.” He looked up. “Like you.” 

Thomas would tell Chuck of all the people who died because of him, all the people who died because he wasn’t enough of anything at all. Strength, bravery, all of that strayed away from him, within his reach though his hands never extended out to grab them. He couldn’t. Cowardice bound him. 

He couldn’t say that, not directly.

“I’m scared all the time,” he said instead. “All the time. I mean, you saw me back there, all blubbering and snotty. That’s not brave.” 

“My mom told me crying is a good thing. She said it makes you stronger.” 

“Oh.” He worried his lip for a moment. “Well she’s right, of course she’s right. But I was crying because I was afraid. I am afraid. But I’m trying, and I’m not going to stop trying until I know you’re safe.” He paused, grinning. “And you know, you’re trying too. And you’re alive. And I think that makes you just as brave and strong as me. If not more.” 

“You’re crazy,” Chuck said with a smile. “And dumb.” 

“Ah, maybe,” he mumbled. “But I’m alive, aren’t I? And so are you.” 

“Maybe that’s how we win,” Chuck hummed thoughtfully. “Being too dumb to die.” 

“Then here’s to us living forever,” Thomas said in a theatrical voice, holding up an imaginary wine glass just as Jorge usually did after his usual post-dinner speeches. “Cheers!” 

“What’s that?” Chuck asked, looking at his extended arm. 

“What?” 

“That thing you’re doing with your hand.”

“I’m cheersing.” 

“What?” 

Thomas frowned. “Let’s go to sleep.” 

Chuck shrugged and moved to the very back of the cave, snuggling up with his back against the cold stone wall and pulling the small black rabbit to his chest. The creature didn’t so much as twitch a leg in discomfort, instead just blinking a few times and letting its tiny, beady eyes fall shut. Thomas didn’t bother trying to understand how the Makers managed to breed out primitive instincts, and instead just scooted along until he was a foot away from the other and tossed the blanket over him.

He then curled up onto his side and lay facing Chuck, watching as the younger boy stared at the sleeping rabbit. Thomas let himself imagine Chuck being carried out of the arena, heart beating strong in his chest, on his way out of the awful place and starting towards home. He imagined the discomfort his presence would bring out in the Capitol, them having put such a small child through horrid things. 

Then he imagined Chuck returning home to a kind-eyed mother and a grinning, proud father. He imagined the way their loving embrace would wrap around the boy, squeeze the air straight out of his lungs and fill them with something sweeter, warmer. He imagined how elated the boy would feel, receiving all he was so certain he would never have again. 

Thomas realized with a start that he hadn’t been thinking about Chuck at all. He swallowed. 

The curly-haired boy was asleep now, dusty brown eyelashes resting against cheeks rich with baby fat. Thomas reached out and tucked a corkscrew curl behind the younger boy’s ear, and as his hand fell he let it brush against the soft fur of the rabbit. 

They were sort of like a family, Thomas supposed. He, Chuck, and the rabbit—Shuck—all together in their home, cave or not, hiding from the horrors outside in the presence of one another. Chuck’s ribs rose and fell in a steady, even rhythm because he trusted Thomas to keep him safe. And Thomas would.  

With that thought and many like it trailing through his mind, Thomas let himself doze off, trusting the wind to keep them secure for the night. 

When he woke next the pinkish light of early dawn greeted him warmly, and he blinked a few times before he registered a heavy weight draped over his torso. He slowly propped himself up on his elbows and looked down to see Chuck splayed over top of him, back against his stomach, head lolled on the cave floor on his right side, and legs laid on the ground on his left, twitching in his sleep. 

And right on Chuck’s stomach laid the little black rabbit, almost as much as a mess of limbs and ruffled hair as the boy. 

Thomas just stared for a few moments, sleep-riddled mind trying to make sense of the odd position they found themselves in. Eventually, however, a cramp in his back pulled him into proper consciousness and he shoved one of Chuck’s legs lightly. 

“Chuck–Chuck! Get off me, you’re killing my back.” 

“Shh,” the younger boy hissed, hand subconsciously throwing itself up and narrowly missing smacking Thomas right in the face. “Five mo’ minutes.” 

Thomas groaned. “Chuck.” 

This time, the subconscious—or not—hand did not miss, bopping Thomas right on the head. 

“You little shit!” he exclaimed. “Get off!” 

With a great shove, Thomas hurled the boy’s legs off of him, sending the rabbit flying and Chuck’s knees to fold right into him. The kid finally woke with a drawled groan, pushing himself to sit up before rubbing fists in his eyes and blinking drearily a few times. 

“‘Time is it?” 

“Morning? I don’t know,” he grumbled, sitting up and allowing his hand to run back and massage a knot out of his shoulder. 

Chuck wiped a line of drool off his cheek. “Man, haven’t slept that good in days.” 

Thomas scowled at him. “You don’t say.” 

The other gave him a toothy grin and scooped the rabbit up, plucking a leaf from its fur. “So dramatic.” 

“Shut up. Let’s eat. We’ve got a big day ahead of us.” 

The pair shoveled an assortment of less-than-rich foods down their throats then collected their belongings, Chuck shoving his three figurines—he had finished his own the previous day—into the pocket of his pants, then slid his rabbit into his bag, and then the pair set off for The Box. Thomas’ sword remained in his hand the entire walk there, his other occupied with Chuck’s own after they’d been spooked by a turkey. 

Thomas was genuinely surprised Gally hadn’t found him, and a part of him wondered if the other boy was even looking. He didn’t know who Beth truly was to the other, not really, but he couldn’t imagine one would scream the way Gally had that night over a mere acquaintance. Suddenly the image of Beth lying on the forest floor, bloodied and terrified ran through Thomas’ mind. 

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced it away, knowing once he took Alby’s life and then his own, Beth would have peace. As would Teresa and everyone else whose soul remained in Thomas’ grasp. He didn’t have time to be upset over something that would be rectified soon enough. 

The Box was bare of people when they broke through the trees, and Thomas kept Chuck walking close in front of him in case Alby had found home in the treeline. The boy didn’t share his nerves, and seemed decently calm, all things considered. It made Thomas feel all the more confident, knowing Chuck trusted him.

Thomas hoisted up one of the trapdoors to The Box, gesturing to the area under it—the tight space in which the Three girl had hidden herself—then turned to Chuck. “This is where you’ll be staying, hm?” 

“What?” Chuck bent down and examined the hiding spot. “Er…I don’t know.” 

“It’s cozy,” he commented, dropping the lid and wincing as the creaking thunk rang through his ears. “And more importantly, it’s safe. So, we light the place up, everyone hiding in the woods comes out, and I deal with them while you stay here.” 

“We still haven’t figured out what to do about Alby’s bow. Or what to do about Gally," the younger boy said, plopping down on the ground and pulling his bag off his shoulders, dumping the rabbit out onto the grass. 

“I’m well-rested, I’m fed.” He sat down in front of Chuck, eyes on the forestline. “If ever I’ve had a chance against Gally, it’s now. Besides, we know exactly what you’re doing. Which is…” he trailed off, raising an expectant eyebrow at the other. 

Chuck rolled his eyes. “Staying hidden.” 

Thomas nodded and grinned. “The whole time.” 

“The whole time,” Chuck repeated. “No matter what.” 

“No matter what,” he parroted, then gestured to the area around them. “See all these bags?” Chuck nodded. “I need you to go through them and find something for me.” He grabbed one of the parcels nearby, withdrawing a bright red bag and unzipping it, pulling out a small bottle. “This is rubbing alcohol, and we need as much of it as we can get our hands on.” 

“Okay,” Chuck said, then frowned. “Because…?” 

“Because though the woods are pretty dry, it won’t be that easy to light the whole place up. Especially with nothing more than matches.” He looked back at the woods, eyeing the treeline. “With any luck the wind will push the fire back and all we’ll have to do is sit and wait.” 

So they began going through the bags that were splayed out all around the field with the help of the wind, though luckily quite a few of them got caught up around the podiums. Chuck remained close to Thomas, and they collected a small pile of the small bottles, laying them out in front of The Box. 

If the weapons were scarce the last time he had been there, it was bare now. A part of him thought it might’ve been the windy night, but deep down he knew. One of the remaining tributes was hiding them somewhere, trying to up their chances. 

It didn’t matter. Thomas was armed, and once he got his hands on Alby, then Alby’s bow, he’d be unstoppable against whoever else remained. He wasn’t the best shot, but he knew how to hit a target. Maybe. He’d figure it out when the time came.

In total Chuck found around two dozen bottles of rubbing alcohol, each containing about four milliliters of what they’d be using as a sort of fuel. Thomas grabbed a few thin blankets and began tearing them up after he and Chuck had collected a few long sticks. He tied the scraps of blanket around the ends of the sticks until he had a decent amount, then he and the younger boy moved to the forest line. 

Gruelling work, making a bonfire seemed to be. The pair were nothing more than huffs and pants as they rounded up as many thick branches and logs as they could get their hands on and piled them on top of mounds of dry leaves and kindling. The size was impressive, considering their lack of manpower, but lighting it seemed to be nearly impossible. 

“I don’t get why it won’t take,” Thomas growled, striking what felt like the hundredth match and holding it to the kindling on the bottom. “It’s not wet, it’s perfect for…for catching on fire. So what’s the problem?” 

“Want me to grab one of those little bottles?” Chuck asked for the tenth time. 

Thomas groaned a bit, finally accepting defeat. “Fine.” 

They doused a handful of leaves in the alcohol and then sprinkled the remainder on a few logs, and when Thomas dropped the match a decent chunk of the pile went up in flames, the remainder slowly, painfully slowly lighting up as well. However tedious it was, Thomas stood back and propped his hands on his hips, grinning at their work. 

“Pretty cool, huh?” he hummed, pleased. 

Chuck gave him an odd look, then laughed. “My dad would like you, I think.” 

“Thanks?” he said, then turned off. “C’mon, I’ll need your help carrying everything over.” 

Finally, after what felt like hours of work, the pair had finally made it to what Thomas would like to label the fun part of it all. They doused the fabric wrapped around the ends of the sticks in alcohol, held it against the flames until it fully caught, and threw them along the forestline and watched as the fire ate at leaves and up the bark of trees. 

There was a sort of destructive beauty to it, Thomas thought. The way the heat engulfed all and tore apart life second after second. Green warped into ash and smoke. The strong, everlasting bark turning charred and lifeless. There were no screams of death emitted by the forest, but Thomas could hear them anyway. Maybe not the screams of the forest, but screams nonetheless. 

It took them far too long to light the entire forestline, and more awful bonfire creation as well, but eventually the entire front of the woods was engulfed in heat that sent black smoke swirling through the air and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Just as they finished against the West Door, Thomas heard a sort of screech. 

For a moment he braced himself to be faced with the person who ended his sister’s life, but instead he found dozens of animals bolting out from the woods. Some of them bore hide alight, others were painted black from the stains of the smoke. 

“Oh no,” he whispered, turning to Chuck. 

The younger boy was entirely frozen in shock as he watched the suffering animals—deer, rabbits, turkeys, rats, coyotes—run for their lives, run from the pain that was peeling flesh from bones. Thomas jumped forward before he could think, pulling Chuck to his chest and wrapping his arms around the kid’s head, trying to mute the noise. 

“It’s okay,” he muttered quickly. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay.” 

Chuck shook his head into the contact, but said nothing. 

It was then that Thomas noticed how far back the fire had gone, as if it had somehow managed to reach the South Wall in a matter of minutes. It didn’t make sense how it could’ve possibly done so, or it wouldn’t make sense, if they were in the real world. But they weren’t. Maybe the Makers were craving action as much as he was.

Then Thomas looked over the West Wall, and frowned as the ivy was recoiling and releasing an almost inaudible hissing noise as the fire began licking up the wall in an attempt to catch it. The bits that had been kissed by the heat had melted into a greenish-black goo, and were dripping thickly down the wall. He grimaced at the look of the substance, and turned away. 

He continued cradling Chuck until the last of the animals disappeared into the swamp or vanished in the direction of the plains, then he released him and herded the boy back towards The Box, offering him a bottle of water and a bag of dried fruit. Chuck took it, but only stared down at his lap where Shuck the rabbit laid resting with a sort of pain on his face he was so obviously trying to hide. 

The fire was loud, not deafening, but loud enough to make itself obvious. Crackling that pierced the air and the hissing of logs still wet with the moisture of moss. The trees, despite the licks of flames eating at them, didn’t fall. They stood and it didn’t look like they were planning on that fact changing, even with the way their bone-white bodies had turned a sputtering black. 

Thomas thought of Newt somewhere deep in those woods, blond hair dirtied with soot, that same soot smeared over his face and hands. Climbing over logs and darting between trees in order to escape the chaos Thomas himself had created. 

He hoped it hurt, hoped the smoke burned the blond’s lungs on the way in and stained his organs. He hoped it was ruthless and unrelenting. He hoped Newt was suffering. And he hoped that Newt, deep in his mind, knew that he wouldn’t have to suffer if only he had stayed away from the Eleven boy, stayed away from Alby. 

Thomas stood up and lifted one of the hatches, staring down at the grass as he spoke. “C’mon, bud. It’s time.” 

Chuck looked up, eyes wet. “What, now?”

He nodded. “If they’re coming, they’ll be here soon.” 

“I…” the kid looked around, brow furrowed. “I…want to help you. I don’t want you to get hurt.” 

“Chuck,” Thomas murmured, giving the other a soft look. “I won’t be hurt. I’m the best and the brightest, you know it. Now.” He gestured beneath the hatch. “Get under there before someone shows up.” 

Chuck hesitated for a few moments but inevitably gave in, slinking under the door with Shuck in his arms. Once the pair were safe and snug on the ground, Thomas slowly lowered the lid until they were tucked into the pocket of space. He got down on the ground to peek under, giving Chuck what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“You’ll be home in a flash with Cluck, huh? You excited?” he asked. 

The younger boy nodded, expression still more downhearted than enthused. “Yeah, I guess.” 

“And I’ll get to see my sister,” he said quietly. “I’m really excited about that. And you’re helping me. Thank you, Chuck. Really. I could never repay you.” 

Chuck gave him a genuinely sorrowful expression, brows pinched and eyes shiny. “You…you’re welcome.” 

Thomas went to leave, but Chuck called out. 

“I made you something,” the boy said quickly, shuffling around until he managed to get into one of his pockets. He withdrew something, then reached it out for Thomas to take. “Here.” 

It was another one of Chuck’s figures, thinner than his parents and taller than his own. 

“It’s you,” Chuck said. “I was gonna take it home. Then you could be with my family, since you don’t…you know.” 

Thomas rolled it in his palm, looking up at the other. “I’d like that.” 

“Take it with you,” the boy told him. “Maybe it’ll keep you safe.” 

“I will.” He sniffed, squeezing the wooden carving in a fist. He felt ridiculous, like he wanted to cry. It was stupid, and awful. And he hadn’t ever felt such a grateful warmth before. “Thank you. Thanks.” He steeled himself. “I’ll see you soon, okay?” 

“Okay,” Chuck said, lower lip pouting again. 

That thought brought out the idea of Chuck’s mother and the image of her consoling the crying boy, whispering about how emotion wasn’t weakness. He imagined soft hands running over shaking shoulders and maternal kisses being pressed into untidy hair. He slipped the carving into his pocket, and forced himself to remain aware of it being pressed against his leg.

Thomas pulled the sword he had driven into the ground, out, wiping the dirt that had stuck onto its end on his pant leg. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, set his jaw, and faced the forest in front of him, feeling the smokey heaviness of it in the air and watching as orange engulfed and grew seemingly endlessly. Greed, he thought. All consuming, never satiated. 

It wasn’t long that he stood there, staring at the fire, but it felt like an eternity. The morning he had arrived, the countdown, the bloodbath, it felt as though years had passed since he had experienced it. So much had gone on in just a few days, enough violence and death for a lifetime, and yet he was still just seventeen, standing, awaiting more violence, more death. 

He imagined seeing himself through the eyes of a stranger, one of the millions watching him now, and he imagined what they saw. A tribute from Two, vicious and bloodthirsty. A killer. Maybe even a Victor. He hadn’t received any Sponsors, so possibly not. But surely with the death of the majority of tributes, someone believed in him. 

He hoped many of the people in the Capitol bet on him to win, and hoped they had bet an amount of money anyone in the districts wouldn’t see for their entire lifetime. He wished he could be around to watch their faces as Chuck was crowned Victor, wished he could see the horror of someone so small, so sweet, coming out the other end unscathed. 

Make them see.  

And he would. If it was the very last thing he did. 

“Thomas,” a voice called out, and Thomas turned to it. He wasn’t afraid, he wasn’t anxious. His heartbeat was strong but not rapid. His breathing remained even, in and out, in and out. He rose to his full height and gripped the sword in his hand harder. 

“Gally,” he said to the other. 

The Seven boy looked far worse off than the last time Thomas had seen him, which was just a day prior.  His skin was pale and sheened with a thin layer of sweat, a certain twitch in his jaw that was rapid and unnerving. His eyes were dancing all over Thomas, never settling, never landing. He bore no weapon, and Thomas nearly wept with relief. 

His clothes were dirtied, but not covered in soot or scorch marks. None of him was, and Thomas soon realized that Gally hadn’t been in the woods at all, instead the tall grass or the swamp. Or the maze, possibly. He looked it. Clothes torn in some places, scrapes running over his face and down his neck, running below his orange collar. 

“Why’d you do it?” Gally said shakily, one of his eyes twitching. “Why did you kill her?” Before Thomas could say anything, the tall boy stepped forward. “She’s the one who wanted to ally with you. She was nice to you and your stupid friend. So, why?” 

“Well,” Thomas said, the words feeling like stones in his stomach. “She’s the one who said it was idiotic to trust someone, especially here.” 

“There’s something wrong with you,” Gally said, face scrunching up in anger, in pain. It hurt to look at, but Thomas kept his expression cold. “I knew it the second I saw you, the second I looked into your eyes. You’re…you’re a monster.” 

No, Thomas’ mind pleaded. I’m not, I’m not, I’m not. I didn’t kill her, it was Alby and I tried, I tried, I tried, I tried. But I couldn’t save her. I couldn’t save either of them.

He could say it, he could deny it all he liked, but Gally was massive, far stronger than Thomas could ever hope to be. He stood in the way of Chuck’s return home, stood in the way of Thomas’ retribution. He had to die. 

He was unarmed, and Thomas had the advantage, but it wasn’t enough. Gally was angry, fidgety, desperate. And that could be it. When people got angry, they got sloppy. They made impulsive moves, and that was exactly what Thomas needed from the other. One mistake, one slip-up. It would be enough. 

“Maybe,” he said. “Not easy to be kind in this world, is it?” 

“This is…this is different,” Gally spat. “Normal people kill to live. Not to enjoy it.” 

“And killing Beth wasn’t killing to live?” he asked. “Would she have not done the same, in the end?” 

“Coward,” Gally seethed. “You killed her like a coward and if you hadn’t she would’ve torn you limb from fucking limb.” 

He licked his lips, shoulders tensing at the way he could feel Gally’s energy rising up. “Sounds to me like I did the right thing, then.” He paused, forcing the words from his throat. “The smart thing, at least.” 

“What happened to Dan?” Gally asked, taking a step forward, head tilting tauntingly. “You kill him too?” 

Thomas swallowed, feeling the splatter again, feeling the sharp sting of metallics flare up on his tongue. “What’s it to you?” 

“He defended you. Took care of you. Trusted you.” Gally was taking small steps closer, closing the gap between them at an agonizing pace. “How did you do it? Strangle him? No, no. You’re too weak. You would’ve got him when his back was to you, hm?” 

“You should’ve been a Runner, they need those detective skills of yours, from what I hear,” Thomas muttered, taking a step back. 

“What about your sister?” Gally asked, ignoring him. “Bet she’d have no problem trusting you.” 

Thomas’ grip on his sword loosened a bit, feet freezing in place. “Don’t.” 

“Must of been frustrating,” Gally went on anyway, the space between them slimming further and further. “Hearing everyone boast on about how incredible she was, how talented she was, how she was going to wipe the floor with you and every other tribute this year.” 

His eyes narrowed, teeth clenching so hard his jaw began to ache. 

“I wonder how good it felt watching her die,” Gally said quietly, less than a foot between them now. “How good it felt to show everyone how tough you really are.” 

Thomas lunged, sword swinging to jam into Gally’s side, but the bigger boy caught his arm before he could do anything. Large, calloused fingers pried Thomas’ sword from his grip and tossed it aside, and hands were on his shoulders, squeezing him. 

“I told you, I can take you with both hands tied behind my back,” Gally spat.

“Care to test that theory?” he responded, ignoring the firm pain of the other’s grip. 

Gally huffed an empty laugh, eyes dark and wild. “You wish.” 

And then Gally pulled him forwards, their chests almost touching, and threw him with as much force as he maintained, sending Thomas flying to land on his back. The air vanished out from his lungs as he crashed onto the ground, but he scrambled up anyway, wheezing hard as his eyes did a quick scan for his sword. 

In vain, as Gally bent down to pluck it from the ground. 

“Nice little thing,” the boy commented. “Not as nice as your other ones. Did yours disappear too?” 

Thomas coughed, crouching, ready. “No. Lost it when I killed your little girlfriend.” 

Gally actually smirked, starting forwards. “You’re brave, I’ll give you that.” 

The other advanced quickly, then wound his arm back and dropped the sword towards Thomas, who narrowly missed it by diving to the ground to the right. He jumped to his feet again, taking two steps back for every step Gally took forwards. He was backing them towards the woods, towards the fire. 

“I sort of always thought you’d die first,” Gally said idly, striding forwards with a calm sense of purpose, eyes giving away the wildness of his mind, his motive. “Didn’t think you had it in you. I was wrong, I guess.” His eyes flickered over Thomas briefly. “Did it feel good, finally having her attention in the end?”

He swallowed. “You don’t know her. Or me.” 

“Spot on then, am I?” Gally tossed the sword up, watched it twirl in the air, then caught it again by the hilt. “Do you miss her?” 

Thomas dove for the other’s legs and took them both to the ground, scrambling up Gally’s body and pinning the arm wielding Thomas’ sword. He pushed his full weight onto it, holding it down as he tried prying the weapon out from Gally’s grip. He lasted a few seconds before Gally’s other hand grabbed him by the nape and tossed him aside. 

In the next second Gally was on top of him, knee pressing down on the center of his chest, the other planted by the crook of Thomas’ arm. He bent down so they were as face to face as they could be, and Thomas spluttered, struggling to breathe. 

“You can’t kill me,” he barely managed. “You’re weak.” 

“You telling me that, or yourself?” Gally asked, ignoring the way Thomas’ hands were trying to wrestle his leg away. Carefully he brought the sword forwards, resting it against Thomas’ throat. “I’ll admit, I don’t want to kill you—I’m not like you—but that doesn’t mean I won’t do it.” 

“Do it then,” Thomas breathed, craning his neck up to press further into the blade. 

“NO!” a shout called from far too close, and Thomas’ blood froze. “GET AWAY FROM HIM!” 

Gally’s head shot up, and Thomas' hands jumped for the grip he held on the sword, grabbing the other by the wrist. “No, Gally–Gally look at me, I killed Beth, remember? I did–I did! Look at me!” 

In a flash, Chuck collided with Gally, his small figure landing on top of the taller boy in the grass, hands immediately pummeling whatever parts of Gally they could reach. Thomas was up in seconds, pulling Chuck away by the back of his shirt with hot fear coursing through him like an angry river. He pushed the younger boy behind him, holding a defensive hand up in front of him as Gally rose again.

“Gally, listen to me,” Thomas found himself saying, eyes locked on the sword held out at Gally’s side, his other hand held behind him, clutched into Chuck’s shirt. “Kill me, do whatever you want, but don’t hurt him, okay? Not him, man. Please.” 

Gally wasn’t looking at him. Instead, his gaze was fixed on the sliver of Chuck peeking out from behind Thomas, head cocked slightly, eyes clouded with conflict. His fingers were tightening and loosening on the grip of the sword, his feet shifting in place. 

“Chuck,” Thomas said in a low voice, squeezing the material of the other’s shirt that sat in his fist, eyes never leaving Gally. “You’re fast, right? The fastest here?” He swallowed. “I need you to run, okay? Run away. I’ll come find you, wherever you go. Just run, bud. Please.” 

“I won’t leave you,” Chuck said, voice thick as his hands came to clutch at Thomas’ forearm, shaking against his sullied skin. “I won’t.” 

Thomas felt like screaming. He wanted to tear the skin from his flesh and cry out into the heavy air until his throat went raw. But he didn’t, because he couldn’t. It wasn’t over, it wasn’t. Chuck needed him, and he needed Chuck. He could do this. He could. 

Gally wasn’t making a move towards them, wasn’t lunging with the sword flailing about, but there was something unnatural about the way he was watching Chuck, as if he was fascinated by the boy. Thomas thought he was muttering, but he couldn’t make out much with the roaring of the fire so close to them. 

They could run, Thomas thought. But Gally had the sword. Could he get Chuck to The Box in time? He didn’t know, he didn’t know, he didn’t know. 

He felt trapped, and it was making his skin prickle, heart thumping irregularly in his chest. He thought of the rabbit, the snare. Running, kicking, screeching against the thick wire tightening around his throat. Except he wasn’t the rabbit, he was just watching, standing by, helpless as his teacher picked the creature up and threw the sharp stick through its small skull. 

Chuck’s hands moved down Thomas’ forearm until they found the fist clenched in his shirt, and slowly they pried his fingers loose, grabbing his hand. Thomas could feel the stick of grass stains, the small, wiry strands of rabbit hair, the grease from the dried meat he had eaten earlier. It grounded him. Chuck trusted him, needed him. He needed Thomas. 

“Gally, look,” Thomas said. “I didn’t–”

Gally took two steps forward, and Chuck’s hands squeezed his own hard. 

“I would never,” Gally started fiercely. “Ever–” 

He was cut off by a sharp whistle. 

By a small, almost silent punch of impact. 

By a tiny gasp. One of surprise. 

Thomas' eyes stayed locked on Gally’s for all of five seconds, and he knew he wasn’t alone in his terror. He knew he wasn’t alone in the drop of his gut and the instant freezing of his blood. The hands that once clutched onto one of his fell loose, then fell from his grip completely. 

Thomas turned. Chuck was looking up at him, big blue eyes wet with tears, one of which fell from his waterline and drew down the crook of his little button nose. 

“Chuck,” Thomas whispered. 

And then the boy fell to the ground, Thomas reaching to catch him and ending up crumpled over him. His eyes trailed over the first bits of blood pooling in the corners of the younger boy’s mouth. More tears dropped from blue eyes, bottom lip trembling, hands shaking and grabbing at the front of Thomas’ shirt. 

“No,” he murmured to the boy. “No it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. I’m…” His expression broke, face scrunching up in diluted agony. “I’m going to fix this, I am. It’s okay.” He bit at the inside of his cheek until it bled. “You’re gonna go home, buddy. You’re gonna go home.” 

And then the grunts and gurgles began, the spurts of blood shooting up with every cough and gasp. Thomas held him through it, clutching him close and rocking them back and forth, back and forth. The arrow in the boy’s throat was off center, unlike Beth’s, unlike Teresa’s. But it would kill him in minutes. It didn’t matter what Thomas did. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered through withheld sobs. “Oh, Chuck. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

Small, pudgy, lightly freckled hands pulling at his shirt, gripping his arms and swiping at his face, begging for help, help Thomas couldn’t give. He let tears fall then, feeling as the fat droplets slid down his face and under his chin, then dropped down to join the pool of blood that had gathered over Chuck’s shirt. The same shirt Thomas had scrubbed the blood out of just yesterday. 

He couldn’t clean this, couldn’t right it. 

And then the gurgles stopped. The grunts did too, the coughs and the cries. Small hands fell to the ground and rosy, lively cheeks turned to something more ghostly, more pale. Thomas continued rocking them, murmuring his apologies and useless solutions, feeling as warmth faded to an empty cold, and a cannon rang out. And then, after pushing his forehead into the little boy’s, Thomas looked up. 

Newt was knelt on the ground, coughing every few seconds, the sound muted by the roaring fire, and beside him stood Alby. 

Bow raised. 

Empty. 

Thomas pulled his arms out from under Chuck, and rose. It was slow, but his gaze never left Alby’s, never faltered from the Eleven boy’s eyes. There was nothing inside of him, not anger, not sadness. He was empty once more, hollow once more. 

There was something in Alby’s expression, something stuck. It looked like shock, maybe. Something that left him frozen there, bow still raised in the same position it had been when he released an arrow towards them, towards Chuck.

Thomas reached a hand out blindly behind him where he knew Gally stood. Less than a second passed before his sword was being pressed back into his grip, and the second he felt the contact Alby seemed to wake from whatever daze he’d been in, because he turned off and bolted towards the North-East corner, bow and quiver flailing around as he did. 

And then Thomas was running. 

It was desperate, the way he was bolting after the Eleven boy. His feet pounded against the grass so hard it nearly hurt, but he didn’t feel it. He didn’t feel anything at all. He only knew what once lived inside him, what rage was muted but existent in his core, what he needed to do. 

As they passed The Box Alby began loading an arrow, struggling for a moment before he managed it while running. He shot it behind him, and Thomas didn’t flinch, just kept running, heart pounding as images of the things he could do to the guy floated through his mind. The arrow missed.

As they drew towards the tall grass that was towering over them both, Alby loaded another, successful only when he was right before the tall stalks. He stopped—Thomas halting in place a dozen feet away—turned, and aimed the loaded bow right at Thomas’ head. No, lower. At his throat. 

A droplet of water landed on his face, then another.

“Thomas,” Alby breathed out, panting, ignorant to the water landing in his short, coiled hair. “Walk away, if you know what’s best for you.” 

“Kill me,” he replied mockingly, grip tight on the sword at his side. “If you know what’s best for you.” 

Alby swallowed visibly, the rain worsening around them. “You’re brave, but stupid.” He licked his lips. “Do the smart thing. Walk away.”

“Why did you kill her?” Thomas asked, stepping forward. 

“It’s a game, Thomas. I’m playing.” Alby straightened himself up, tightening his hold on the bowstring. “Are you?” 

Anger licked his insides like a flame. “I let you live.” 

“You’re a coward, unwilling to do what needs to be done,” Alby replied quickly, stepping back as Thomas took another step forward, his back brushing the grass behind him. “Don’t pretend to be anything else.” 

Thomas didn’t answer. 

“There are more important things than your sister’s life,” Alby told him, voice strained, nearly nervous, defensive. “She was no more entitled to living than any of us. It’s the Trials, what did you expect?” 

“Teresa,” he started, head cocking. “Beth. Now…” He swallowed. “Now Chuck?” 

Alby sniffed, blinking rain from his eyes. 

“Who are you?” Thomas asked next. “Why are you doing this?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you,” Alby replied, then raised his bow. “If you don’t leave, I’ll kill you.” 

He stayed put. 

Alby closed one eye, perfecting his aim. “The world is listening, Thomas. Speak.” 

“Fuck–” He paused, raised an eyebrow. “You.” 

Thomas watched the first flick of finger as Alby went to release his arrow, and he wound his arm back just before it did, striking the air before him with the sword just as the thrum of the dropped bowstring whispered into the air.

With a ping of steel against carbon fiber, the arrow dropped off course and met the ground. 

It may as well have happened in slow motion with the way both Thomas and Alby’s eyes followed the movement, then returned their gazes back to one another, each of their faces displaying a frighteningly equal state of shock. For a moment, neither of them moved, both trying to recover their composure. 

Then, Thomas breathed out harshly. “You missed.” 

Alby turned on his heel. 

His arm wound back instantly, hurling his shortsword at the other with all the power he could muster. It landed in the joint of Alby’s right knee, the sound of the impact sending something hot flickering over Thomas’ skin, something that would’ve brought a grin to his face, if he weren’t so fixated on Alby’s form as it crumpled forwards on the ground.

He crossed the distance in a sprint as the other began attempting to crawl away, crouching to grab both of Alby’s ankles. He started to drag him, Alby crying out with every sharp pull against his impaled leg, Thomas’ sword tilting and rocking deep in his flesh. 

They crossed the field this way, past The Box and nearing the woods, where the fire had been dying against the rain, trees charred and smoking, crackling and hissing. Thomas came to a stop a decent few paces away from where Chuck lay, motionless, attention turning to him as he shoved Alby’s legs to the ground.

“I told you I’d fix it,” Thomas told the younger boy before rounding Alby’s flailing form. “I told you. Bet you didn’t believe me.” 

Thomas pried the bow from Alby’s grip, then ripped the quiver from his shoulder, throwing them both to the side. The Eleven boy wriggled around on his stomach, reaching for Thomas’ sword where it was still driven into his leg, and one of his hands half-gripped the steel of it. 

Thomas let him, watching as the boy cried out desperately, trying to work the blade from his flesh. 

He was hot all over, but he felt sharp. His days spent in the Trials were a blur, thus far. Everything fuzzy and not quite right, fear and uncertainty ruling him, taking him over. But this? Alby at his mercy, tears streaking his cheeks alongside the rainwater that doused them both, suffering and trying to save himself. No, nothing had ever felt more real, more right. 

He didn’t know what to do, now. He didn’t know what he wanted from Alby before he drove a blade through his rotten heart and tore the life straight out from inside him. He wanted to see Alby suffer in the way that he had suffered, wanted to take from Alby what was taken from him. 

But he couldn’t do that, could he? 

Because Thomas didn’t know the boy from Eleven. Didn’t know about his life, didn’t know what he loved. All he knew was the acts he committed against Thomas, the acts he committed against his sister and his allies. All he knew was what was done to them, not why. 

And it was eating him alive, the why of it all.

After a minute he took a short step forward, grabbing the grip of his sword and pulling it to the side slightly, watching as it tore width into the preexisting wound. 

Alby shouted in pain. “Stop, what are you–!” 

Thomas ripped his sword out from the other’s leg, sufficiently turning his words into a deep shriek. “Tell me why you did it.” Alby shifted onto his side, reaching to attempt and soothe the gash, unsuccessfully. “Alby.” 

“Fuck you!” 

Thomas walked higher up, then kicked him upside the head, the crunch of a breaking nose filling the rain-heavy air, blood splattering over the grass before being diluted by water. He watched as the other reeled back to press his face against the ground, wailing into the green of it. 

“Tell me,” he said, loudly but calmly. 

“I don’t fucking know!” Alby replied in a shout. “It’s the fucking Trials–I was trying to win!” 

“No,” Thomas bit. “It’s more than that.” 

No response came, and Thomas was growing impatient, especially with the way blood was pumping out from the wound behind the other’s knee, pooling in the grass below him. He brought his sword up, and pressed the point of it into Alby’s side. 

“I’ll let you go,” he said slowly. “If you tell me why.” 

“No,” Alby started to chant the word, face contorted in agony. “No, no, no.” 

Thomas let the sword drag up Alby’s side, never pushing hard enough for it to pierce through his shirt, let alone his flesh. He brought it up over his arm, to his shoulder, then brought up a foot to kick him onto his back, blade finding home resting below the knot of the other’s throat. 

“Tell me,” he said again. 

Alby glared at him, brow knit in pain. “You can’t kill me.” 

In a second, Thomas buried the sword into the other’s bicep, pushing it deep. 

“Tell me,” he said again, words almost drowned out by Alby’s scream.

“I don’t know!” Alby cried. “I don’t.” 

Thomas pushed deeper, feeling the point hit a bone. “Tell me.” 

“I can’t!” Alby howled. “Don’t you understand? I can’t! I can’t, I can’t.” 

“Tell me!” he shouted, twisting the sword. 

“They made me!” Alby sobbed brokenly. “They made me! They made me!” 

Thomas climbed on top of the other, sword finding its place once more at his throat, pressing, pressing, pressing but never breaking, not yet. He leaned down until their noses were a few inches away from touching. “Who?” 

“My family,” Alby whispered back to him. “My family. They need me. I had to do it, I had to protect them. They promised, they promised.” 

Thomas frowned. “Who, Alby?” 

“Them,” Alby huffed. 

“Your family?” 

“No!” Alby cried out. “Not my family, they need me!”

And suddenly Thomas understood, like understanding Alby was a puzzle in his mind, and the last piece had clicked into place. Alby wasn’t evil, Alby wasn’t malicious. He was insane. Broken in the mind. Spewing whatever thoughts popped up in his head, running from things that weren’t there. 

“Newt!” Alby began to screech. “Newt–!” 

Thomas shoved the sharp of his sword deep into the other’s throat, keeping their eyes locked as he felt the point break through the other’s nape with a rough shove. Alby went still, keeping his gaze, mouth agape in his cut cries. And Thomas watched. Watched as the light in his eyes dimmed, dimmed, dimmed, just like Beth’s. 

But he wasn’t afraid now like he was with her, wasn’t guilty. Because Alby—crazy or not—stole the world out from under his feet, twice. Robbed him of the only good thing he would ever do in his life, robbed him of the opportunity to be someone, someday. Not a Victor. But a someone.  

And then it was over. A cannon shot out into the air, and Alby was dead. Rain poured down on Thomas, and nothing changed. Teresa was still dead. As was Beth, as was Chuck. But they could rest now, he thought. They could go on, be freed into the ether and be at peace. And soon the others would too, the screams still clawing around in his mind.

Soon, he told them. Because soon they would silence. Soon, soon, soon. 

Thomas pulled his sword out from Alby’s corpse, throwing it aside and looking up.

Gaze immediately caught on the bullet point of an arrow that was aimed right between his eyes. 

Behind Alby’s bow stood Newt, stance straight, chin high, but eyes giving away his weakness as he loomed over Thomas. He had run through a fire, Thomas knew, and yet his face was entirely untouched by burns or soot or anything of the sort. He looked rustled, if only slightly more than he had during their first interaction in the Trials, and it made Thomas’ blood boil. 

He could feel how disgusting he was, feel the old blood and the new, the mud and the grime of his last few days caked onto his skin and being hydrated and brought anew by the downpour of rain. His hands were stained red with Alby’s blood, Chuck’s blood, Dan’s blood, Beth’s. His clothes too. And yet Newt stood before him, unmarred if not for the rain drenching him.

Was it Newt, all along? Manipulating Alby—sick-minded Alby—into doing his bidding to keep his precious hands clean? Did he want to see Thomas suffer, suffer for what he had done to Brenda, suffer for…for the fact that he wasn’t as morally superior as the other? 

“That was my ally you just killed,” Newt said. 

Thomas let his eyes wander over the hands clutching Alby’s bow to watch the way they shook, water droplets running over prominent veins on the backs of them. His fingernails were as clean as the rest of him.

Newt shuffled on his feet, drawing Thomas’ eyes back to his own. “Well?” 

The blond didn’t look like a killer, didn’t look like the sort of person to plot, to premeditate. He looked afraid. And he was, Thomas knew. He was afraid, because Thomas had just driven a sword into his ally’s throat. Because Thomas was drenched in blood that wasn’t his own. Because Thomas had been crafted into the monster the Capitol liked him as. 

“Are you going to kill me?” Thomas murmured. 

The other gave a curt nod. “Yes.” 

A lie so obvious Thomas nearly smiled. 

A part of Thomas liked the fear in Newt’s eyes. Yes, he wanted to say. I’ve become exactly what you feared me to be. I’m so very sorry I couldn't be perfect like you. And oh, how disgusted Newt must be by him, how repulsed. Because Thomas bled darkness instead of light. Because he tainted those around him and doomed them to their deaths. 

He wanted Newt to see it, study it. To look intently at the blood on his hands. See him for everything that he was and be terrified. Newt thought he knew how bad it was, knew how horrible. But he didn’t. Not even slightly. Newt thought he had escaped the darkness by flooding himself with light, but he only made himself blind to it. 

Slowly he pushed forwards until the sharp point of the arrow was pressed against his forehead, raindrops slipping off of the sleek metal and down the bridge of his nose. “Do it then,” he said quietly. “And don’t miss.” 

Newt stood for another few seconds, unmoving, and Thomas ducked beneath the bow, startling the blond into loosening the bowstring. The arrow shot somewhere behind Thomas and he lunged forwards, taking out the other’s legs and listening as the oxygen disappeared from his lungs as he landed on his back. 

Thomas crawled over him, relishing on the bit of mud that had splattered on his otherwise clean cheek, finally adding mess to the equation that was the ever-so-perfect Newt. He pinned Newt’s arms with his knees, and curled over him, hands on either side of his head, tracking the obnoxiously calm expression that the other’s face kept to. 

“Why?” he asked the boy below him, voice little more than a hiss. 

Newt frowned, studying him. “Why…?”

“You were with him,” Thomas breathed. “Why?” 

“He asked, and it was either agree or die,” Newt told him simply, carelessly. “I think you’d've done the same.” 

“I would rather die,” he spat. 

“Okay, well I wouldn’t,” Newt said. 

“He killed my sister,” Thomas told the other darkly. “Killed my ally. Killed…” He looked up and found Chuck’s body still lying there, soaked with rainwater. “He ruined everything. And he did it on purpose.” 

When Thomas dipped his head down to look at Newt once more, the blond’s eyes flickered between his for a few moments. “I didn’t know.” 

“Don’t lie to me.” 

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Thomas,” Newt said. “There isn't a point in it. You have me, I can’t fight you.” 

“So, what? You just didn’t know about the people he was killing?” He bent down further, voice pure venom. “Didn’t care?” 

“If you’re asking if it came up in conversation, it didn’t,” Newt muttered, then sighed. “I didn’t know who he was killing, Thomas. I just knew he’d disappear from time to time, and I didn’t bother asking questions.” When Thomas didn’t answer, Newt groaned, head dunking against the wet ground. “He wasn’t asking my permission, was he?” 

“You’re lying,” he said, though he wasn’t sure if he believed it. 

“I’m not, and I haven’t. I meant it when I said I won’t kill, I haven’t,” Newt told him. “But I never said I was overly excited to die, did I?” He tilted his head, slightly. “He got Sponsors. He hunted. He kept me alive, so I stayed. And I would do it again.” 

Thomas’ hands moved quickly, lightly cradling around Newt’s throat, skin turning to fire. “He ruined everything. He took everything from me. And you…” His voice caught, but he reeled himself together. “You were with him.”

“I did what I needed to do,” Newt answered, unblinking. “Whether you believe it or not, I didn’t know, I didn’t know he was after you.” 

The admission made Thomas light-headed. He was after you. He was, he was. Thomas knew it. He knew it. He pressed his hands down, squeezing around Newt’s throat, pressure slight, testing. Newt’s breathing hitched, eyes fluttering shut, but he didn’t fight it. His limbs remained still, the only movement coming from him being the rise and fall of his chest. 

Thomas wanted to be angry, livid that Newt had been honest, that he was good. Alby killed Chuck a short time prior, and Newt was at his side. Newt should die for that. Should suffer. Should hit Thomas back, kick and punch and bite. But he only remained there, breathing softly, accepting and content. 

But Newt wasn’t like Thomas, wasn’t filled with rot. He was pure. Pure like Chuck, but with intention, and not innocence. 

Chuck would like him, Thomas thought. The young boy would’ve laughed at his witty tongue and exchanged odd banter. And Newt wouldn’t have let the boy die. Newt would’ve been able to save Chuck.

Slowly he slid off of the other, crawling back to Alby’s body and retrieving the sword he had discarded. As he returned, Newt sat up, eyeing the sword hesitantly. 

“Stand up,” Thomas told him. 

And Newt did, somewhat shakily. 

Thomas handed the weapon off to him, voice sounding dead even to his own ears. “Use the bow, drop the act and kill the rest,” he said slowly. “Don’t try to fight Gally. The Nine kid is in the maze.” He shut his eyes. “And yes, it’s a maze. Don’t go into it, if you can help it.” 

His hand blindly reached out until it found the cool steel, and he directed Newt’s arm until the blade pressed heavily against his chest. It felt like freedom. 

“Please,” he asked the other, even if it was pointless. 

He waited. And waited. And waited. 

But the pain of his skin stretching around the sharp press of steel never came, and there wasn’t a part of him that was surprised. 

Newt wasn’t a killer. He was better. More. 

But when Thomas opened his eyes and found Newt standing above him, sword discarded and hand outstretched for him to take, he was left frozen. 

“Come on, then,” Newt hummed, wiggling his fingers. 

Slowly, the rain came to an end. 

Chapter Text

As his knees pressed into the water-logged grass, moisture arose and soaked into the fabric of his pants further, sending a cold chill up Thomas’ body. His hands shook as they reached for Chuck’s pale face, trembling harder as he brushed aside a few soaked corkscrew curls from a forehead bearing no warmth of life. 

Chuck’s lips were stained red, a few trails of washed-away blood painted on his cheeks. Thomas had seen death many times, smelt it, tasted it. But this was something else, something more, something worse. When Chuck’s heart went still in his chest, the world tilted on its axis, oceans overflowing and swallowing the land, the sun above crumbling to fiery dust. 

He wanted to change the younger boy out from his cold, wet clothing. Wanted to dress him in something warm, something soft. He wanted to rid of the arrow buried in the boy’s throat and stitch the hole shut, pour Thomas’ own blood into his veins and live only long enough to see blood colour his rich cheeks. 

Quickly he rose, not ignorant to the incoming whirs of a Berg. It would have to wait. Crossing the field, Thomas stepped up to The Box, shoving the hatch door to slam over the cage itself and retrieving his and Chuck’s belongings from beneath it. 

When he returned to the boy, Thomas dumped their bags over onto the wet ground. He unwrapped the blanket from the bundle he’d folded it into, and carefully draped it over the boy. He shouldn’t have to be cold, Thomas thought. He should be warm, carefully tended, loved and cradled. 

But he wasn’t, was he? He was dead, lying on soaked ground and enveloped by a cold that ran bone-deep. Thomas had gotten him killed, may as well have killed him himself. Where would Chuck be, without Thomas? Alive? 

Gently, Thomas began tucking Chuck in, the Berg’s noises nearing and nearing and nearing. His hands worked swiftly, but softly. He tucked the blanket under the boy, every edge of it. Like a mother to their child, like an older brother to his younger. As his hand brushed by the boy’s outer thigh, it hit something small and round. 

And then he was slipping his hand under the blanket and into Chuck’s pocket. When he pulled it out and away, he found the boy’s carvings. His mother, his father, and Chuck himself. In Thomas’ own pocket his carving—carefully whittled by the younger boy’s own hands—lay safe and pressed against his leg. Carefully he pulled it out, rolling the four in his hand. 

They were wet. The rain-diluted blood on Thomas’ hands rubbed off on them, staining them. But it didn’t matter, it didn’t. Slowly he closed his hand, the hard wood pressing against the rough skin of his palm, and he thought of them, Chuck’s parents. 

A mother who told her son that emotion was strength, a father who made him feel important by chasing rogue chickens throughout their land. And Cluck. Chuck never made a carving for Cluck the chicken, nor Shuck the rabbit. 

Placing the carvings aside, Thomas looked down at the creature as it sat lazily pressed against his side, clueless to the world. It was eating grass, chewing oddly, slowly, just existing. It wouldn’t mourn for Chuck, even if the boy loved it in a way Thomas couldn’t fathom. Slowly he picked up Chuck’s backpack again, discarding the creature into it alongside fistfuls of grass. 

He left it beside him along with the carvings, feeling the hot wind of the Berg above, and looked down to the younger boy. Slowly, he leaned forwards and took Chuck in his arms, embracing him close to his chest for a long moment. One of his hands came up to shut the other’s eyes, the blue of them taking in their last view of the world, and then he pressed their foreheads together, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“I’ll see you soon,” he told the boy, words hoarse and quiet. “Tell Teresa I say hi, okay?” He opened his eyes, letting them run over the boy’s face. “Okay.” 

He rose, Chuck in his arms, and looked up at the open belly of the Berg. He would have to step away in order for the claw to descend, but Thomas couldn’t stomach leaving Chuck alone with them any longer than he had to. The boy deserved better, Thomas thought. Better than whatever they were going to do with his body. 

To his surprise, the claw lowered anyway, unclamped and tilted up, opened like the mouth of a clam. Gently he lowered the boy onto it, squeezing his small hand through the blanket one last time before taking a step back, and then another, and another until the claw carefully closed and began to rise. 

He imagined the boy’s body being cared for, sewed and redressed. They’d lay him to rest in a cushioned casket like they did for Keepers who died in action, and they’d bury him in his district, in his section. His parents would weep for the boy, but they would be grateful that he got to come home. Chuck would’ve liked to have been put somewhere he could be visited, be loved.

He didn’t think about the fact that it wouldn’t ever happen. He didn’t think about the fact that Chuck’s parents wouldn’t receive so much as a piece of him back. He didn’t think about the fact that Chuck would live beyond death with the Capitol. 

It was only seconds later that the Berg floated a few paces and lowered another claw to collect Alby’s body, and as Thomas watched as it rose into the belly, he felt nothing. A small, withering part of him thought he should, thought he should pity those who somehow loved the boy. But he didn’t. Inside of him lay no guilt, no sadness. 

Though to say he felt nothing at all would be a lie. He felt something. Something ugly, something cruel. Watching Alby disappear with a body drained of life, of soul, left Thomas feeling satisfied. He felt good, accomplished. Like a cat after catching a bird. Lips licked and stomach full. 

Quickly he crouched down and retrieved Chuck’s figures from the ground, anxious as if someone could read the emotions coursing through him, read the horrible thoughts that trailed on in his mind. He gave them one last long look before shoving them into his pocket, sucking in a long breath. 

Dan would’ve understood him, Thomas thought. Dan wouldn’t think less of him for doing what had to be done. 

And it did. Have to be done, that is. 

It did. Thomas didn’t regret it. 

It wasn’t like killing Aris, wasn’t sparked by rage or impulsiveness. It was genuine. He wanted to kill Alby, wanted to watch the light burn out from behind his eyes. It felt good to see him die, felt good to know that the person who slaughtered his sister, slaughtered Beth, slaughtered Chuck, would never see the light of day again. 

And that made him feel uneasy. Not because he killed Alby, but because he liked it. Killing Aris was an accident, a mistake. He wouldn’t do it again, if given the choice. But regret abandoned him, with Alby. He would do it again and again and again, if he could. It didn’t matter that Alby was crazy, didn’t matter that he wasn’t of sound mind. 

He had to suffer for what he had done. Had to. 

In another world Thomas would be guilty. But this wasn’t another world. He was in this one, the one built by ugliness, by violence. He was surviving. He was adapting. The world would go on being hideous, being ugly, and Thomas would turn with it. What else could he do? What else?

“Get your things,” Newt said from behind him. “We’ve got to be off. S’no good being out in the open.” 

Newt was repulsed by him, Thomas knew. Their alliance was temporary, yet another survival skill of the blond, sure enough. What had he done, in the private sessions? Shown off his people skills? 

Thomas shook himself off and gathered everything from his and Chuck’s bags he had dumped out, slinging his bag over his left shoulder and Chuck’s—containing the rabbit—over his right. He plucked up his sword quickly, feeling as though his bones weighed that of stones as he trudged over until he was standing before the other. 

Newt was damp with the wet of rain, the mud long washed off his face, and a sort of glow about him under the sun. He looked just as morally egotistical as he was, eyes big and dark and scrutinizing. Thomas hated him. Hated him for the superiority he walked from place to place with, hated him for assuming he was better than everyone else simply because…because he wouldn’t kill. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know anything. Alby had shielded him from reality. Allowed him to go on with the narrative that he really, truly wouldn’t kill. Fed into the idea that he didn’t have to, if he didn’t want to. But with Thomas he would see. He would see the part of himself he’s become blinded to. Thomas would show him.

Newt cleared his throat. “Thomas?” 

He could still feel the cold point of an arrow pressing into the skin of his forehead, taunting, taunting, taunting. The steel of his sword against his chest, over his heart. The drop of bowstring, the push of an arm, that was all it took to rip Thomas from the world. So simple, so easy. And yet he was offered a clean hand instead. 

Why? Thomas wanted to ask. Why, why, why, why, why?  

But he didn’t. 

Instead he gave a short nod, moving Chuck’s bag onto his left shoulder with the other, and kept his gaze on the ground as his feet fell into step with Newt’s own. They made towards the woods, trudging along the wet grass until they crossed into the treeline. 

The fire was left as nothing more than charred bark and the occasional crackle and hiss of wet wood. The trees stood as tall as ever, but their white trunks had gone pitch like charcoal. The ground was wet and just as black, and any coverage from the sun the leaves once offered was long gone. A part of Thomas missed the green of it all. 

But life—artificial or not—had abandoned the place, leaving it nothing more than a graveyard. It was death, spread out and impossible to miss. Death outside of the human eye, for once. He could still see the white of the trees, the pale green of their leaves. He could still hear the crunch of twigs and dry leaves beneath his feet. 

And he could still hear Dan and Mara ahead, talking, laughing. It wasn’t just the anger of their souls that haunted his mind, but the memories he held of them, too. Dan’s smile and the way Mara would roll her eyes. Dan’s teasing quips and the low whisper he would take to with Thomas. Mara and her frown, the smile that hid in her eyes even if her mouth refused it. 

And they were both dead, Dan and Mara. Teresa was too. Aris and Rachel, most likely. Poppy, Perdita, Beth, Isabelle, Ben. Chuck. Alby. Not to mention the many whose names Thomas had never learned. All of them, even Alby, trailed behind him. Invisible, but there. Some were quiet, others were screaming. Not at him, just at the world. 

Soon, he told them. Soon, soon, soon. 

So many had died in such little time, and Thomas had watched over half of them go. Surely that wasn’t normal. Thomas had watched over a dozen Trials in his time, and usually they lasted more than a week, at the very least. But it was just the fourth day and Thomas was certain there was little more than a pinchful of them left. 

If he was sure of anything being abnormal, it was likely to be the fact that he himself had witnessed most deaths. Over half. It almost felt purposeful, in an odd way. As though he was being tormented, forced to stand by and do nothing more, because he couldn’t save anyone. Not his sister, not Chuck, and not himself. 

It felt like the Makers were after him. Like he was being punished. 

A ridiculous thought, really. Thomas wasn’t anyone important, wasn’t anyone at all. He lived his life by the Creators’ word. He did right by what he was raised to be, and had stepped into the path carved out for him. Even if he hadn’t, he was just some kid among many. What reason would they have to punish him? 

No, it wasn’t that. 

Thomas was cursed, he decided. Born to no mother nor father, with only his sister at his side. And he couldn’t even keep her there, couldn’t keep her safe, couldn’t do anything at all. He deserved the torment, the pain. It wasn’t enough, even. He wanted more. He wanted to feel himself being cut apart, he wanted to see the rot inside of him. He wanted to understand why he was different. 

He didn’t fit anywhere. Not in his district, not in the arena. Not anywhere at all. All he could hope for was death, to be brought into the afterlife where he would be met with his sister. It was all he could think to want, all he could think to deserve. 

Because Thomas wasn’t good enough to live, but he hoped he wasn’t bad enough to be kept alive with pain running through his veins instead of blood. 

“Thomas,” Newt said from behind him. 

Behind him? 

Thomas turned to see Newt stopped, eyeing him over. Then he looked down, finding himself ankle-deep in water. 

“Oh,” he muttered. 

He moved back onto the bank, looking around. It only took a few seconds for him to come to the realization that they resided in the same clearing where he and Thomas had interacted in the arena for the first time, soon after Rachel walked off. He could still see her form disappearing into the woods, if he looked hard enough. 

It didn’t hold beauty anymore. The ground was charred and ruined, the trees too, but the creek itself ran strong, dancing over smooth rocks and cutting through the space, presumably back from being dried up. Slowly he lowered himself to the ground, legs tingling with aches, mind fogged over with exhaustion that ran bone-deep. 

He pulled his bags off his shoulder and brought Chuck’s into his lap, tugging it open to pull the rabbit out along with a few fistfuls of grass. 

“You brought dinner,” he heard. 

A joke, maybe.

Thomas didn’t know what sort of look he gave the blond, but by the way Newt’s gaze dropped to the ground when they locked eyes, he assumed it wasn’t anything friendly. His attention quickly returned to the animal, fingers stroking lines into its fur as it chewed through the pile of grass, beady eyes squinted and content. 

His eyes followed his hand as it moved over the animal’s back, and he fixated onto the blood staining them alongside the grime. His hands were scratched and calloused, splinters making themselves obvious now that his mind was focused on them. His nails bore blood and dirt caked beneath them, and in every minuscule line of his skin lay some dirt or another. 

The damp of his clothes began to dry and crust once more, the rain having done little to clean them. Beth’s blood. Dan’s. Chuck’s. Some of Alby’s too, he assumed. The black of his shirt and the gray of his pants were nearly muted from the brownish red of it, some portions caked more than others. It covered him, his experience in the Trials. It was soaking through his clothes and into his skin, into his mind. 

But his hands, his hands. Chuck’s blood sat on them, dried into them, stained them. Alby’s did too, where Thomas had guided the tip of his sword towards his heart when it resided in Newt’s grasp. Their blood was mingled on his hands. Mixed. Suddenly Thomas felt the urge to vomit jump up his throat, heat prickling in his eyes. 

In less than a second Thomas put the rabbit aside and got to his feet, tugging his shirt to the ground and unveiling the old, stained bandage that still sat over his shoulder. He ripped it off, then tossed it aside, kicking off the remainder of his clothes until he was in nothing more than the odd, shiny underwear. 

He made his way towards the bubbling creek, dipping a foot into it before walking in fully. Thomas lowered himself into the deepest part of the water, keeping his stained hands above as his body adjusted to the cold of it up to his hips. 

He was back to the second day, feeling the bumps and grooves of rocks against his backside, feeling the water itself surround and engulf as much of him as he allowed it. The others were along the bank, with the exception of Aris, and there was a hot wound on Thomas’ back, aching with his every movement. The Five girl had stabbed him, he remembered. 

Now he couldn’t feel so much as a twinge from it, oddly enough. The salve that Gally had allowed them to borrow had done its job and more. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had felt the very last sting of it. His eyes drifted to the dirtied bandage he had discarded, remembering how carefully Mara had treated his wound.  

His eyes found their way back to his hands, which remained just out of the water, sullied with dirt, grass stains, and rabbit fur. And blood. So much blood. Alby’s blood. Chuck’s blood. Pure darkness interweaved within pure light, it was repulsive. It made Thomas’ stomach lurch and twist. 

He hated Alby. Hated the boy that killed his sister. Hated everything about him even if he knew absolutely nothing of the boy outside of their only interaction. Alby had smiled at him in the gym, Thomas thought they understood each other in the bloodbath. But he didn’t. If Thomas was bad, there wasn’t a word for what Alby was. 

And yet his hands didn’t lower themselves into the water to scrub Alby’s blood from his palms. 

Because Chuck’s blood sat there too. There wasn’t any more Chuck left in Thomas’ life, nothing physical. He had his carvings, he had his rabbit, and those were pieces of Chuck. But they were his in the arena, born of the person he was in the Trials.

He never got to have a piece of Chuck that wasn’t authentically Chuck. No bad memories attached to it, no agony or fear. But his blood—the stickiness coating his skin—was the same as the liquid that ran through his veins and pumped through his heart as he chased chickens around the yard. The same blood in the hands that ruffled Cluck’s feathers. The same blood that ran through him as he was held in the arms of his parents. 

To wash such a thing away felt like a crime in of itself, like robbing himself of the one good thing that came out of the Trials. Like really, truly losing Chuck. 

He didn’t notice how the sting in his eyes worsened and worsened, not until he caught sight of a tear sliding down the length of his eyelashes, clinging to the very tips for just a second before it was freed, falling into the slow-moving water below. Many followed after it, fat and descending straight into the water below as his head sat bowed between his shoulders. 

He didn’t wipe the water from his eyes, didn’t bother feeling embarrassed as his broken soul was recorded and broadcast to the world around him. In fact, he hoped they were watching. He hoped those in his district were muttering under their breath and scoffing at the pain that overflowed from inside him. Let them be ashamed, let them laugh at his agony. 

Did they laugh when he was wrapped around Chuck, sobbing about his dead sister? Did they laugh when he stood, covered in Dan’s remains, trying to process the unimaginable? Did they laugh when Teresa was dead, and Thomas didn’t let himself believe it? 

They did. The people of the Capitol and the people of the districts alike. Laughed and laughed and laughed at Thomas’ agony, at his pain, at his broken mind. Of course they did. It was the way of the world, now. He laughed at the Trials too, at some point in the years. Laughing at the suffering of others. 

He hated them all. The Capitol, the districts. He hated them. They deserved the pain of it all, deserved everything they were put through. The districts—all of them—were ruled by cowardice, ruled by pathetic fear. Letting their children take the burden of their ancestors' crimes. Cowards. He hated them. 

They complained, they cried, they mourned. And yet they did nothing. Nothing at all. 

So let them laugh, let them place their bets, let them do as they please. Thomas was still going to cry, still going to mourn. Because Chuck wasn’t filler. He wasn’t another body among bodies, wasn’t a pawn. He was a living, breathing person who deserved a life outside of this place, outside of this cursed country. 

Water sloshed around him, but Thomas didn’t look up. Not even as Newt crouched down in front of him and grabbed ahold of his hands, pushing them down until they submerged entirely under the water. Careful fingers scrubbed the blood from his knuckles and nails, from the deep lines running over his palms and the nearly invisible ones on the backs of his hands. 

He didn’t flinch, didn’t move at all. He only watched. Watched as Newt’s deft fingers worked over his own, prying the filth from under his fingernails and rubbing a rough thumb over the small scratches to clean the dirt that dried within the blood. His eyes followed as the other removed the splinters he could, followed as hands circled his wrists and scrubbed up them, too. 

It hurt, oddly enough. To be touched, cleaned. It burned his skin and ripped hard convulsions from deep inside his chest, body jolting as he withheld the noises threatening in the back of his throat. The harsh sniffles came first, desperately sucking in air, trying to soothe. 

It was all in vain. Moments later the first dry sob broke through, shaking his shoulders and joining the nearby crackles and hisses the wounds of wood emitted. More followed, and Thomas soon understood how it felt to truly, fully break. Break like a glass, shattered and impossible to fix. A thousand shards of him fell into the water of the creek, pulled away by the soft current. 

As he wept, Newt didn’t stop, though his movements became more gentle, hands carefully rubbing away the remnants of death lingering on his hands. Thomas didn’t make a move to find the other’s eyes, didn’t want to see whatever expression laced through his features. Judgement, pity, confusion, it was all the same. 

Instead he threw his head back and looked to the blue sky above them, darkening with the oncoming sunset. The day was finished, but it felt as though it had lasted years. Seconds, minutes, hours, days, months, years, it didn’t matter. In all of the time Thomas had spent here, spent in the depths of the Trials in the horror of the arena, he had learned one crucial thing. 

He didn’t know what he was doing. He didn’t know anything at all. 

When he defeated Jackson in the choosing and stood upon the stage facing out towards all of those from his district, he didn’t know what he was doing. When he sat around the gym with Elites and laughed and talked and told stories, he didn’t know what he was doing. And when he stood, staring down at his sister’s body in the bloodbath, he didn’t know what he had done. 

And, with the water flowing around him and Newt crouched in front of him, tears running over his temples, Thomas still didn’t know what he was doing. It felt wrong, that he was alive. It felt wrong that he was living and breathing in crisp air as the hot sun beat down on him. How could one person survive with so much rot inside of them? 

He was lost. He didn’t know what was to come in the following hours, the following days. He didn’t know what he was doing with Newt, didn’t know anything at all. Nothing. He couldn’t even come up with a guess. Chuck was dead. Teresa was dead. And Thomas was lost. Lost. Lost and unable to find himself. Unable to do anything at all. 

“I spoke to Chuck,” Newt said minutes later, and Thomas—against his better judgement—looked at the other, finding Newt’s eyes to be locked on their hands submerged underwater. “Just once. It was before the Tribute Parade, and he was dressed up like a cow.” His fingers trailed over the healed gash on Thomas’ inner arm. “And I just thought to myself, just, he was so young. Looked it, anyhow.”

“He turned twelve a few days before the choosing,” Thomas found himself saying quietly. 

“Reaping,” Newt corrected, finally looking up at him. “We call it–” 

“I know,” he cut in, though not unkindly. “Sorry. Old habit.” 

“He…” Newt trailed off, looked back at their hands, then tried again. “He was good.” 

“He was just a kid,” Thomas muttered. 

“We’re all kids.” 

“I don’t feel like a kid.” Thomas pulled his hands—now far cleaner—out from the other’s grasp, running them through his hair, feeling the clumps of something hardened within it. Newt watched him, pants hiked up to his knees and feet bare, clothes mostly dried. “He had a chance. I was his chance.” 

Newt considered him for a second, then rose from his crouch. “Nothing to be done about it now.” 

Thomas smiled darkly, mockingly. “Right. And what is there to be done?”

“Well.” Newt looked off into the smoking woods. “I don’t have a perfect answer for that one, mate. But I’ll tell you this, the winds’ll start up soon enough, and I’m not exactly keen on getting caught up in them.” 

Newt hadn’t given up, it seemed. Thomas sucked his teeth, looking down at the water. “Yeah, alright.” 

“We’ll find us somewhere to rest,” the other said. “We’ll go once you’re decent.” 

Thomas watched as Newt gave him a polite smile and walked off to the creek bed, shaking his feet dry to pull on his socks and shoes. His clothes were still damp, Thomas’ too, but hopefully they would dry overnight. Thomas laid back, pushing himself under the water, his hands coming up to scrub away the mess he could feel on his face. 

His body had begun a steadily worsening ache, one that had laid dormant in the face of his constant movement, constant action. But now it ripped through him like fire, starting low in his aching feet and rising to his head, temples pounding with a headache that made his teeth sore.

When he pulled out from under the water and sat up, Thomas looked down on himself. Purple and yellow bruises were littered across his ribs and stomach, more thin scratches alongside them. He knew that his back was worse, but the pain of the stab wound was long gone, and it wasn’t as though he couldn’t stomach a few bruises. 

His hands, arms, and legs were covered in more scratches varying in size, but all looked healed enough and far from infected. Overall, he was fine. No brutal wounds or anything that would render him dead in a short time. That felt wrong, in a way. Not that he was expecting to find a line cut into his throat he hadn’t been aware of, but it felt as though him being in such health was a blow to those who weren’t.

He would’ve taken an arrow for Chuck. And Teresa. Even Beth. Anything would’ve been better than the hot pain resting behind his sternum, worsening with every breath he took. The word guilt didn’t feel like enough. In fact, Thomas didn’t think there was a word for the horrid thing that consumed him. 

When he finished, the sun had just touched the edge of the West Wall, and the entire Glade was doused in golden light. Newt stared at it as Thomas dressed, dark eyes scanning the area around them as that heavy, beautiful light lit up the dead, burnt forest. 

He felt sick as the crust of his clothes touched his cleaned skin, but he ignored it, buckling up the belt and leaning down to collect his bags, though not before slipping the rabbit inside Chuck’s. He heaved them both over his shoulder again, sword in his right hand, and he walked until he was standing a few paces from Newt. 

The other broke his gaze from the gold of light, turning to Thomas as he huffed a small breath out. “Alright?” 

Thomas frowned. “Yeah. Fine.” 

“We’ll be off then.” 

Chuck’s carvings pressed against his leg from where they hid in his pocket, pressing cloth against the skin of his outer thigh as they walked. It felt like a reminder, a constant one, but one not unwelcome. Thomas didn’t want to forget about Chuck, not for a single moment. Just the thought of the younger boy was enough to keep him moving, to keep him from collapsing into dust then and there. 

Newt walked a few paces ahead, Alby’s bow and quiver on one shoulder, twine satchel on the other. Thomas found his gaze switching between the back of the other’s head and the burnt ground below, mind trying to process the fact that the Newt that walked before him now was the very same one he had met before the Trials began. 

Newt didn’t look all that different, and acted relatively the same. But he wasn’t. It wasn’t noticeable, but Thomas could sense it like an uplift of wind. He was different. Anyone would be, Thomas supposed. After four days in the arena no one could be exactly the same. But it was strange nonetheless. Thomas wondered how different he himself had become. 

It wasn’t long before they found a little nook between rocks against the West Wall to reside in overnight. It was perfectly deep and tall enough for the pair of them to hide within comfortably, and it wasn’t long before the pair shucked off their bags and slumped onto the ground. They were exhausted, reasonably, and Thomas never thought he had needed sleep more than he did at that moment. 

Slowly he slumped against one of the rocks, closer to the entrance, and slid down until he was only half-propped up, eyes already heavy, body all but begging to sleep. Chuck’s bag sat against his side, however, and the animal inside kept wriggling and kicking, trying to get out. With a long sigh, he opened it, releasing the creature. 

It took around two or three seconds for the rabbit to survey the area around them, and after that it hopped up onto Thomas’ stomach and settled almost instantly, rubbing small hands over its weird little face and shaking off the discomfort of being hauled around in a backpack. A part of Thomas wanted to push it away, but he thought that Chuck would’ve been happy if Thomas cared for it the way he had. 

So there it stayed, finishing with its half-hearted bath and flopping onto its side, quick breathing falling slower as it tried for sleep. Thomas reached forward and patted its side, even going as far as to scratch its chin in a way he had seen Chuck do once or twice. 

Thomas felt eyes on him, and it was only a second later that Newt’s whisper called into their small space. 

“Does it have a name?” 

Thomas didn’t look up, only kept stroking the fur of its side. “Shuck.” 

The other smiled. “Ah, wonder why.” 

Thomas swallowed. Considered. Swallowed again. “He had a chicken, too. Back home” 

“Did he?” 

“Named Cluck.” 

Newt snorted. “A deer called Buck, too, I suppose?” 

“Mm, a pig called Muck.” 

He looked up as Newt smiled, and Thomas returned it for a moment before both their gazes dropped simultaneously. His fingers found the rabbit's fur again, tracing random shapes in it, watching as lighter fur revealed itself when he pushed the top layer back. It calmed him, oddly. And he started to be grateful for the creature. 

The anthem began, and Thomas watched as the Capitol’s logo lit up the sky. No other deaths had occurred, to no one’s surprise. Thomas took in every second of the younger boy’s picture he could, then immediately averted his eyes the second Alby’s face faded into view. He felt a surge of anger that quickly turned into hurt. The projection vanished.

When his attention turned back to the other, he found Newt staring at the cave floor, hand idly toying with a broken seam of his satchel. He looked distant, in a way. Like his mind was far elsewhere, hollow body still stuck in a cave beside Thomas. He wanted to ignore it, but it made his skin crawl, throat tightening. 

“I…” He coughed, cleared his throat. “I believe you.” When Newt looked up, his brow was furrowed. “About not knowing,” Thomas clarified. “About Alby. And…you know.” 

“Good,” Newt replied, seeming to come back to himself. “And I’m er, I’m sorry about what he did to…to all your friends.” He stopped, glanced to the side. “To your sister.” 

Thomas nodded, but said nothing more, throat constricted and mind in need of distraction. He turned away to the mouth of the cave where the forest sat dark, the night sky darkened and obvious through the bare trees. He stuck his hand out enough to feel the light breeze, but only the light breeze. He frowned, looking back. 

“Nothing.” He pulled his hand back. “Think it’s late?” 

Newt’s eyes shut for a moment, then reopened. “I don’t think it’s coming.” 

Thomas felt like crying. “Oh.” 

“Sleep,” Newt said. “It’s alright. I’ll keep watch.” 

He stifled a yawn, lowering himself further. “Wake me up in a bit and we’ll switch.” 

Newt said nothing, only turned his attention to the frayed seam on his bag and twisted it around his finger. Thomas watched for a moment, then turned his attention to the rabbit, eyes dropping as he drew one final line onto the fur of its side. 

Slowly, Thomas drifted off, his mind still lingering on the night prior to this one, watching Chuck as he slept. He thought of little corkscrew curls dropping over a smooth, unwrinkled forehead. He thought of cheeks still rich with baby fat. He thought of eyes blue and big with innocence that was robbed from the world. 

One final tear seeped from his shut eyes, and then Thomas’ mind went blank. 

Nightmares followed him into unconsciousness, pale faces and glassy eyes, but when Thomas woke it was to the early morning light flooding into the cave and searing through his eyelids. He didn’t move for a few moments, wishing he could return to the nightmares instead of facing another day inside the arena. He slept throughout the night, maybe, but his exhaustion was untouched. 

Cupping his hand at his navel to catch the rabbit, Thomas sat up, eyes still shut. The ache throughout his body seemed to worsen at the odd angle he slept at, and a knot had formed in the tender flesh where his neck and shoulder connected. Finally he peeled open his eyes, blinking a few times as the world came into view. 

The first thing he noticed was the empty hand cupped at his lower stomach, where the rabbit was meant to lay. The second, was that the nook he and Newt had shoved themselves into was entirely barren of the latter. 

Chuck’s bag had vanished too, though Thomas’ own was still at his side, seemingly untouched alongside his sword. Newt’s belongings—bow, quiver, satchel—were gone, and even the ground where Newt once sat looked to be untouched.

For a moment, panic overwhelmed Thomas, seeping through his skin and into his tense muscles, cramping and squeezing like a vice wrapped around him. A part of him thought that…that maybe Newt hadn’t ever been there in the first place. Maybe he was…

No. No. The rabbit was gone too, and on the palms of Thomas’ hands remained the thin black hairs of it. Thomas’ hands were still scrubbed clean, down to his fingernails and beds. On one hand that was good, good that Thomas’ mind wasn’t playing tricks on him, good that reality was just that. 

On the other, however. 

Thomas was such an idiot. He was the stupidest, most gullible and moronic person in the entire world. Of course Newt wasn’t going to stick around. Of course Newt was going to leave the moment the opportunity was available to him. They weren’t just going to be allies and then…and then go about however and whatever when being allies wasn’t in the cards anymore. 

Yesterday Newt laid with his throat grasped by Thomas’ sullied hands, listening to every angry word as it was spat to him. He was calm, collected. Thomas hadn’t caught a single flicker of fear in the other’s eyes. Bravery, one might call it. They’d be wrong. Utterly and terribly wrong. 

Newt wasn’t brave, wasn’t fearless. He knew that Thomas wouldn’t kill him. He knew it. And not only did he know it, but he pushed pretty words to make sure of it. He didn’t know about Alby. Lies. Lies, lies, lies. All of it. He was a liar. And a good one, to Thomas’ annoyance. He had bought Newt’s story like he had experienced it himself, believing every word that fell from that stupid mouth of his. 

And now he was gone, gone into the arena. Likely as far away from Thomas as he could get. Had he found someone else to ally with? Someone more trustworthy. Someone to lead back to their cave, someone who was willing to fight the way Newt wasn’t. Of course he had. 

What was it Thomas thought to gain when he took Newt’s hand the previous day, friendship? Was it some sort of sick hope that if someone like Newt—so pure, so bright—could forgive him, then maybe he wasn’t filled with rot, wasn’t too far gone? 

No. He did it because there was nothing else to do. Because Newt refused to free him, and offered him a hand instead. And Thomas took it. Not because he wanted anything from the…alliance, but because it was there and Chuck wasn’t and he just wanted to go home. But his home was gone. Gone, gone, gone. 

Just like Newt. 

Thomas’ face scrunched up, hands coming up to pull at his hair. 

Now he was alone—even the stupid rabbit had left him—and facing at least three more tributes whose whereabouts he was entirely unsure of. What was he meant to do, run around throughout the woods and the grass and the swamp and kill them all? What if they were in the maze? He couldn’t–

But Thomas didn’t want to win, didn't want to live. Right? 

If he did, his sister would never find peace. Nor would Chuck, or Beth, or any other person whose death could’ve been prevented had Thomas done anything, anything at all. The screams inside of his mind, pained and agonized, they needed his life in exchange for their own. Thomas had to die. He had to. It was the only option. 

Thomas wanted to die. 

Didn’t he? 

“Hiya,” Newt said, startling him. The blond crouched at the mouth of the cave and pulled Chuck’s bag off his back, carefully placing it in Thomas’ lap. “This place is bloody empty. I checked everywhere. No one’s around.” 

Thomas just stared at the other, brow furrowed. 

“Don’t go near the bog place, by the way,” Newt continued. “Got stung or something and couldn’t see a thing for a bit. Thought I was done for.” He plopped down to sit completely in the entrance, picking his teeth. “The grass is as empty as it can be. Woods are too. Think the rest of our friends are out past the walls.” 

The bag in his lap rustled, and Thomas looked down and tugged it open, revealing the rabbit along with bunches of green grass. He reached in absentmindedly and pulled Shuck out, putting him aside and then placing a handful of fresh grass beside him. 

“Picky bugger, that one,” Newt said.

Thomas looked back at the other. “When I woke up you were…”

“Couldn’t wait around all day for you, ya lug.” Newt pulled his satchel off his other shoulder. “Shucky there bit me, figured he was hungry. Then I figured I oughta check things out while I was around. Then I went blind for a bit. You know the story.” Newt pulled out a pouch, dipping fingers into it. “Since we’re not eating him.” He gestured to the rabbit, something orange in his hand. “I picked up some snacks from what’s left out there.” 

“The Box?” Thomas asked dumbly. 

Newt raised an eyebrow, seeming amused. “Yep.” 

“And you…” he trailed off, looking over Newt like he wasn’t real for a moment. “And you think Gally and the others are in the maze?” 

“The maze,” Newt repeated, brow furrowing. “So when you said that yesterday, you meant it? A maze? Like the thing they stick those poor mouses in to find the cheese?” 

He nodded shortly. 

“Hm,” Newt muttered. “Clever them, I suppose.” He popped the piece of what looked to be a dry carrot into his mouth, chewing idly as his eyes gave away his racing thoughts. “And you don’t want to go in there?” 

“No,” Thomas said quickly, loudly, Newt’s eyes widening in slight alarm. He sighed. “There are these things in it, they’re massive.” He looked around for something to compare them to, but came up empty-handed. “I don’t know, like bigger than a horse or a cow. They’re kind of like robots but also…not.” 

“You really know how to paint a picture,” Newt said with a faux awe. “I can see ‘em now. All big and not-robot-like, and robot-like all the same.” 

Thomas frowned. “I don’t know. But we can’t fight them.” 

“Maze is off-limits then?” Newt murmured. “Noted.” 

“I don’t know,” he answered. “I mean, if Gally and the Nine boy are–” 

“Triton,” Newt corrected.

Thomas cocked his head. “What?” 

“The Nine boy,” the other hummed. “His name is Triton.” 

“Oh.” He scratched his cheek. “Okay, well, if Gally and Triton are in the maze and still alive, maybe something has changed.” He frowned. “The ones I saw had these collars on—like ours—but with district numbers on them.” He sighed. “There’s probably twelve of them, then.” 

Newt absently pulled on the black collar sitting low on his throat, pondering. “You think those two could survive in there with twelve not-robot-robots?” 

Thomas shook his head. “They must die, I just don’t know how.” 

Newt rubbed at his temple. “If I’m honest, mate, I don’t really know what we’re gonna do.” 

He nodded. “You and me both.” He pursed his lips, meeting Newt’s eye. “Who else is alive?” 

The other frowned. “What? You haven’t been keeping count?” 

He swallowed, gaze dropping to the rabbit. “Not really.” 

A full minute passed, both boys silent, and Thomas could feel Newt’s gaze like a weight against the side of his face. They were thinking the same thing, he knew. And Newt was going to ask, and Thomas didn’t know how he was supposed to answer. He could be honest. He could. But what if Newt left? 

“Can I–” 

“You don’t want to know the answer,” Thomas said quickly, cutting off the other. He looked up. “You really, really don’t.”

Newt held his eyes, face unreadably blank. After a second of quiet, he folded his hands in his lap. “I do. I do want to know.” 

“You don’t.”

“We’re allies. I won’t judge you.” 

“You will.” 

“I won’t.” 

“Your district partner,” Thomas snapped. “To start.” 

Newt licked his lips, but said nothing. Waiting, expecting. 

And Thomas couldn’t stop the words from jumping from his throat like vomit. 

“Practically all of them, Newt,” he breathed. “I killed my own allies. The only person I know I didn’t kill was Rachel, only because she ran away. And I was going to kill her, too. And I–” He stopped, breathing hard. “Teresa. She died because of me.”

The other swallowed. “You said…” 

“Yeah,” Thomas said with a cruel laugh. “Yeah. He did. Alby.” He looked to his lap, a painful smile on his face. “And I had him, at the start. I could’ve—should’ve—gutted him then and there. But I didn’t. I let him live.” He looked up again. “And look what he did.” 

For a long, seemingly never-ending moment, Newt just stared at him. He waited for it. He waited for the disgust and the anger, he waited for Newt to pull the bow from his shoulder and send an arrow through Thomas’ heart. And it hit him like a hunger, a craving for the other to do just that. Newt saw it now, saw the blood on his hands. 

What was he thinking? Thomas couldn’t tell. He couldn’t see it. 

His face wasn’t blank like Mara’s went, his thoughts were there for Thomas to read, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t and it made him want to pry fingers under his own skin and peel it from his body. Did Newt hate him? Was he forming an escape in his mind? What did he think of Thomas now? What was he going to do? 

“Okay,” Newt said finally. 

Thomas stopped short, swallowing hard. “What?” 

“Okay,” Newt repeated. When Thomas only grew to be more confused, the blond looked off to the side, shrugging half-heartedly. “I told you I wouldn’t judge you. And I’m not.” He grabbed another piece of carrot, considered it, then put it back in the pouch. “I wasn’t there. I don’t know what happened.” 

He didn’t understand. “I don’t understand.” 

“Can I ask something, though?” Newt hummed, ignoring him. When Thomas said nothing, he continued. “You said you had him in the start, that you should’ve gutted him.” He paused, met Thomas’ eye. “Why didn’t you?” 

“I…” He worried his lip for a moment. “I couldn’t.” His head bowed, shame rolling over him in waves. “He didn’t kill me, either. I sort of thought that we were…that we were the same. And I just couldn’t do it.” He looked up again, facing Newt’s surveying expression. “I was wrong. I should’ve killed him then.” 

“You might not want to hear this,” Newt said quietly. “But Alby wasn’t all bad.”

Thomas’ gaze hardened. “Don’t.” 

“It’s the truth,” Newt said. “He was a bit, er, cold, at times.” He bit at his lip. “But he was funny, when he wanted to be. He was a person, after all.” 

A person, Thomas felt sick. Of course Alby was a person. But he was a bad person. A coward. He murdered Teresa, Beth, Chuck. He was awful. He ruined Thomas’ life. He ruined everything. 

“He killed my sister,” Thomas ground out, eyes fixed on the other. “He killed Chuck. Chuck was twelve. He murdered him. How can you even–” 

“Didn’t you volunteer to kill your sister?” Newt countered, head cocking. “You bragged about it in the interviews, did you not?” 

“I was–” he cut himself off, shrinking slightly. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t know what I was doing.” 

“And you’ve changed?” Newt asked, though it seemed mocking. “You got here and suddenly you were willing to die for her, is that it?” 

“Yes,” he hissed. “I would’ve died for her. I would still, if I could.” He scoffed, shaking his head. “I would’ve died for Chuck too. I was going to. But your ally ruined it.” 

Newt raised an eyebrow. “You wanted him to win?” 

“Of course I did!” he snapped. “I would’ve murdered you and every tribute left and then myself for that kid. All of them. I would’ve burned the fucking–” He stopped himself, breathing hard. After a moment, he tried again, voice lower this time. “Chuck should be alive right now. But he’s not.” 

“And you,” Newt hummed. “You shouldn’t be?” 

“No.” 

“You don’t want to live?” 

And Thomas didn’t know. He thought he did, on some primal level. The idea of death scared him, even if it shouldn’t. He wasn’t afraid of what came after, but the last minutes of his life. The knowing that he was about to die, and the inability to stop it. But it wouldn’t matter, in the end. It wouldn’t. 

“If I live,” Thomas started, eyes finding his lap, fixed on his fingers as they twitched. “Then Teresa and Chuck and everyone who died because of me, all of them.” He took a shaky breath. “They’ll never find peace, their deaths will just be…be unjust and I’d go on living with them…angry at me, screaming and…” 

“Thomas,” came Newt’s murmur. 

He looked up. “I have to die. I’m not afraid.” 

“So, Teresa died because of your mistake, and you killed…whoever you killed, and you’ve got it in your head that if you off yourself, it’ll make it all okay?” 

“Alby and I.” He shuddered, stopped, took a breath. “Alby and I had one thing in common. We both killed people. By taking his life, I paid his debts. And by taking my own, I’ll pay back the rest.”

Newt was just staring at him, mouth agape and eyes filled with what looked to be disbelief. It made Thomas feel awkward, insecure. He straightened himself up, puffed his chest, and held the other’s gaze, ignoring the itch it bore into his skin. 

“You–” Newt paused, blinked, tried again. “You realize that their families are still going to suffer whether or not you live or die, right? They’re still dead. It doesn’t matter if you’re around to see it or not, they’re all dead.” 

“But–” 

“And what about your own family?” Newt asked. 

Thomas scoffed at that. “Family? What family?” 

Newt rolled his eyes. “Raised by wolves then, were you?” 

“I don’t have anyone to go home to,” Thomas argued, feeling heat prickle across his nape. “No one. Teresa was all I had, and she’s…” He swallowed. “All of their families, all of those people, they want me dead, I know they do.” 

Newt squinted at him. “You–”

“Wouldn’t you know better than anyone?” Thomas interrupted, voice louder now. “You said it yourself. I’m dead either way, soul or body or whatever bullshit you spewed.” 

“Some things can’t be helped,” Newt said. “I said I couldn’t live with it. Don’t remember saying anything about anyone else.” 

“Maybe you’re not as morally superior as you thought,” he muttered. “Maybe other people have feelings too. Ever considered that?” 

“Oh, well that’s a relief,” Newt huffed. “It was getting tiring being the only one.” 

“Have you ever been anything other than a self-righteous dick?” 

“Unfortunately not. Born this way, I’m afraid.” 

Thomas just gawked at him for a moment. Then, he laughed. It wasn’t humorous, but angry. “You always act like you’re so much better than everyone else, that we’re all just murderous ants beneath you, but you don’t know shit.” 

“Don’t I?” 

“No!” he shouted, blood running hot. “You were hiding behind Alby the whole time, you didn’t see what I saw. You act like you’re some sort of god but really you’re just a coward! Your entire district is!” 

Newt was smirking. “Ah, you’ve got us. An entire population of cowards in a world like this, how shameful.” 

Thomas felt like his insides were on fire. “How Alby managed to keep you around without killing you, I’ll never know.” 

The other scoffed. “Had your chance, didn’t you?” 

“Wish I’d taken it,” he seethed. 

“Oh well, go right ahead then,” Newt said, spreading his arms, as if inviting Thomas to give it his best. “Kill me good. Kill me nice and hard.” 

“You’re the one who came up to me in training,” Thomas spat as Newt’s arms dropped. “You’re the one who was…who was acting all friendly. You’re the one who wanted to ally in the first place!” 

Newt laughed humourlessly. “Had you seen yourself, you’d’ve understood.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You were practically weeping over that kid, mate,” Newt went on, cocking his head, voice raising an octave. “Poor little Elite coming to the realization the rest of us were born knowing. Forgive me for being curious.” 

“Curious,” Thomas mocked. “You’re…you’re whacked in the head.” 

“Whacked?” Newt repeated. “What sort of word is that?” 

“Curious,” he said again, ignoring the other. “Were you just following me around because you were curious?”

“Following you around?” 

“You kept talking to me,” he bit. “Was it for your own pleasure? Just to remind yourself how much better you are, how no one else could ever match that stupid heart of yours?” 

“That,” Newt said, head tilting. “And you were just too pitiful for me to stomach. Wee little lamb so very excited to head into the slaughterhouse, practically bouncing on your heels. It was pathetic.” 

“You’re pathetic!” 

“Am I?” Newt asked, though Thomas didn’t think he really wanted an answer. 

“Yes!” Thomas huffed anyway. 

“Well, mate. Sorry I have a hard time feeling bad for you,” Newt all but growled. “But don’t you forget that the rest of us didn’t come here of our own volition. Don’t forget that you chose to volunteer. Don’t forget that you hopped right on that train alongside your sister like you were going on a goddamn vacation.” 

“You don’t know–” 

“Don’t forget,” Newt cut in, louder. “That if you hadn’t volunteered, there’d be a nice cushy life awaiting you. You’ve never starved, never suffered. Never watched the people you love starve, suffer. So I’m so very sorry that your life is the worst of them all. But you did this to your bloody self.” 

Thomas just held the intense gaze Newt had him locked in, chest heaving and eyes hard. “I–” 

A loud, distant series of clicks sounded, and the bright light of the sun vanished in the blink of an eye. The conversation forgotten, Thomas and Newt scrambled to their feet and jumped out from the mouth of the cave, both of their necks craned up to look through the black gnarled branches of trees to look at the sky. 

Or what was once the sky, as now all that laid above them was a flat, never-ending slab of lifeless gray that emitted a dim white light, hardly lighting up the arena. As if the sky—the sun—had been turned off at the simple flick of a switch. For a moment, he couldn’t manage to process it. He had felt the head of the sun against his skin, and now it was just…gone. 

“How is that even possible?” Newt asked quietly, mostly to himself. 

Thomas didn’t say anything at all, because he didn’t know. He shouldn’t have been surprised that the sky itself was fake, but he couldn’t help it. The blue of it that had remained up until that day was simply gone, just like that. How could they have even managed it? A massive screen? A hologram? 

Something was happening, Thomas soon realized. Not just the loss of the sky above, but something else. They were in danger, more so than usual. The hair on the back of his neck stood to a point.

“What’s happening?” he murmured absentmindedly. 

“You’re the one who blabbered on about the not-robot-robots. You tell me,” Newt breathed. 

“How many people are left?” Thomas asked. 

“Four, I’m nearly certain.” 

“Including us?” 

A quiet second passed. “Yes.” 

Shit.  

In the next moment, a great rumble sounded all throughout the entire arena, vibrating the ground beneath their feet. Thomas—something familiar and terrifying spiking up in his mind—looked through the bushel of charred trees to the West Door in the distance. Sure enough, it was slowly coming to a close.  

“We–we’ve got to move,” he said quietly, feeling stuck for half a second before he was moving back into the mouth of the cave, shoving the rabbit back into Chuck’s bag and slinging it over his shoulder, pulling his own on after it, plucking up his sword, then grabbing Newt’s discarded satchel, returning to the other. 

He held it out. “Now.” 

Newt took it, looking slightly pale at Thomas’ expression.

The pair ran through the woods, the violent rumbles only coming to an end once they burst through the treeline. The arena—outside of the vanished sky—looked no different than it had when they were by The Box the previous evening. Every door was sealed shut, however, and a drop in Thomas’ gut told him something bad was coming. 

His eyes automatically turned to the mused patch of grass dozens of paces away from him, knowing that it was the same place Chuck sucked in his last breaths. He could feel the carvings against his leg in his pocket, and he let the press of them ground him, sucking in shaky breaths as he examined the shut doors around them. 

“What do we do?” Newt asked, neck craning this way and that. “Run? Hide?” 

“We can’t,” he said. “Not until we know what we’re up against.” 

“Thomas I–” Newt huffed, shut his eyes for a second. “I er…"

He frowned. “What?” 

“My leg,” the other said in rush. “It’s all battered and I might slow us down.” 

Thomas thought of Newt’s fingers pressing and rubbing over his knee on the rooftop, the slight winces in his expression. “Fuck.” 

“Look, if it comes down to it–” 

“Shut up,” Thomas grunted. “You’ll be fine. You’ll just have to power through. You can do that, can’t you?” 

“Ah, well I am some sort of god. So I suppose I can.” 

“Asshole.” 

A high pitched creak cut through the air, followed by a few huge, distant clicks, and then the rumbles began once more. It wasn’t as powerful, this time, and the noise was only coming from one direction. Thomas and Newt turned in sync, and watched as the East Door began to slowly, slowly slide open, the sliver of a crack releasing what looked to be a spray of water into the arena. 

“What, they planning on drowning us? I’m a fantastic swimmer, I’ll have you know,” Newt said.

Thomas squinted at the water spraying in, watching as a thin white smoke—no, steam—went up from the crack. “It’s…it’s boiling.” 

“Ah, cooking us, then.” 

“Fuck,” Thomas muttered, turning on his heel, trying to look for something, anything to help them. “Fuck!” 

“What a shit way to go,” Newt commented. “Maybe it’ll…stop?” 

The water was spraying from top to bottom of the slowly expanding crack, presumably filling the corridors beyond it. Thomas’ brow pinched. “Maybe.” 

His hand fled down to where Chuck’s carvings sat in his pocket, and he pressed his hand against them until it hurt against his leg, trying to think. It wasn’t going to stop, he knew. If the other tributes were in the maze—presumably the parts of the maze not filled with hot water—then the Makers were after them, one of them, at least. 

So be it.

Thomas looked around for another moment, not ignorant to the hiss of water slowly flooding the grass, the crack allowing it inside expanding, expanding, expanding. They didn’t have time, they couldn’t run. The entire arena floor would soon rise with the scalding water, and Thomas and Newt wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. 

His eyes fled to the very top of the walls surrounding them, the thick ivy climbing down it, climbing up it. 

He thought back to Poppy, the way the lively greens had wrapped around her, slowly, carefully. They would’ve strangled her had Mara never intervened. It was an awful idea, and he knew that, but they were out of options. 

“Newt,” Thomas said.

“Yeah?” 

“Do you trust me?” 

Newt frowned. “Not really.” 

“Can you?” he asked. “Just for a few minutes?” 

Newt bit at his lip, seemingly weighing his options. “Sure. Not like I’ve much to lose.” 

Thomas grabbed the other’s arm and started off in a bolt, dragging Newt behind him. The blond did well in keeping up, injured leg and all, and as they neared the West Wall Thomas felt more and more doubtful of his plan. It didn’t stop him, however. 

As they were just a few paces away, Thomas slowed slightly and discarded his sword, allowing Newt to get in front of him. Quickly he grabbed the back of the other’s belt, other hand coming up between his shoulder blades, and he forced all of his strength into throwing Newt as far up onto the wall as he could, which ended up being just a few feet, but it was enough. 

“Thomas! You twat!” Newt shouted, trying to climb down. “The ivy–” 

“I know!” he called back. “A few minutes, remember Newt? Climb, and don’t fucking stop!” 

Thomas grabbed a hold of the greens and began hiking himself up, Newt hesitating for less than a second before continuing up above him. By the time they were a dozen or so feet up, Thomas looked down to see an inch of steaming water had covered the ground beneath them. He couldn’t crane his neck to see how far open the East Door had gotten, but he assumed it wasn’t looking good. 

The ivy branches reached for him as he scrambled up, and the stalk he held onto vibrated beneath his palms, like it was excited about his presence. The air was growing steadily in humidity, the heat of it mixed with the pungent smell of dirt and grass. He drove on, looking up every minute to ensure Newt was still moving above him. 

A minute or thirty later, Thomas’ palms had run red with his blood, calluses bursting open and new scrapes and scratches torn into them. On the bright side, however, his blood—having dried rather quickly—offered a sort of stick to his hands that made it far easier to hold onto the stalk. The pain of it managed to rival the effects, though. 

“How are you doing up there?” he managed as loudly as he could. 

Newt chanced a glance down at him. “My fuckin’ leg, mate.”  

“S’okay,” he assured. “You’re doing good, it’ll–” he paused, breathing hard. “It’ll be fine.” 

“Oh, well, now that you say that.” 

He wanted to curse the other, but instead he looked down and found the water rising rapidly beneath him, twenty feet below, maybe less. He cried out as a spike on the stalk drove through his palm, but he didn’t have time to stop and attempt to soothe it, so he just continued on. 

To their luck, the ivy branches were slow enough to be far less concerning than he had previously imagined. The thinnest of the group were decently quick, but just as easy to tear away. There was still much more to climb, but Thomas didn’t hate their chances. The heat of the water below was more than enough motivation. 

The sweat, the way his clothes drew soaked within a short amount of time, it was nothing compared to the dense air that surrounded them. He could breathe, but minimally, and it wasn’t long before the lightheadedness seemed to grasp onto him. He sucked in as much as he could manage, and kept going. Chuck’s carvings were still pressed against his leg, moving as he climbed, and he focused on that. 

He nudged his foot into one of the thicker cracks in the concrete wall just as he heard a nearly muted cry from above. And just as he looked up, he watched as Newt’s hands slid from the stalk he had been pulling himself up onto, and watched as he started to plummet. 

Thomas’ hand snapped out just as a sweat-drenched Newt slid into place beside him, and the other’s body jolted for a moment before his hands grasped onto another stalk, face scrunching in pain.

“Go!” he shouted, ignoring the tear tracks streaking over Newt’s reddened face. “We have to keep going!” 

“I can’t!” Newt hollered. “I can’t, Thomas. I can’t.” 

“Shut the fuck up and go, Newt!” he cried, nudging the other to begin moving again. Newt did, seething in pain. 

And it was when Thomas tried following him that he realized in his time trying to convince Newt to keep moving, a thick coil of ivy had wrapped around his ankle. And he was stuck. He tried to kick it away, tried to fight it, but Thomas was stuck and the hot water wasn’t stopping in its rise. It wouldn't be long before it engulfed him and burned him outside in. Thomas was going to die. 

His second thought was of the rabbit in his bag. Chuck’s rabbit.

Holding on tight to the thick stalk with one hand, Thomas brought a hand up to pull Chuck’s bag off his shoulder, but instead it was his own, and the weight of it surprised him, causing it to drop into the water below. He cursed, tears dropping onto his cheeks, and grabbed Chuck’s bag off his shoulder. 

“Newt!” he called. The blond had made it a decent way up. “Take my bag!” 

Newt looked down. “What?” 

“I’m going to throw it to you, and you’ve got to catch it!” 

“Okay!” 

He squeezed the bag in one hand, lowered his arm, then put all of his power into throwing it up to the other. Newt caught it, swaying unsteadily for a moment before he put one strap on his shoulder and gave Thomas a brief thumbs up. 

“Good!” he cried. “Keep going, Newt. Don’t fucking stop, alright?” 

The ivy had begun wrapping around his middle, and he used his hands to begin prying it away. Most of it broke off easily, but he knew his ankle was buried in thick branches, he could feel them coiling tighter and tighter like a vice. For a moment he quit fighting the greens trying to trap him, and just rested his head against the thick stalk, trying to breathe in the wet air. 

This was it, this is what he had been afraid of. He was the rabbit, this time. The snare was constricting his breathing and there was a group of people around, watching, standing by, doing nothing. The sharp of a stick was raised above his head, and this was the end. 

And there was nothing he could do. Nothing at all. 

Thomas was scared. It wasn’t just fear though, but full-blown terror. It was getting hotter and hotter and hotter. He could hear the water below, the way it sloshed against the wall and hissed and roared. He was going to die. Thomas was going to die. And he would feel every single second of it.

And maybe…

Maybe that was okay. 

They felt every second of it too, really. Aris felt as Thomas bashed his skull in. Ben felt—possibly felt—as Thomas choked him to death. And the others felt it too. Poppy felt Mara’s blade cut her open. Perdita felt the knife Rachel shoved into her thigh, felt herself bleed out. 

Teresa felt the arrow. As did Beth. As did Chuck. 

All of them and more, they all felt it as Thomas let them die. They all went through the pain, and then the peace, and then the quiet, the cold. They suffered and they died, and Thomas let it happen. And maybe this was it, maybe this was what he deserved. 

Thomas was going to feel their pain, and he was going to die. 

So be it. 

“Thomas!” Newt cried from above him. “What are you doing?” 

“Keep going!” he shouted back. 

“Are you stuck?” 

“Newt, keep going!” 

He began fighting off the ivy coiling around his wrists and middle, uselessly. The heat was overwhelming now, making it nearly impossible to breathe. The thick steam filled the air enough that he couldn’t open his eyes in more than a squint, and he began to feel lightheaded. 

“Thomas!”

And then, the first bit of water lapped against his shoe. 

“Thomas–Thomas, move! Do something!” 

He couldn’t talk, couldn’t breathe. He could feel the heat of the water through his shoes, just through the sole alone. 

“Thomas!” 

So be it. 

And then water lapped again, higher this time, and filled his shoe, and that was when the screaming started. It was animal, primal, and Thomas didn’t know if it was coming from him or someone very, very far away. What he did know, was there was a horrific, scolding pain in his foot, and it was slowly travelling up to his ankle. It was indescribable, and the single worst thing he had ever felt, and would ever feel. He knew. 

Something was screaming, was it him? No. No, it was pained in a new way, a different one.  

Newt. 

Newt. 

Newt was calling for him. Thomas couldn’t see anything, couldn’t feel anything but the way the water sat heavy in his shoe, lapping up again and again. Something was recoiling, and for a moment Thomas thought it was his own skin, peeling away with his flesh and leaving him nothing but bones. Bones that screamed when exposed to the wet air. 

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t. 

No. It was something else. 

He couldn’t think. He couldn’t think. 

But his foot attempted to pull itself up. 

And something flashed in Thomas’ mind. Chuck, Chuck’s smile, the feeling of Chuck’s pulled into his arms, wrapped up against him. Safe. Thomas was keeping him safe. And then it was the fire, the animals running and screeching and burning. 

And then it was the ivy being licked by the flames, melting into a sick goo. 

Chuck. Chuck. Chuck. 

Chuck’s carvings against his leg. 

The agony, slow and consuming. 

It hurt, it hurt so badly he thought he was going to pass out. 

Thomas didn’t want to die.  

And then he reached up and pulled himself out from the water, gasping and screaming in pain, but he kept moving anyway. 

“Yes! Yes!” Newt screamed. “Come on!” 

It was gruelling, using his scolded foot to climb up the wall. The pain made his bloodied hands feel like paradise in of itself. But he kept going. He didn’t know why—whether it was the fear or the secret, terrible want to stay alive—but he kept climbing, ignoring his screaming muscles and letting Newt’s calls for him drive him up the mammoth wall. 

When his vision started to blur, he went on. 

When his arms and legs started to lose feeling, he kept going. 

When his head began lolling back, he didn’t stop. 

And then there were hands under his armpits, pulling at him, and he was dragged onto a flat, solid surface. He slumped over and vomited like he never had before, bits of blood spilling out alongside the bile, along with any food he might’ve had the chance to consume. He didn’t even have time to care about losing it, as the moment his guts were empty he scrambled to get his boot off. 

He rucked his shoe off and frantically, roughly peeled the sock away—resulting in even worse pain—and then gagged as his foot was revealed to the hot air. It was a mush of pink and red, and he could almost hear the skin screaming in pain. He cried—loudly and pathetically—as he racked his slowing brain trying to figure out how to make it stop. 

“Fuckin’ amazing, you are,” Newt rushed out, hastily rifling through his bag and pulling out a water bottle. “That was–I can’t believe–” he poured it over Thomas’ foot, wincing at the screams he gave. “Holy shit.” 

“Where’s Alby’s bow?” he blurted, vision obstructed with tears. “Fucking–you have to fucking shoot me Newt. I can’t–make it stop!” He cried, howled, loud and long. “Fucking make it stop, please, please make it stop!” 

Something blunt hit the back of his head, and the world went black. 

Being pulled into consciousness once more was slow, dreary. Dim light bled through his eyelids, and Thomas couldn’t feel anything. It was almost as if he were floating somewhere fuzzy, something that wasn’t cold nor warm, just existed, and he was within it. There was a voice, muffled as though it were behind a wall, and he listened to the distant hum of it. 

He thought of his sister, first. Teresa. Eyes blue and piercing. Hair dark and long. He thought of how she walked with her friends, laughing loud. He thought about how she laughed with him, quiet and genuine. He thought about her grin when she would win a game of cards, her eye roll when she would lose. He waited for her to wake him, because she did, sometimes. 

“What’s that you said?” the voice asked, clear now. One that wasn’t Teresa’s, but a boy’s. Low and masculine, a little hoarse, a little accented. “You think he’s a big baby too? Hm, I agree. I have to say, you’re far more clever than you look.” 

Thomas blinked his eyes open, catching the sight of Newt sitting by his feet, one of which rested on his knee. Newt was holding the rabbit up to his face, looking into its beady little eyes with a small smile on his lips. His face was reddened aggressively in some spots, almost like he’d been burned. 

And with that thought, the pain returned. 

It felt like a heartbeat, every pulse utter and entire agony. He cried out, loudly, catching both Newt and the rabbit’s attention. He watched through blurry vision as the blond shoved the creature back inside of Chuck’s bag, then crawled cautiously to Thomas’ side. 

“Hiya.”

He groaned. 

Newt raised an eyebrow. “What, don’t like seeing my face first thing?” 

“Shut up,” he breathed, throwing his head back and feeling as it smacked against the concrete. The memories flooded back, the water, the climbing, the feeling of his foot being engulfed in boiling water. He wanted to cut it off. “Cut it off, cut it off.” 

“And risk you bleeding out? Absolutely not.” 

“Don’t be a dick,” Thomas muttered, though it came out weakly. “Just cut it off.” He felt dizzy all of a sudden, skin so hot he thought it might be sparking. “Please. Please, it hurts.” 

“It’s a burn, of course it’s gonna hurt,” Newt replied. “You’ve just got to deal until we find a way to…to…I don’t know, make it better?” 

“My bag, painkillers,” he murmured. 

“S’gone.” 

Into the water, Thomas remembered. 

“Water?” he managed. 

“I have a bit left,” Newt answered, grabbing his satchel. 

“No, well, yes, but the–” he swung an arm out towards the center of the arena. 

“Oh, yes. Almost reached the top, bloody scare if there ever was one, then it drained out same way it came in. Walls opened too, thought we were gonna shake right off of here.”

Suddenly a bottle was being pressed to his lips, and Thomas pushed himself up greedily, sucking down the lukewarm liquid until it dripped down his face and onto his shirt. It helped the painful dryness of his throat, but otherwise did little. When it was drained, he fell back again. 

“Thank you,” he breathed. 

“Don’t thank me yet,” Newt mumbled. “Dunno how we’ll manage getting down.” 

“Same way we got up,” Thomas said gruffly. 

Newt clicked his tongue. “Maybe we oughta just jump off and kill ourselves now.” 

“Okay,” he said. 

“Really?” 

“You don’t get how much this fucking hurts,” he seethed. “It feels like my skin is falling off.” 

“Ah no, it isn’t. You did that all by yourself by pulling that sock off,” Newt hummed. “I tossed it, by the way. Figured if you saw it you might just drop dead on the spot.” 

With a long sigh and the last of his strength, Thomas pulled himself up onto his elbows, looking down at the sight that was his foot. A wool-like fabric was wrapped around it, however, and he could feel the heat trapped inside, the pain thumping, thumping, thumping. 

“We’ve gotta get down,” Thomas decided, tears falling from his eyes from the pain alone. “I need to just sit in water for a while. Cold water.” 

“That won’t help it heal,” Newt replied. 

“You know, if I’m being honest with you right now, Newt, I don’t give a shit about healing,” he hissed. “I care about making this pain stop before I chew my own leg off.”

“Climbing up was hard as it was,” Newt huffed in a more serious tone. “But down? In your condition?” 

“I’ll be fine.” Thomas adjusted himself and bit back a cry as his foot shifted. “D’you have a blanket?” 

“Yes,” Newt said, then looked at Thomas’ foot, the blanket wrapped around it. “That one.” 

“Take off your shirt then.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Your shirt,” he repeated, slower this time. “Take it off.” 

Newt glared at him. “Take off yours.” 

“If you make me move more than I have to, I will bring that boiling water straight back and throw you into it,” he growled. “Take your damn shirt off.” 

Newt stared at him for a moment, then grabbed the hem of his long sleeve and pulled it over his head, revealing the white undershirt beneath. He handed it to Thomas, who sat up a bit further, biting at his cheek until it drew blood to avoid making any strangled noise. He—ignoring the cuts, blisters, and broken calluses covering his hands—began tearing the fabric into strips. 

“Yeah, I’ll just freeze in the night. No worries.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes. “You can have mine when we get down there.” 

He made eight or so somewhat thin strips of the fabric, then annoyedly gestured Newt over to him. The blond obeyed, hesitantly, and Thomas grabbed his wrist, yanking him close enough, and began tying the first strip around his palm. He continued with a second, until a decent half of Newt’s hand was covered in the material. He repeated the process on his other hand, finishing it off with a tight knot on the back. 

“Now do the same to me,” he said quietly, lying back and offering one of his hands to the other. 

Newt was a lot more careful with it than Thomas had been, though it took a bit longer. He finished quickly enough, however, and the pair’s hands were wrapped up and ready for the incoming agony. His foot was still screaming in the worst pain he had ever felt, but he pretended it was a minor inconvenience. 

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he muttered, eyes shut. “We’re going to grab one stalk, and slide down it about five or so feet at a time.” He clenched one of his hands. “It’s gonna hurt like a bitch. But we’ll be fine. The fabric will help.” 

“My arms can’t handle catching my weight like that,” Newt said. “I doubt yours can either.” 

“They have to,” he replied. “Now let’s get this shit over with.” 

But the second Thomas tried to move his leg his entire body froze up in a shock of pain, and he cried out, falling back and seething quietly until it receded enough for him to be able to breathe. He was surprised there was enough water left in his system to keep the steady flow of tears pouring down the sides of his face, but he decided not to question it. 

“Maybe we’ll be safer up here,” Newt offered. “We can wait until the other two kill each other.” 

“You think they’ll let us do that?” Thomas asked in a whisper, then looked down, blinking away tears. “Besides, if they kill each other, where does that leave us?” 

Newt shrugged. “I won’t kill you, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Thomas wanted to laugh at that, laugh and laugh and laugh until he suffocated and lost consciousness once more. He didn’t, but the urge remained. And Thomas remembered the fear, the secret want, but he couldn’t think about that now, couldn’t think about anything other than easing the pain washing over him again and again. 

But he had to, didn’t he? With four tributes left—them included—the Makers would push for action, push for violence. No one would want to sit and watch as Thomas and Newt argued atop a wall for hours on end. Who knew what Gally and the Nine boy—Triton—were up to, but Thomas could guess it wasn’t anything entertaining if the show they had just put on was anything to go by. 

He was going to die, wasn’t he? He was supposed to die, wasn’t he? So what did he do? What could he do? 

He didn’t know. He didn’t care. He just wanted the pain to stop. 

“We have to get down,” he told Newt, then closed his eyes, realization dawning on him. “You have to get down.” 

Newt frowned. “Oh no, you allied with me. If we’re doing this, then we’re doing this. Besides, if you stay up here you’ll die.” 

“I’m dead already,” he told the other. “I can’t run, I can’t even walk.” 

“What, you’re gonna starve to death?” 

Thomas looked down at the ground so far below pointedly. 

“No,” Newt said immediately. “Absolutely not.” 

“Go,” he told the other. “Get over yourself and kill the others, and go home to…to whatever you have to go home to.” He laid back, huffing slightly. “It’s okay.”

“I won’t. We’ve already been through this and I–” 

“You won’t be killing me, will you?” he cut in. “Just go.” 

“We’re allies–” 

“We’ve known each other for like a week,” Thomas muttered. “We aren’t friends, we’re barely acquaintances. You don’t even like me. I don’t know what you think you’ve got to gain from–” He gestured between them. “This, but you’re in for a disappointment.” 

“I’m not in this for anything, not really,” Newt told him. “And you’re right, I don’t know you. I don’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll stand by and let you die.” 

“What else are we supposed to do?” 

“I don’t know,” the other huffed, running hands through his hair. “I don’t know anything. I don’t know what we’re doing and I don’t know how we’re going to do it.” 

“Not even with that big eleven?” Thomas grunted, half a smile attempting to form on his face.

Newt scoffed. “Care to know how I got that big eleven?” 

Thomas turned his head, interest admittedly peaked. “You can levitate?” 

“I threw a knife at that Anderson guy,” Newt said like it was nothing. “Tossed it right into his stupid wine glass and nearly killed the idiot.” 

Thomas’ eyes widened. “What?” 

“Should’ve seen his face. Priceless, really. But that’s besides the point.” 

“So you’re good with knives?” he asked. 

Newt snorted. “No, mate. But I’m a bloody genius at darts. I play at a pub every weekend.” He nudged Thomas’ arm. “This was my last year taking part in the reaping. It didn’t happen to me once, didn’t happen to anyone in my family. I figured I was out.” He sighed. “I was wrong. Whatever. But I’m not some prodigy.” 

“I fucking knew it,” he breathed. “I told her–I told Brenda that you….” He trailed off, swallowing. “Sorry.” 

Newt laughed lightly. “I really don’t know what I’m doing, but I do like you, Thomas. I do. And I think you’ve got a good heart, even despite…” He trailed off, shrugged. “None of it matters. Not to me. And I certainly don’t want you dead.” 

Thomas sighed through his nose. “Newt.” 

“There hasn’t been a District Twelve Victor in decades,” Newt went on. “And that isn’t going to change this year. And I’ll be honest, I knew I was dead the moment I heard my name being spoken in that ridiculous Capitol accent. Everyone did, really.” 

“Yeah,” he murmured. 

Because it was true. Thomas hadn’t even considered the Twelve tributes upon seeing them. Filler, like they thought Chuck to be. Another set of bones and flesh to cut down, weak ones, at that. That was the assumption made upon most tributes from the outlying districts. An assumption made by the middle and Elite districts, an assumption made by those in the Capitol. 

In fact, Thomas hadn’t ever seen a tribute from Twelve last more than two, three days. And usually they only made it that far by hiding in this place or that. By all logic, Newt was exceeding everyone’s expectations. 

He pictured it in his mind, seeing Newt sat on the Victors Throne, a intricately weaved band of a golden crown resting atop his head to match the blond of his hair. Pale skin flawless and unmarred, glowing like the Capitol’s people did. His stylist would dress him in something representing his district, something dark or maybe even on fire like his clothes in the Tribute Parade.

A District Twelve Victor, crowned and presented to the people. No lingering shadows of those he killed attached to his heel. Pure as he looked, in a world full of people who found the death of children to be as entertaining as a riveting novel. It would be…

A mockery. 

A mockery.  

He sat up on his elbows again.

“Newt I…” Suddenly the pain didn’t matter as much, nothing mattered more than the thoughts running through his mind. “I wanted Chuck to go home, I did. But that’s not all it was.” 

The other frowned. “Okay…?” 

“Could you imagine their faces?” he whispered, voice low enough that Newt had to lean in to hear him. “That little boy sitting up on the stage, just a kid, and yet a Victor.” He huffed a laugh. “They sent him here to die, and he’d be–” 

“You’ll get us killed all the quicker,” Newt hissed, looking around. 

“It would’ve humiliated–” He was cut off by a cloth-covered hand pressed over his mouth. 

“I’m serious,” Newt breathed. 

He lowered his voice further as he pushed Newt’s hand away. “I couldn’t do that with Chuck, I didn’t get the chance.” He pushed forwards, catching the other’s gaze. “But I can with you.” 

“Are you mad?” 

“No,” he said quickly. “But the world needs you. They’ve suffered for years, Newt. Years.” He swallowed, shaking his head. “A push. They just need a push. You have to be that push.” 

“See, I can tell right away this is something you’ve latched onto and I really don’t–” 

“It’s perfect,” he interrupted, sitting up and biting the inside of his cheek as a powerful pain shot like a bullet up his leg. “Okay, you know the plan?” 

“Thomas–” 

An odd pinging began, a loud, drawled beep on a three second interval. Thomas knew that sound, and his neck swiveled around to find a circular container floating towards them. Newt stood up immediately, walking over and catching the sphere midair. He brought it back, pressing an open hand to both the top and bottom, then slid them in different directions. 

The top half came off, a small white folded note slipping out and dropping onto the concrete. Thomas plucked it up as Newt withdrew something from inside. He unfolded the paper, finding a dark robotic font splayed across the milky note. 

WIN -V

Thomas frowned, then handed it over to Newt with a grin. “Think he means it?”

Newt snorted, tossing the note aside. “Must, if he managed to get you anything half decent.” Thomas' eyes tracked the other’s hands as they screwed off the top of a tin container. Inside there was a milky substance, white with an almost bluish tinge to it. Newt bent down, smelling it, then came up with pinched brows. “Never seen anything like it. You?” 

Thomas shook his head. “Don’t think so.” 

“Can’t know if we don’t give it our best,” Newt huffed, then scooted to sit at Thomas’ feet. He reached for the side of the bandage and stopped, looking up. “Don’t watch.” 

So Thomas turned and looked out to the right, where the tops of the many walls in the maze were laid out before him. It was incredible, in an odd way. The ivy seemed to lay over the top of every wall in bunches, and he and Newt had found a bare patch of concrete. One of few, as it seemed. 

Hot pain worsened, but Thomas just kept looking, even as tears poured from his eyes and slid down his cheeks. He counted however many walls he could see within his view point, then stopped when he got to twenty. Whatever Newt was doing was beginning to get unbearable, and it felt as though the blond was peeling layers of his flesh away. 

“Stop,” he hissed, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Can’t,” Newt hummed. “It’ll be over soon enough. Quit whining.” 

Thomas stuffed a fist into his mouth as the torture continued. After he saw Newt pull away the makeshift bandage in the corner of his eye, he turned to inspect the damage. 

And immediately wished he hadn’t. 

Bits of pink bone were peeking up between angry and skinned flesh, and the light breeze felt like fire against it. Thomas dropped onto his back and screamed into the hand in his mouth, his lips crackling from the amount of hyperventilating he’d been doing in the past few days alone. It hurt—everything hurt—but he comforted himself with the fact that the Capitol medicine would put it to an end. 

“Er, I’ll just sort of…slather it, I suppose,” Newt said, and Thomas nodded though the other likely couldn’t make it out from the way he’d been banging his head onto the surface below him. 

The first drop of the gel-like substance touched him, and a howling screaming ripped out from his throat like it had been waiting centuries for escape. His fingernails dug as much as they could into rough stone, and if the tips of them were cut he wouldn’t be able to tell. Not with the odd, hot-cold pain that worsened as Newt lathered the substance over his foot. 

Thomas cursed, throwing obscenities into the air alongside words he wasn’t sure even existed as the agony only grew more and more intense. He pushed himself up on his elbows for a second, and at some point Newt had crawled on top of his legs to keep him still. 

So he reached up and grabbed Newt by the back of the undershirt, tugging him as gently as he could manage considering the situation. He murmured to the other between sobs. “Stop, stop, stop.” 

Newt said nothing, so Thomas just bunched a fist in the back of his shirt and cried into the open air. 

Suddenly there was a sort of tingling sensation starting in his toes, and as it slowly crawled down his foot it warded off the torment and replaced it with a strange numbness. He held Newt’s shirt and breathed through the last of the pain as it met his ankle, chest rising and falling so roughly he worried for a moment he would break a rib. 

“S’good,” he rasped. “S’good. S’good.” 

Newt shrugged away his hand and returned to his place beside him, looking pale. “It’s er…better.” 

Thomas shed the final tears, then let Newt help him to sit up fully so the pair could examine his foot. It was better, there was no doubt about that. But it wasn’t…better. It looked like his foot had been dipped in tree sap, which had then hardened around the form of it like some sort of solid sock of amber. He reached an arm forwards and poked it, finding it firm. 

“Does it hurt?” Newt asked. 

Thomas poked it again, feeling nothing more than an ache in his bones. “No, no not really.” 

“That can’t be normal,” Newt said, perplexed. 

Thomas chuckled. “I can’t… I can’t even…” The chuckle turned into a slow laugh, then the kind of hysteria that shook his body and made his stomach feel cramped up. He wiped a hand over his face to clear away the trail of salt and tears that had formed there. “Holy–” He snorted. “Holy shit.” 

Newt smiled wide, looking between Thomas and his newly formed foot. “‘Least now I don’t have to listen to you whine and moan.” 

“Oh shut up,” he said, though it wasn’t with any heat. He lightly punched the other’s shoulder. “We’ve got this. Yeah?” 

“Er…Thomas.” 

“We’ve got it,” he said, a little more sternly. 

The blond just gave a thin smile. “Okay.” 

He turned his attention to his new-foot and gave it a few firm pokes. His bones beneath were aching viciously, but he couldn’t feel anything else. Not in the flesh remaining nor on the part of his ankle were the amber substance cut off. He was grateful, his body drained of energy from the throes of it all. 

“Thank you Vince,” he hummed, getting to his knees.

Newt jumped to stand, offering a hand up, and when Thomas rose, it felt like he was standing on a prosthetic foot instead. If he put his full weight on it, the pain in his bones became unbearable. It didn’t matter. So long as the real pain had vanished, he’d take a little soreness here and there. 

After some time resting and practicing on his new-foot, the pair slung their bags tightly over their shoulders and peered over the edge of the wall. It looked farther down then it had up, and Thomas felt as though the wall was swirling beneath his feet. 

“We can do this,” he whispered, more to himself than Newt.

“You’re an idiot,” Newt said, looking a little paler than usual. 

“We’ll be fine.” 

“Our arms’ll snap clean off.” 

“We’ll go slow,” he said, though he wanted nothing more than to crawl backwards onto the safety of the thick wall they’d been residing on. How they had managed to get up in the first place, he’d never know.

So, with Thomas leading, the pair sat down at the very edge, near a thick—newly grown, according to Newt—bunch of vines that laid over the width of the wall. He sucked in a long breath, tried to talk himself out of it, then gripped one of the thick stalks and dropped from the edge of the wall. 

The pain in his hands was immediate, and the second he kicked into the wall to find a crevasse to stick one of his feet into, his new-foot all but screamed in agony. But he held on, dangling against the wall, ignoring the tickle of desperate branches as they reached for him. 

“Come on!” he told the other, managing to slide down slightly and find footing in a crack. 

Newt looked down, groaned, then grabbed a stalk of his own, sliding down next to Thomas—his foot bashing into Thomas’ head—before coming to a stop beside him. The ivy was circling one of his arms, they didn’t have time. 

“Five feet at a time,” he said. 

Newt looked down, more blood draining from his face. “I hate you.” 

And Thomas loosened his grip on the stalk, kicking off. 

He caught himself a few feet down, his arms almost giving out as his body caught his weight. He hissed, arms protesting the movement, and Newt slid into place beside him once more, giving a shout of his own. 

“Less,” Newt huffed. 

“Agreed.” 

And down they went. 

They were around halfway down when Thomas’ arms started to tremble, blood soaking through the fabric he had tied onto his hands and sweat dripping down his face. With the pain of his foot lessened, he came to realize that he had burns all over, likely from the steam. They weren’t bad, but as the salty sweat trailed over them, it stung enough that he was beginning to lose vision. 

Newt was in no better state, muttering about his leg every other minute, arms visibly shaking. But they were close, and he wanted to remind the other of that, but the last time he had Newt had called him a few names that he didn’t much appreciate. 

“Don’t you bloody say it,” Newt growled, peering down as they stopped briefly. 

He snorted. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” 

“I know you were. I could see it on your stupid face.” 

Down, down, down. A slow process, but they didn’t stop. More than once the ivy had caught hold of one of them, but they learned to shake it off and keep going, never fully stopping. By the time they were two dozen paces away from the ground below, they had mastered the art of it all. 

“Should’ve slept last night,” Newt said between gasps, face pink. “Swear I’m gonna sleep through the rest of today. And tonight.” 

“Me too,” Thomas said. “Fuck this place.” 

“Fuck it!” 

When their feet touched the ground Thomas released some sort of strangled, dry sob. The grass was still damp—the dirt beneath it practically mud—but he took his bag off, dropped down onto it, and rolled around nonetheless. Newt did the same, splaying out on his back, letting the mud soak his undershirt, pants, and skin. After a bit of manic laughter he shook Chuck’s rabbit out from the bag. 

“I can’t believe you’re still alive,” he told the animal, watching as it shook its ruffled fur smooth and immediately took to the grass, chewing slowly. “Maybe you’ll win, huh?” 

Newt looked at him. “Are you talking to it?” 

Thomas perked up, grinning lopsidedly. “You know, when I first woke up I could’ve sworn I heard you doing the same thing.” 

“Ah, you were delirious, mate,” Newt said matter-of-factly. “Pain does that.” 

Thomas smiled wider—eyes crinkling and cheeks lined in his joy—as he stroked the fur along the rabbit’s back and looked up at the sky above them that was no longer a sky. He felt happier than he ever had in his entire life. It seemed as though everything that was once working against him had turned back, and now flowed in the direction of his fortune.

The general distaste for District Twelve wasn’t simply distaste, it was hatred. Thomas knew that now, he understood. A district of people they reluctantly wasted resources on. They weren’t enough, didn’t provide enough for their existence to be worthwhile. So they were tormented, slowly pushed away, starved, abused. 

And they had given up. Thomas had been wrong, they weren’t cowards for being quiet, for obeying. They were trying to survive. They had lost all hope. Newt was enough hope. Newt was good. He was pure, and it didn’t matter what they threw his way, he stayed pure . 

Thomas was rotten. He was made of mold and decay. He couldn’t fix anything, couldn’t right anything. But Newt could. Newt could and Thomas was going to make sure he did. Because the world wasn’t beyond saving, the children who would be chosen—no, reaped—weren’t beyond saving. 

The Capitol would burn in the face of Newt’s light. 

And that thought filled Thomas head to toe with an everlasting joy. 

He looked over to the other, still grinning, but found Newt to be fast asleep. The blond’s head was tilted, mouth slightly open and a splatter of mud painted across one of his cheeks alongside a burn. Thomas curled onto his side and silently thanked Newt for still being alive, for being the solution to his final problem. And then he quickly slipped under the blanket of unconsciousness, a smile still etched onto his features. 

“Thomas get up!” 

He opened his eyes, blinked hard, and shut them again. 

“Thomas!” 

But it wasn’t Newt’s voice that woke him. Instead, it was the massive, echoing boom that ran all throughout the arena, vibrating the ground beneath them, more deafening than thunder. He shot up from where he sat, finding Newt with both his satchel and Chuck’s bag over his shoulder, hand reaching for Thomas. 

He took it, and Newt pulled him up, more loud grumbles coming from all around, the shake of the ground becoming all the more violent. 

“What’s happening?” he shouted over the noise. 

Newt shook his head, looking around. “I don’t know.”

“You have the rabbit?” 

“Yeah!” 

He frowned, wincing as another crash sounded. “We’ve got to find cover!” 

Newt nodded frantically. “Where?” 

Another great crack shot through the air. Thomas turned and watched as the ground near the North Wall began to split straight down the middle, the slit opening near its end further, crackling into the woods and seemingly towards the South Wall. The grass beneath them vibrated and jolted, and Thomas could’ve sworn he felt it lifting slowly beneath them. 

An earthquake, Thomas thought. He had never experienced such a thing in his lifetime—not that he could remember, at least—but this seemed to be the closest thing to the bits and pieces of information he held about them. 

“The maze!” Newt shouted, gesturing towards the West Door just a dozen or so paces away from them. “It’s the only thing not falling apart!” 

No, they couldn’t. Thomas couldn’t. He couldn’t protect Newt from what lay inside the maze, couldn’t fight off the mutts awaiting them. Couldn’t stomach the screams, the cries, the pleas. 

Another boom, a crack split from the one running along the middle, heading North East and cutting the plains in half. Thomas and Newt watched as a triangle of ground shot up, revealing layers of dirt and gravel beneath before it shifted in place, then began to crumble. 

“Let’s go!” he called, grabbing Newt’s forearm and bolting towards the West Door. The second their feet met stone instead of grass, the vibration that had been travelling through Thomas’ bones vanished as if it were never there. 

The pair turned where they stood on the threshold, staring out as the center of the arena broke and crumbled, the trees that survived a fire and boiling water now seemed close to falling, some leaning to the side with their intricate roots beginning to stick out of the growing cracks running along the forest floor. 

“What’s the point?” he distantly heard Newt mumble from beside him. And he found himself wondering the same thing. 

The damage expanded more and more, enough that they could see what was beneath. More of the gray, lifeless slab that emitted a sort of light. It was as if the arena was floating on nothing. 

Leafless, lifeless trees fell from their place, meeting the ground with a noise presumably drowned out by the great grumbles and booms of grass and layers upon layers of dirt and clay breaking into chunks. The swamp’s water poured down and vanished into the nothingness below, the stream cut off as if it were being poured through an invisible layer. 

Click

In a way, Thomas mourned the loss of the Glade. Another day he would’ve been more than happy to watch the entire place crumble to dust, but seeing as how their only other option was the maze, filled with horrifying creatures that bore the screams of their loved ones, it felt like a true, genuine loss. He thought of his and Chuck’s cave collapsing into nothing. 

Click

As the second click registered in his mind, so did the first, and before Thomas realized what he was doing he had Newt’s arm in his grasp, and was all but dragging him into the first corridor. As they reached the end of the threshold, Thomas shoved Newt forwards, feeling the same tense energy the walls emitted just as they had a few days prior. 

He jumped, and heard the snap behind him just as he landed face first on the ground. 

He sucked in a dusty, shaky breath, his foot aching, and sighed long and hard as he didn’t hear or feel the door snap back open. Slowly he pushed himself up onto the palms of his hands and knees, ignoring the pain of them, and coughed heavily. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Newt commented from beside him. “Nothing. Not once in all the Trials I’ve watched. Haven’t heard about anything like this in the ones before this, either.” 

“Neither have I,” Thomas muttered into the now sudden quietness. His words echoed off the walls slightly. “Newt…the creatures I told you about.” He worried his lip for a moment. “If we run into them, I can’t do anything.” 

“It’s alright, Tommy,” Newt murmured. “We’ll figure this out.” 

And he didn’t know if that was true, but he hoped it was. 

Chapter Text

“What if I burned your house down?” 

“No.” 

“Okay, well what if I stole your favourite shoes?” 

“Still no.” 

“Er…what if–” 

“No,” Newt said for what must’ve been the hundredth time, eyes rolling and a long, annoyed sigh coming through his nose. “There’s nothing you could do that’d make me so irritated that I’d kill you.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you continue on with this game.” 

Thomas smiled lazily to himself, throwing the rock against the wall—which was once a gateway into the center—yet again. It smacked against the concrete, then fell back between his legs. He plucked it up, tossing it back. The rumbles from the crumbling arena had stopped hours prior, but there they remained, waiting, hiding. 

The not-sky remained high above them, humming its dim light and never changing. Thomas didn’t know what time it was, didn’t know exactly how long they had been sitting there, didn’t know how long it had been since the sun had vanished. He assumed that night was nearing, but he couldn’t be sure. He wished he could be sure. 

His mind kept flickering back to the arena when it fell apart, the cloudy water of the swamp pouring into an abyss and through an invisible layer of something. It wasn’t his curiosity that continued to bring him back to it, however. No, it was the thirst burning in his throat. 

Hunger, he could live with. But he was exhausted, mind wandering off to imagine water in a clear, sweating glass, ice bobbing up and down within it. Granted, he wasn’t sweating buckets anymore, nor were tears pouring from his eyes, but he still felt as though he was losing water content by the second. He tried to sate the sickly feeling by sucking his tongue and swallowing saliva, but it did little. 

So, he distracted himself. Throwing his rock, asking Newt unimportant questions, anything to take his mind away from the pain all throughout his body and the dryness that seemed to be consuming him. It was beginning to not be enough, however. 

He flopped onto his back, peering at the rabbit who was hopping between two spots, eating the last of the grass from within the bag. Its floppy ears dragged when it walked, fluffy black fur sticking up in every which direction. Thomas didn’t know when it had water last, but hoped that the grass was enough. 

“Does grass hold water?” he asked. 

Newt sighed again. “What?” 

“Like cactus’, or cacti, whatever,” he huffed out. “You can cut them open and just drink their water. Is it like that with grass?” 

“You can’t just drink out of a cactus, and even if grass could hold water it wouldn’t be enough.” 

“You can’t?” he questioned. “Why not?” 

“I don’t know,” Newt murmured. “It’s not safe, I’d think.” 

“Why not?” 

“I’ve never even seen a cactus, don’t ask me. I’m just assuming.” 

Thomas frowned, reaching a hand out to pat the rabbit’s back. “You think the ivy has water in it?” 

“Eat it and find out.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes and scooped the rabbit up, plopping it onto his stomach. Another warm breeze rolled past, and the feeling of it against his clothes made him feel nauseous. He shut his eyes, listening to the world around them. Newt’s breathing was quiet, but Thomas could make it out. Steady and ongoing, in and out, in and out. 

The minimal wind inside the maze brushed the wiggling ivy against the walls. Mechanical clinks sounded far, far below them every few minutes. The not-sky released a small buzzing sound, almost unnoticeable. The rabbit was nibbling on his shirt, making a tiny, squeaky noise throughout. 

The listening, the focusing, all of it made him think about late nights, trying to fall asleep on the floor of his sister’s room. Hearing her steady breathing, hearing the blankets rustle here and there from when she’d toss and turn. And he missed her. He wanted to leave and fall into her arms, refusing to leave her side for the remainder of his life. 

But every thought of her brought along this pain inside of him. It felt like his torso was trapped in a vice, tightening, tightening, tightening. He couldn’t think about his Teresa—laughing, happy, safe Teresa—without remembering the girl standing before him, shiny steel planted deeply into and through her throat. 

He remembered looking at her, too. Remembered peering down at her body after Dan had rid him of the Three girl. He remembered not believing it. He remembered the blood pumping from her throat, the paleness taking to her skin. He remembered feeling like he was lying there in her place, cold and dying. 

That’s how he felt whenever he thought of her. Like it was happening again, like he really was cursed to stand over her, staring at her dying body forevermore. She died alone, he thought. Died there with no one to hold her, died there with her final memories being Thomas’ blanking expression.

Would he be held while he died? 

He thought of it, feeling bare hands against his cooling skin and frantic whispers, much like the ones he had muttered out to Chuck. He thought it would make it easier. He thought death wouldn’t be so scary if he had someone to hold him close through the pain, to whisper that it was going to be okay, that he was going to be okay, even if it was a lie. 

Would Newt do that? 

Probably not, Thomas thought. 

“Alright, I can’t do this anymore,” Newt said suddenly, pulling Thomas out of his mind. “Even if it opens again, you saw it, the whole place is gone.” He rose from the ground, picked up his satchel and walked over to where Thomas lay, standing over him. “The others have survived in here, we can too. Surely it’s possible.” 

Suddenly Teresa’s screams sounded from his mind, frantic and desperate, pleading for him to save her, to free her, to do something about her suffering. A chill ran through his bones, bumps rising over his arms as he stroked over the rabbit’s soft fur, hoping to soothe himself. It didn’t work, and Newt was still staring down at him, looking unimpressed. 

“We’ve been safe here for hours,” he told the other. “You don’t get it, you don’t know what’s out there. I can’t do anything if we run into one of them.” 

Newt looked up to the corridors around them, brow pressed. After presumably coming to some sort of conclusion, he returned his gaze to Thomas. “I don’t need you to protect me. I can take care of myself, after all.” 

“Not against them,” he countered. “I can’t even protect myself against those things. You lost your bow, I lost my sword, we’re unarmed and weak. It’s too much of a risk.” 

“You’re alive now, aren’t you?” 

“Hardly,” he muttered, shutting his eyes. “And unless you’re planning on running on your leg for hours on end, I’d drop it.” 

He heard Newt readjust his bag, and even with his eyes closed he could perfectly picture the smug determination on the other’s face. “It’s no better sitting here. What if there’s supplies hidden somewhere, or at least a decent place to hide?” 

He sighed through his nose and blinked, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “You think there’s a hiding spot here? Look around. There’s nothing but walls and…more walls.” 

Newt pursed his lips. “Can’t forget the ivy.” 

“Ah, yes.” He picked up the rabbit from his stomach and sat up fully, placing it on his lap. “They're bored, Newt. They stuck us in here for a reason, exploring is exactly what they want us to do. Gally and Triton are around here somewhere, and if we give them the chance they’ll lead us directly to them.”

“And you think it’s less boring for them if we sit here and do absolutely nothing?” 

He frowned, staring at the other for a few moments before he nodded. “Yes.”

Newt raised an eyebrow. “Come on.”

And then Thomas was packing the rabbit in his bag, stifling an annoyed expression all throughout. When he rose, Newt handed him a pouch. He took it, sticking a hand in to find it full of dried meat. Giving the other a quiet thank you, the pair walked off into the first hall before them, Newt leading while Thomas ate, the rabbit wiggling in the bag on his back. 

They walked as quietly as possible, but with the pair of them limping their footsteps echoed around nonetheless. Thomas’ foot was sore, but the pain of it was little enough that it only ached when he was thinking about it directly. Newt seemed in decent spirits, if anything. He walked along, dark eyes flickering around to examine the walls closing them in. 

Every corridor looked like the last, such a fact becoming more apparent the farther they walked. He worried about getting lost—arena in ruins or not—and tried to sear the path back into his mind, attempting to memorize the patterns of ivy and cracks that ran along the stone. 

He thought about the last time he was in the maze, walking along with Dan and Mara, clueless of the danger and in awe of the sheer size of the place. Off-put, maybe, but he hadn’t even known then. And then he found out, the hideous creature crying in his sister’s tone. He remembered running, remembered Dan, Dan’s hand on the back of Mara’s neck, throwing her to the ground. 

Her screams were long and bounced from stone wall to stone wall. Agonized in a way Thomas hadn’t ever heard before, not even in Teresa’s artificial screams. It rang throughout his mind as images of the girl lying on the cold floor joined them, her blood seeping out from her, her mind still trying to save itself. 

But slowly her cries started to warp, started to become more throaty, more masculine. He looked at Newt as the other walked in front of him, oblivious. He thought of Newt meeting the same fate that Mara had, thought of Newt suffering the way she had. 

And Thomas felt sort of sick at the idea. On one hand, Newt could uproot the world and fix what needed mending, and Thomas believed that with every fiber of his being. For that reason, he had to live. But on the other, a part of him truly didn’t want Newt to die. Not just because of the external consequences, but because…he sort of liked Newt. 

Newt wasn’t like anyone he had ever met. Of course, he had the qualities of many, but remained to be dissimilar to all. He reminded Thomas of Darnell, but even his friend—with all of his hatred towards the Capitol—would kill to survive. He didn’t know if there was anyone quite like his ally, anyone who shared his values. And it was obnoxious, but also intriguing.

Because—districts aside—Thomas and Newt weren’t all that different. They were both raised watching the Trials, both raised in a world where the Trials weren’t permitted to be talked down on. Thomas knew that his life was far better, but how did that make such a difference? 

Perdita fought for herself, nearly broke Rachel’s nose fighting for herself. She likely would’ve killed the girl, if given the chance. So what was different about Newt? Why was he so…so annoyingly egotistical with his morals? 

Thomas didn’t know anything about the other, now that he was thinking about it. He didn’t know about his family, didn’t know what sort of life he led back in District Twelve. He knew that Newt had people he loved, knew he wouldn’t kill, knew he was good at darts. Knew his name. And that was it. He had been annoyed by the other’s elusiveness before the Trials, and now they were in the arena, and he still suffered with the same unknowingness. 

It wasn’t as though it truly mattered, but Thomas felt that Newt had some sort of advantage, knowing about him. He had given away quite a bit of information on the rooftop with Brenda. Did the other remember? Did he pay attention? 

It felt like an itch under his skin, now. The lack of knowing. 

Was it purposeful? Did Newt not want Thomas to know him? Did he have a secret? 

As they cautiously turned a corner, Thomas cleared his throat almost silently and quickened his pace so they were side by side. “Can I ask you something?” 

Newt copied the whisper he took to. “Dunno. Can you?” 

He withheld an eye roll. “District Twelve…”

“Is that meant to be a question or…?”

“What’s it like?” he mumbled. “For you, I mean.” 

“S’alright,” Newt replied. 

He nudged Newt’s arm with his elbow. “And…?” 

“It’s not safe to talk about here,” Newt hummed. “Not unless you’d like the sky to fall and crush us.” He looked to Thomas, voice dropping low. “It’s miserable. Settled?” 

Thomas shrugged. “That er…sucks. But I meant more about what it’s like for you.” 

“That is what it’s like for me.” 

“Well yeah, but that’s not all,” he muttered. “I don’t know about your family or your friends. What does your house look like? How do you decorate your room? What’s your favourite food?”

When Thomas glanced at the other, he found him smiling something small. “Maybe I’m the mayor’s son. Live in a grand ol’ mansion and don’t know half of what I’m talking about.” 

“Oh c’mon Newt,” Thomas hummed, exasperated. “What have you got to lose, telling me things?”

“My dignity, for one,” Newt listed, lifting a finger. A second rose as he spoke again. “And I run the risk of you finding out I’m actually not real at all. A ghost, in fact. Back to haunt you.” 

It was a joke. 

Newt’s smile remained, and he hadn’t been serious. He wouldn’t have made such a joke, had he been telling the truth. Right? 

“Thomas?” Newt asked. 

He had stopped walking. He wanted to start again, but it felt as though his feet were stuck to the floor. His eyes flickered over the other, looking for something, looking for anything. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. His hands were still wrapped in black cloth, he was still wearing the undershirt, the pants, the boots. He looked ruffled, face still burned here and there. 

Thomas was fine. It wasn’t happening again. If it was, he wouldn’t be questioning it. 

He swallowed, trying to compose himself. 

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. 

Would Newt disappear like Teresa had? Vanish to leave Thomas to chase after someone who wasn’t even there? Had this, yet again, all been for nothing? No. No. No. Newt was breathing, Thomas had heard it. He was…Alby, Alby had said his name. They had been together. No. No. It was real, this was real. It was real. It had to be. 

“Do you hear something?” Newt asked.

It was real. He was real. “No. No. I…” 

“Are you alright?” 

And then, without permission from his mind, Thomas stepped forward and pushed his open palm into Newt’s chest, where a heartbeat met it, quickening, thumping, thumping, thumping. He stared at his hand, as if he’d be able to see the other’s pulse thrumming through it. He was breathing hard, he soon realized. And Newt was looking at him, frowning. 

“You’re not a ghost,” Thomas said, trying to force his voice to sound steady. 

Dark eyes scanned his face for a moment. “No.” 

He pulled his hand away, bringing it back only to poke at Newt’s shoulder, trying for a smile. “Yeah, I know.” He stepped away, ignoring the flutter in his pulse, the terror in his stomach. “I was joking, obviously.” He started walking again. “Come on.” 

Newt kept to his heel and said nothing further, but the silence that fell between them felt like torture. Newt knew what he was now, without a doubt. He could see it clearly now, smell it, and it repulsed him. He thought Thomas was sick, just as Teresa had. Soon he would leave Thomas. He would run, because he felt as though that was all he could do if not to kill him. 

Everyone else did. Everyone, one way or another, was taken from Thomas. His entire life, all he had ever known had been stolen from his hands, stolen by no one other than himself. And now he had revealed himself, his rot, to his last hope. When would Newt leave? Was he thinking about it now? Would he disappear when Thomas turned his back? 

With that thought, Thomas turned just enough to see the other still walking behind him. He turned back and looked at the mass of gray concrete before them. It was quiet. Everything was so quiet. The maze still made its noises, distant creaks and echoes of their footsteps, but it still remained to be quiet. Thomas couldn’t take it. 

He should lie, make up an excuse. Make the other believe it really was a joke. Would that make it worse? Better? 

What was Newt thinking? 

What was he thinking? 

Thomas needed to know. 

Needed, needed, needed.

“So,” Newt said suddenly, and Thomas nearly jolted. “Why d’you ask, anyhow?” 

He swallowed. “What?” 

Newt sped up so he was walking at Thomas’ side, shoulder leaning in to bump against his own. “About my life.” 

“Oh,” he murmured. “I don’t know. I just feel like I don’t know anything about you.” 

“And you want to?” Newt asked, amusement in his voice.

“Yes,” he answered. Very badly.  

Newt made some sort of sound, something small and huffy and neither denial nor approval. They kept on walking, ignoring the reaching ivy on both sides, both limping on their bad legs. His focus steered from Newt to the connecting corridors, listening for the creatures surely stalking around one corner or another. It was still quiet. Too quiet. 

He looked at the other, whose gaze was locked on the floor in front of them. Thomas wanted to pry the thoughts he could all but see in his eyes, out, but he didn’t. He didn’t. What would happen, would happen. There wasn’t anything he could do, wasn’t anything he could fix. If Newt left, Thomas would just have to do it alone. Kill the others, then himself. 

“Okay,” Newt said finally. 

“Okay?” 

“One question,” Newt said firmly. “But that’s it.” 

Why are you here? Why are you staying with me? Do you hate me? Why were you with Alby? Are you lying to me? Are you staying because you have to, or because you want to? Are you going to leave? When? Do you think I’m sick? 

“Do you have a family?” he asked quietly, words carrying. 

He watched Newt’s lip form a tight line in the corner of his eye. A small sigh came next. “Yes.” 

“A good one?” 

“Pretty sure that’s two questions.” 

“But they’re related.” 

“Doesn’t count.” 

Thomas scoffed slightly, but said nothing more. In his mind he imagined Newt with his family standing behind him. A mother, a father, and a sister. They’d wrap him in their arms and whisper sweet, soothing words, and Newt would be safe amidst them. Safe, happy, and alive. 

Hours seemingly flickered by, and the further they ventured into the maze, the more endless it became. It felt as though they were walking in a straight line and a circle all at once. The walls grew taller as time passed, the vines more agitated, reaching and reaching. He could almost feel their desperation call to him through the air. 

As he had said before they left, it was nothing but walls and even more walls. Ivy too. They were unsuccessful in finding someplace to rest for a minute, maybe two. Let alone the hours they’d need to sleep and fully regenerate. Thomas was thirsty, hungry, and exhausted, but even with that he was fine to continue on. Newt, less so. 

He said nothing, kept walking and kept going, but it was obvious that he was in excruciating pain. His blank expression had wrinkled, two lines between slightly pinched eyebrows, and his left leg was falling a little more heavily with every step they took. A part of Thomas wished he’d asked how the other had injured his leg, if not in the arena. But he didn’t.

“Ah,” Thomas groaned after another minute, slowing and bending down to touch his right leg. “I need to sit down, the pain’s coming back.” 

Newt stopped, looking him over. “Yeah, okay. Whatever you need.” 

They slumped down in the middle of a long hallway, Thomas sitting faced forwards with Newt backwards beside him so they could keep everything in sight. He let the rabbit out from the bag, pulling out the crumbs of grass left and placing them before the animal. His foot wasn’t in all that much pain, really, just a mild discomfort in his bones. Newt’s face flushed in relief the moment they sat down, however.

Newt retrieved his water bottle from his bag, uncapping it to pour the remaining drops on his tongue. Thomas looked away, not wanting to make his mind more aware of the thirst drying out his throat. His attention fell to the animal on the ground between his splayed legs. He stroked the soft fur between its ears, breathing in deeply as his body flushed with exhaustion. 

His legs were all but numb, the stone making his backside ache. Quickly he dropped back onto his elbows, eyes shut, throwing his head back and releasing an angry, pitiful groan. He wanted to be somewhere else, in a bed with cool sheets with a nice, freezing glass of water. He wanted a proper shower, one so hot it would leave his skin red for an hour after. 

When he brought his head back up and opened his eyes, Newt was already looking at him, likely put off by his childish display. 

“Tell me about Two,” Newt whispered quickly, eyes flicking to the rabbit. 

“I mean, it’s great, really,” he said tiredly. “Most people become Keepers or work in the Fort in Section Two, if they don’t have the–” He stopped, licked his lips. “If they don’t end up going into the Trials.” He looked at the gray not-sky above. “I don’t think I’ve ever missed a meal or anything.”

“Okay, but what about your family? Your house? Your room? Your favourite food?” Newt listed, smiling mockingly. “I remember you talking about a Jorge…?” 

Thomas’ heart ached. “Yeah, he’s our…guardian guy. But it’s just him, me, and Teresa. We’ve got a nice house, ‘cause he used to be a Runner, so we get all the retirement perks. My room’s sort of boring. And I like goat’s milk, used to have it a lot when I was young. Or goat cheese, on bread.” 

Newt nodded. “Friends?” 

“Darnell,” he replied. “Just Darnell.”

“That the one you said I reminded you of?” 

He grinned. “Yeah. He’d like you a lot, I think.” 

Newt smiled. “And no one else?” 

“No,” he answered, moving his elbows out from under him, falling onto his back. “Teresa’s the only friend I’ve ever needed.”

“And Darnell…?” 

Thomas shrugged slightly. “He sort of just…showed up, I guess. Made himself my friend, not that I minded. I didn’t.” He imagined Darnell watching now, looking up at the screen. “I didn’t even realize how important he was to me until I came here. Not really.” 

“That’s awful,” Newt commented. 

Thomas frowned. “I guess it is.” 

His mind fell to his youth, when he and Darnell would walk about the town ten or so paces behind his sister and her friends. Thomas’ eyes would remain locked on Teresa, and Darnell would talk endlessly about one thing or anything—usually something to do with some news story he heard of or a strange theory—and half the time Thomas would drown his words out completely. 

But on days when Darnell wasn’t around and Thomas would walk alone behind his sister and her friends, he wouldn’t be able to focus on a single thing. His footsteps were always too loud in the absence of Darnell’s chatter, and it was that very reason that Thomas stopped being bothered by the other and instead labeled them friends.  

Because that's what friends were. Two people who hung around one another. Two people who were seen out together and those who saw them would think to themselves, those two are friends, they must be. And that was exactly what Thomas imagined people said about Darnell and him, among the insults and judgement. 

But now, it sort of felt like Darnell was Thomas’ friend, but Thomas wasn’t really Darnell’s. 

“He is important to me, though,” Thomas said, slightly louder. “Really important.” 

Newt nodded. “Good.” 

They sat like that for a little while longer before the pair of them got anxious remaining in one spot and reluctantly packed the rabbit back up and set off again in their search for something, anything. The quiet remained, but Thomas attempted to push away the discomfort it brought, instead focusing on keeping himself alert. 

Walking, walking, walking. They kept on, and nothing changed. No creatures of nightmares lunged from the shadows and neither of the other remaining tributes crept up from behind. And Newt didn’t leave. For the most part, the blond stayed within view. But he would, Thomas knew. It was only a matter of time. Newt would leave because Thomas was rotten.

But for now he was here. And Thomas couldn’t help but wonder what sort of people Newt had befriended back in District Twelve. Someone like Darnell, Thomas thought. Though Newt didn’t seem nearly as inclined to discuss such topics. He seemed to bear the fear of the Capitol that Darnell distinctly lacked. He and Teresa certainly wouldn’t have liked each other, not in this world, at least. Thomas wished it were another way. 

Dan might’ve liked Newt, might’ve found his humour to be entertaining, though Thomas doubted it would be reciprocated. Dan also wasn’t like anyone he had ever known, but it was far different with him than it was with Newt. It was something else, something different. Less than everyone else, but far, far more than Thomas. 

He did like Dan, that was true. But his feelings towards him were unlike the rest of his allies. It was…cautious, almost. Dan’s skin prickled with danger, even when Thomas knew he was safe at his side. His ally’s eyes had just been laced with something, something that grew more apparent when he looked at him. He seemed to like Thomas, however. He said they were friends.

Newt also seemed to like Thomas, though. Enough to ally with him, enough to stick around as long as he had. Even before the Trials, Newt must’ve seen something beyond what he used to feed his so-called curiosity. Maybe now, after all Thomas had done, Newt found nothing worth noting in his mind. But he was still here, which meant something. Didn’t it? 

Of course, he had stuck with Alby to stay alive. And—bruised feelings aside—Thomas could admit that it was a smart move to make, especially under Newt’s circumstances. An even better one would be to keep to Thomas’ side, as he was doing. And Thomas’ own plan was more of the same, wasn’t it? Kill the others and die so Newt could go on. 

But he was honest about his intentions. Newt had only spoken of how he couldn’t live his life knowing he had caused Thomas’ death. It had nothing to do with anything outside of his morals, to Thomas’ knowledge, at least. So what was the other's plan, if not for Thomas’ own? 

Maybe Newt was lying. Maybe it had all been a lie. 

Or maybe Newt was being truthful. 

Either way, Thomas was fine with it. He needed to die. And he had come to terms with the fact that his death was necessary, however it should come. But maybe Thomas wanted to know what Newt thought of him anyway. Maybe he wanted to die as more than an ally to Newt, to die being his friend instead of just a means to an end. 

His thoughts vanished as he heard it. 

“Thomas,” Newt breathed, halting just as Thomas did. 

His senses locked onto the source, onto the sound. It was mechanical clicking, one sounding like a cricket or bug of some sort, the other louder, an obvious noise of metal chittering against concrete. It was one of the creatures, without a doubt, and Thomas’ heart went from a quick rapting to an incessant pound against his ribs. 

His right hand moved on its own accord, snaking around Newt’s elbow as he began to slowly, silently back away down the corridor they had ventured through. At the end of the hall, where the noise sounded from, sat a left and a right turn. Behind them, however, was one way for far too long before they’d be able to turn off into one of the adjoining passageways. 

So they quietly, carefully crept backwards. Slow enough that their footsteps didn’t echo, both of their breathing shoved deep into their chests. The ivy around them was shivering in anticipation, the leaves nearly trembling off the thin branches. 

The chirps of the creature vanished for a moment, and the pair froze. A second later they heard a quick whir and then the chirps returned, the clinks of metal limbs against the stone joining it. They started again, slow, slow, slow. 

Newt’s other hand quickly fled up to grasp Thomas’ holding his elbow. Their eyes locked for a moment, and Thomas tried not to look afraid, tried to look reassuring. 

And then a violent, eardrum-bursting shriek filled the hall, coming from directly behind them, loud enough that both boys immediately doubled over, hands clasping over their ears. 

Quickly he shook himself off and whipped around, and when he did the sound moved with him. It took him all of a second to realize it was emitting from Chuck’s bag. 

“Take it off!” Newt said frantically. 

Thomas shook his head. “No–no, just hold on.” He patted the bag a few times, trying to soothe the rabbit, but the noise didn’t let up. “Shit. Shit. Shit.” 

The shrieking stopped. 

And a roar sounded from down the hall. 

Newt’s arm was once again clutched in his grasp, and then they were running.

Thomas’ body protested violently as he bolted to the end of the corridor and slipped around the corner, going on to take random turns to attempt to escape the creature's wrath. His mind was almost entirely blank with terror, but it awaited the agonized calls screaming his name, and the horrible, gut-churning pain that the sounds caused inside of him.

But as they ran, whirs and clicks roaring behind them, it never came. 

If walking caused mild discomfort to his foot, bolting across stone made him feel like he was running on his bare flesh. He could feel the firm wax of the makeshift cast indenting as he ran over pebbles and cracks, and he knew it was only seconds before it began to crack and fall off. 

They took a harsh left, listening as the creature skidded to a halt momentarily to follow them, and Thomas squeezed the other’s arm harder, trying to figure out how they could escape. 

They sped down the corridor, the monster on their tails, and Thomas caught Newt trying to look back at the thing, most likely trying to make some sense of what he was seeing. 

“Don’t look back!” Thomas shouted, turning back to catch a glimpse of his own. 

He got a flash of the collar—a jolt of light green—and turned back, trying to figure out which district bore that colour. He knew it wasn’t his or Newt’s, knew it was either Gally or Triton’s, but he couldn’t be entirely certain which it was. He had been with Gally and Beth, he should remember the collars around their necks. 

He thought of Beth on the forest floor, her bleeding throat, the collar below the wound. Was it green or orange? It was one of the two, but which?

It didn’t matter. It didn’t. 

His own creature was vicious towards him, bearing his sister's screams. If they had these creatures linked to each district member, then that must’ve meant that such things were individual to that tribute. This creature couldn’t torment their minds, just their bodies. Hope refilled Thomas, if only briefly, and he adjusted his grip on Newt’s arm, pushing them harder. 

Another right led them down a seemingly endless corridor, and the pair exchanged a brief and exhausted look as they ran for their lives. Every drop of Newt’s left leg fell harder and harder as they went on, and Newt hadn’t bothered to hide his pain, face scrunching up and small hisses sounding from between his clenched teeth. 

As they reached the end of the long passage, Thomas looked back to see that the creature had been tripped up by a few especially grabby vines a decent space away from them. He slowed slightly, eyes following the way the creature shot a mechanic arm out from its gelatinous body and severed a cluster of lively greens. 

As they neared the end of the hall, the left and right turn became more apparent, the creature whirring towards them again. Thomas slowed when he caught sight of what awaited them on the left turn. It looked to cut off, leading into the same gray nothingness that swallowed the sky above them. His mind immediately supplied memories of the crumbling arena, the pond pouring down into the nothingness below, disappearing through some invisible barrier. 

The idea hit him before he could even register another solid thought at all. 

Quickening again, Thomas took the right at lightning speed and darted down the corridor, then screeched to a halt at the fork that sat before them. He muttered a quiet just trust me to the other and steadied himself, watching as the creature turned into the passage, all high-pitched roars and clicks. 

When it saw them, it shook its repulsive body, allowing around a dozen or so arms to fly out from its blubberous hide and snap and whir and jut out at them threateningly. It had a tail that started thick, thinned, then held a bulb at the very edge of it. The bulb opened and shut like a flower in bloom, revealing the sharp of something that looked to be a needle. 

“Thomas,” Newt muttered as the creature advanced. 

“Stand there,” he muttered, adjusting Newt to the middle of the hall, then he quickly manoeuvred himself beside him. “When it–” 

“Got it,” Newt cut in, and when Thomas spared a glance to the blond he found him with a set jaw and tense shoulders. “Don’t die.” 

Ten feet, Thomas estimated. He crouched low and subtly shook off the cold fear that had settled along his spine, instead focusing on the heat of adrenaline that coursed through him like a violent river. His eyes flickered down for just a second to watch as the massive metallic legs of the creature drove into the ground, tearing up scratches into the concrete.

“Now!” he shouted before diving to the left, Newt to the right, both of them listening as the monster sped by them and down a bit into one of the forks. The pair scrambled to their feet to run back down the hall. “Go, go!” 

They bolted as quickly as they could all the way to the very edge of the passage, all until they found themselves standing a pace or so away from the cut-off of concrete leading down to the endless nothingness below. Thomas sucked in a long breath and turned on his heel, Newt doing the same beside him. 

The creature had righted itself, and was now bare of its many arms, massive armored plates popping up at the top of its faceless head, down its back, right up to the sharp tail. It dove forwards, curling into a ball in its motion, and rolled towards them at a frightening speed. 

“Three…” he muttered, watching as the mutt grew closer. “Two…one…now!” 

They dove, and just as quickly as they landed the pair scrambled to their hands and knees to watch as the monster flew over the edge. Right as Thomas caught sight of it, the creature vanished beneath the same…opaque mist, disappearing before their eyes. 

Newt shakily pushed himself away from the edge, then slumped onto his stomach, burying his face in his arms. Thomas moved away as well, then crossed his legs beneath him, leaning back on his hands and staring up at the slate of gray above them. He hoped that one day, even if it was impossible, that he would meet the Makers so he could skin each and every one of them. Anderson last, so he could watch the others. 

Shaking himself off, Thomas’ focus turned to Newt, watching as the bones of his ribs rose and fell quickly through the thin white cotton of his undershirt. He seemed impossibly thinner than before. Thomas assured himself that when Newt became a Victor, he would eat enough to bury his bones in soft flesh. 

He thought about the Capitol food, and his stomach growled. “What I wouldn’t give for a half-decent meal.” 

“Want me some of those damned little pie things from the Capitol,” Newt muttered into the crook of his arms. “Buggers with the yellow stuff.” 

Thomas chuckled throatily. “Yes.” 

Newt’s back heaved slightly with laughter. “Or the steak.” 

“Oh, steak,” he hummed longingly. “With the butter-y bread.” 

“And those potatoes,” Newt murmured. “I miss those bloody potatoes.” 

He wiped sweat from his brow. “Which ones?” 

“Mashed. Boiled. Baked. I don’t give a damn, they’re all good.” 

Thomas’ stomach ached fiercely, and he groaned. “No more food talk. Please.” 

Newt made some kind of noise of agreement, and neither of them made any move to get up and resume their search for somewhere safe to rest. Newt remained lying on his stomach, occasionally releasing a quiet, pained groan, and Thomas just sat, staring at what was once his foot. 

He had been certain the run would peel it off of his ruined flesh, but it hadn’t. Surprisingly the firm amber-like shell was in good shape, outside of a few pebbles stuck to the bottom of it. He plucked them out, then began rubbing at his ankle, trying to ease the soreness. 

His back hurt. The bones in his legs felt like they had turned to mush. His temples were pounding with what he knew would eventually become a month-long migraine. His heart was stuttering with exhaustion and even with the fabric covering his palms Thomas knew by the itch that they were scabbed beyond belief. 

Thomas…Thomas didn’t think he could stand up. Even if there was a plate of juicy steak and buttered bread and perfectly seasoned potatoes—mashed, boiled, baked—sitting ten paces away from him, he knew that he would remain where he was. And if he couldn’t stand, how was he supposed to kill Gally? Kill Triton? How was he supposed to do anything, let alone get Newt home?

Alby’s bow was gone, lost to the rush of escaping the boiling water. Thomas’ sword was gone too. All they had left was Newt’s satchel and Chuck’s bag which held nothing more than the stupid rabbit that almost had them killed. 

He tugged his bag off his shoulder and dumped Shuck onto his lap, glaring down at the animal with something useless and accusatory on his tongue, but it all fell away when he noticed the way the creature was trembling against his legs. He picked it up by its upper body, looked into its little beady black eyes, and felt a strong sadness when, for the first time, he saw pure fear in its eyes. 

“What do we do with it?” Newt asked, and when Thomas looked up to the voice he found Newt’s cheek smushed up against his arms, eyes hooded with exhaustion as he looked at the rabbit. “It almost killed us, Tommy.” 

“It’s not her fault,” Thomas said. 

“Her?” Newt asked.

“His. Its. Their. Whatever,” he grumbled. “It wasn’t a choice.” 

“Okay, well she still almost killed us,” the other went on. “We can’t risk that happening again. I mean, surely there’s somewhere we can tuck her where it’ll be safe.” 

“The vines,” he mumbled. “The mutts. This weird cliff thing.” He stroked the rabbit’s back in something he hoped was assuring. “Sounds safe to me.” 

“You realize she’s not even real, right?” Newt scooted up to sit, frowning at Thomas. “They’re going to kill her once this is over, anyway.” 

But the creature was trembling against him, little body heaving with rapid breaths, and Thomas refused to believe that it—she—was anything like the violent creatures that chased them, the violent creatures that tore into Mara. She wasn’t at fault for being created. No matter what she was created for. She was living, breathing, and used by the Makers. 

“They have organs and flesh and blood,” he said quietly. “That makes them real.” 

“And we both know the Makers have no problem killing, real or not real.” 

Thomas felt his fading adrenaline spike up once more, and he scooted until he was sitting in front of the blond. He put the rabbit onto the other’s lap, and gestured for him to go ahead. 

Newt patted her back, quirking an eyebrow. 

“Come on,” Thomas told him. “Kill her.” 

“I didn’t say we should kill her.” 

“You did,” Thomas hissed. “Go ahead, her neck’s soft. Take two hands and snap it.” 

“I’m not going to–” 

Thomas cut him off by grabbing the rabbit off his lap and clutching it—her, whatever—against his chest, scooting back to sit facing the cut-off of the hall. “If you’ve got such a problem with her then go ahead and leave. Win on your own,” he said over his shoulder. 

Thomas was tired, and scared, and he sort of felt like he was going to cry. His outburst was childish, maybe, but he didn’t care. Newt was going to leave anyway, there wasn’t any point in dragging out their alliance any further. Thomas could do this on his own. He didn’t need Newt, and Newt didn’t need him. 

Why should he care what Newt thinks of him anyway? Newt was to go home, and his only memories of Thomas would be these ones, their time before the Trials erased by the immeasurable amount of blood coating Thomas’ hands. Thomas didn’t need to be good, didn’t need to be strong. He could do this weak just as well.

Teresa would smack him upside the head and call him an idiot, or sick or unwell or crazy. But this wasn’t the same as his…his problems back home. It was different. He was tired, thirsty, hungry, and looking death in the eye. He was allowed to feel this way. Wasn’t he? Did Newt think he was being reasonable? 

Thomas didn’t care. Newt was annoying, and egotistical. Newt was far too busy with his odd obsession with himself to think about whether or not Thomas was rotten or not. He didn’t care. In his mind, Thomas was already written off. Crazy. He needed Thomas to win, and that was it.

Thomas wanted him to leave. It would be far easier. 

So he waited to hear footsteps behind him, leaving. He drew shapes in the animal’s dark fur and thought of small, insignificant things to try and ease the growing bubble in his chest. A part of him wanted to just scream endlessly like he had when Dan died. Scream until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. 

But that would draw everything to them, tributes and monsters alike, so Thomas didn’t scream. He just kept drawing in the rabbit’s fur, feeling her begin to quiver a little less with every passing minute.

Her. He didn’t know why he suddenly decided she was a girl. It stuck, though. He wondered if she liked the name Shuck. She must’ve. 

Thomas missed Chuck. 

He fell onto his side, rabbit still against his chest. 

“Keep her then,” Newt said eventually. 

Thomas failed to bite back a scoff, though his voice came out far weaker than he’d intended. “Wasn’t going to do anything else.” 

A tense minute passed. 

Then, “You want to keep the rabbit safe for Chuck? Because you couldn’t keep him safe?” Newt asked slowly. “You think it’ll make up for it?” 

Thomas snapped up, turning around, words coming out like vomit. “I want to keep her because I want to, Newt.” He raised an eyebrow. “There’s no crisis happening in my head, no damn guilt eating me alive over that shit. Chuck died because of your ally. Because you let Alby kill him.” He dropped his glare, rolling his eyes. “Why would I be guilty over something I didn’t do?” 

And it was a lie, Thomas knew. He was angry, and his words turned into something else when his emotions turned up. He could feel the blame in Newt’s demeanor, feel the look of it’s all your fault that made his mind feel like it was eating itself. The reality of it was, Chuck died because Thomas wanted to kill Alby. They could’ve stayed in their cave, stayed safe. But he had revenge as a priority instead of Chuck’s safety. 

Thomas put the rabbit back into his bag gently and closed it up, shutting his eyes for a moment before slinging it over his shoulder. When he looked up a minute later, he half expected Newt to be walking away. The blond remained and met his gaze instead, eyebrows pinched.

“You know, I’m not going to point out how I had just run through a forest of fire with a wet blanket over my head and hadn’t the slightest clue about what he was doing until it was too late–” 

“You just did–” 

“But,” Newt continued, ignoring him. “I will tell you that you didn’t kill your sister, and yet you hold guilt for her death. So forgive me if I assume you’d do the same for the boy.”

“That’s different,” he mumbled. 

Newt made an odd noise. “Is it?” 

“Yes.” 

“How so?” 

“Just was.” 

“I think you blame yourself for everything,” Newt told him, cocking his head as he spoke. “I think someone across the world could have their heart give out and you would fault yourself for it. I think you blame yourself for Chuck. I think you think the world revolves around you, and all the bad sits on your shoulders.” 

“I think you think you know everything,” Thomas muttered bitterly. 

Newt laughed softly, and the anger inside Thomas lessened. “Maybe, maybe not. But I do know that it wasn’t your fault. None of it.” 

“When I killed Aris,” he started, fingers finding a loose thread on his bag, tugging, pulling, twirling it. “I didn’t have to. He wasn’t…he wasn’t bad. I thought he was, but I was–” He stopped himself, swallowed. “It doesn’t matter. I killed him, and he was my ally.” 

Newt watched him as he spoke, Thomas could feel his gaze slide over his face. It hurt. “How’d you do it?” 

His head snapped up. “What?” 

“How’d you kill him?” 

And suddenly he could feel the soreness in the bones of his arm again. He could feel the dusty hair matted with blood beneath his palm. He could hear the wet splashes of the scarlet puddle beneath him. Aris was the first person he ever killed, and the boy hadn’t even deserved it. 

“With my hands,” he said quietly. 

Newt watched him with something in his eyes, something that called Thomas a liar. It set his akin ablaze and made his stomach lurch uncomfortably. 

“None of it was my fault, you say,” he whispered. “But all of it was, whether you choose to believe me or not. I killed, and I killed, and I killed. I would’ve killed you, had Teresa lived, had Chuck, if I had to. I would’ve killed thousands of people for either of them, without blinking.” 

Newt held his gaze, unblinking.

“You think there’s some part of me that’s good,” he went on. “But there isn’t.” Right? “There never, ever has been. I have always been this, and I will always be this. And…” He shut his eyes for just a second. “And…” He tongued the inside of his cheek, eyes narrowing. “And you are. Good, I mean.” 

“I’m good?”

“Yes,” he breathed. “You’re also annoying, and full of yourself, and sometimes I want to kick you. But I won’t sit here and lie to you and tell you I can’t see you for what you are.” 

The two lines pressed between Newt’s brow, something amused and obnoxiously curious in his gaze. “I’m going to tell you something, and I want you to try and keep your head on your shoulders, yeah?” 

He licked his lips. “Okay.” 

“I am not something other than those around us,” Newt said firmly. “All of the things you…praise me for, all of them are the same ones I—and everyone I knew—were raised with. Your mind was…” He lowered his voice. “Compromised, Tommy. You know one corner of the world, and that’s it. There’s a thousand more like me.” 

But there wasn’t, Thomas knew. 

“You only believe me to be good because you’ve only ever known life in District Two.” Newt stared at him for a moment. “I’m no better than most, and you’re no worse.”

“But you’re afraid of me,” Thomas said. “You are. You think I’m sick.” 

“I never said that.” 

“That doesn’t stop it from being true.”

“Don’t put your thoughts into my mouth because it’s easier than believing it yourself.” 

Thomas’ jaw snapped shut. 

“Teresa’s death wasn’t your doing. Chuck’s wasn’t either. None of it was your fault, not Aris or…or Perdita or any of those you killed.” 

“It was. It was mine, and…well, Alby’s,” Thomas said. “Alby killed–” 

“And it wasn’t his fault either.” When Thomas’ face morphed into anger and disbelief, Newt held up a hand to keep him silent. “All of the anger you’re feeling, all the shit you’re trying desperately to find some sort of outlet for, all of it can be directed in one place. Because there’s only one place to direct it.” 

Thomas frowned as Newt crawled over to him, settling again directly in front of him, leaning in close enough that Thomas could feel the warmth radiating from him. 

“ They killed your sister,” Newt breathed. “They killed them all, and they’ll kill the rest of us but one too. They’ve killed hundreds, and they’ll keep going. No one can stop them.” He paused, sucked in a short breath. “But–”

Newt never got to finish his sentence, as a blood-curdling scream drowned out whatever words followed and filled the entire maze with the kind of fear that shattered glass. Thomas felt his heart rate skyrocket for a moment, only to lessen a pinch when he realized it wasn’t Teresa’s pain sounding from a short distance, but someone much younger who Thomas had certainly never met before. 

And when his eyes flickered back to Newt, he quickly realized that it may as well have been much, much worse. The blond’s face had gone pale in a way Thomas thought only a corpse could, and his mouth was opening and closing with unspoken words as his body all but leaned towards the noise. 

“No,” was all that came out of Newt’s mouth before he shot up from the ground, sore leg forgotten.

Thomas ignored the protests from every bone and muscle in his body and jumped up after Newt, grabbing the blond’s forearms firmly and tugging him to face him. “Newt, listen to me–” 

Newt’s face was shifting from emotion to emotion, trying to comprehend, neck craning. “How? I–I don’t–” 

“It’s not real,” Thomas said frantically. “It’s not real, it isn’t.” 

Then the screams came to a faded end, and instead were replaced with terrified sobbing, a small girl calling out Newt’s name and begging for his help. Thomas’ own insides were flipping themselves at the noise, his heart squeezing, but he put it all out of his mind and focused on his ally before him. 

Newt was fighting him slightly, eyes locked on the corridors past them, head frantically turning this way and that. The creature was far, Thomas knew. But it knew they were there, and it wouldn’t be long before it turned a corner and tore them both to shreds. 

He felt the urge to cry again, limbs aching and heart thumping irregularly in his chest. 

“Let go,” Newt murmured distractedly, wriggling. “I need–I need–I have–” 

“She’s safe in your district,” Thomas told him, squeezing his arms. “She isn’t here. It isn’t real.” 

Newt shook his head, blinking fast. “No, no. She needs me, she can’t–she’s so small…” 

The small cries turned back to agonizing, horrified screams, and Newt’s face went impossibly paler. Thomas kept muttering reassurances, but it didn’t matter, and Newt’s insistent tugging turned to thrashing against his hold until Thomas’ tired arms gave out and the other turned on his heel, shooting towards the corridors beyond. 

But Thomas bolted forwards, catching him by the middle before he could get far. Newt’s hands clasped around his arms, clawing, scratching, tearing. “She needs me!” he cried. “Lizzy! Lizzy!” 

Thomas' heart dropped when he heard the girl—Lizzy—shout back, begging Newt to come find her. He felt sick. “It’s not real Newt. It’s a trick!”

“Lizzy!” Newt cried again, ignorant to Thomas’ pleas.

With Newt continuing on fighting his hold, nails drawing hot blood from shallow scratches on his forearms,  Thomas slowly wrestled them to the ground, landing on his knees, Newt falling in a similar position in front of him. The screams were growing nearer and nearer, and he could feel the rabbit against his back, beginning to grow restless. 

Newt threw back elbows and kicked, but Thomas held firm despite his body screaming in protest. He felt his own resolve begin to melt as the girl’s screams neared and neared and neared. He was tired, his body was tired, and Newt was stealing the very last of both their energy. 

The first familiar whir sounded in the near distance. 

Newt needed to win, and Thomas needed to get them out. 

He pulled Newt close to him, arms sliding up until they were tight around the other’s chest. Newt’s head tossed back and crashed into his jaw, staggering pain washing over him, but Thomas shook it off. 

“Newt listen to me,” he said into the other’s ear. “That thing we saw earlier, there’s another headed this way and if we don’t leave right now we’ll both die.”

“They have her!” Newt cried. “How else–!” 

“It doesn’t matter!” he barked, slapping a hand over Newt’s mouth and ignoring the teeth trying to bite at it. “We are going to die if we don’t move, do you hear me?” Tears wet the back of Thomas’ hand, and he bit back a snarl. “If we go after the sound, you will never see Lizzy again. Do you understand me? She’s not here. She’s in Twelve. She’s safe.” 

The screams were growing louder and more intense, and Newt was shaking against him. Thomas squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m going to let you go, and we’re going to run. Together. Away from it. Understand?” 

A nod so minimal Thomas nearly didn’t feel it, but he dropped his grip on the other anyway, Newt immediately rounding on him, grabbing the collar of his shirt in a fist as he pressed close, nothing in his eyes but fear and fury. 

“It isn’t her, swear it Tommy! Swear to me! Tell me it’s not her!” 

He grabbed the hand clutching his shirt, squeezed hard, and spoke with all the intensity he could muster. “It isn’t her. I swear to you, I promise.” 

Newt held them there for another second, then two, the clicks and clunks of the nearing creature hardly sounding over the pained cries of Lizzy. But Thomas could see it in his eyes when he gave way, hand loosening a moment after. 

Thomas turned quickly and grabbed Newt’s satchel, and when he turned back Newt was staring into the passage turning right, hand over his mouth as the young girl’s cries echoed and echoed and echoed. Thomas could feel the panic coming off the other in waves, and he thought of himself when it was Teresa’s agony sounding instead. 

He grabbed Newt’s arm and pulled, and the pair ran down the hall down to the fork, taking a left and bolting across the stone corridor. The screams grew distant for a moment, but it wasn’t long before it became obvious they were being followed. Thomas didn’t let up his pace for a second, even despite the fact that his entire body was screaming in pain. 

Newt kept up with him, breathing raggedly and arm tugging slightly in Thomas’ grip every few seconds from the movement of looking back. He was waiting, Thomas knew. Waiting to see Lizzy somewhere, anywhere. But she wasn’t here.

He took a sharp left and bolted down yet another mass of stone and ivy, then took a right. Running, turning, running, turning again and again and again until it was as if they were circling around. Everything looked the same, but Thomas could hear the girl’s cries quiet down more and more the further they ran. He didn’t stop. 

When the calls were nearly silent, he still didn’t stop. Sweat blurred his vision and his body was losing adrenaline, the sorest parts of it returning to their violent ache that was nearly unbearable, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop. He had to get them out. 

He took a left and a right and then another stupid left until he almost ran into the wall of a dead end. 

He turned to escape it, but Newt stopped him. 

“I can’t,” the other coughed out.

Thomas shook his head. “We have to, Newt. We have to keep going.” 

“S’gone,” Newt huffed weakly. “We have a minute.” 

But the second he stopped, the second he stopped moving, Thomas’ body began to shut down, limb by limb. It wasn’t long before the pains shooting in his foot buckled his right knee, and he crumbled but caught himself, slowly turning towards the entrance out from the dead end, trying to force the adrenaline back. 

And then the tears finally fled from his eyes. 

Because he was met with the faceless head of one of the creatures, and he didn’t need to be sure of its district number, because the seven stared at him where it sat engraved on the tag attached to an orange collar, swinging slightly against the creature's suddenly stilled movements. It was staring fixedly at him with eyes it didn’t have, and a sob ripped itself out from his throat, because he couldn’t do this. 

The thirst mixed with the desperate inhale of breaths to ease the violent pumping of his heart had cracked his throat dry. His stomach was shrunken inside of him and begging desperately for something, anything. His body was dying slowly, and he couldn’t take it. He couldn’t take it anymore. He was so tired. He just wanted to lie down. 

The creature cocked his head, then shook itself, a dozen thin metallic arms shooting out from its gelatinous body. One held an axe, another held a drill, another held a circular saw and the horrors of them all only got worse and worse the longer he looked. Its tail slithered above its head, revealing the open and shut of the bulb, the needle hidden within.

“Thomas,” he heard behind him, but he didn’t turn. 

No, he only slipped the strap of Chuck’s bag off of his shoulder and tossed it aside as gently as he could manage. His breathing slowed until it was nothing more than forced puffs and pulls of his lungs, because he couldn’t save himself, and he couldn’t save Newt either. 

Thomas was about to die. 

And it was going to be painful. Slow, like Mara’s. 

But he wasn’t going to die a coward. 

With a great, echoing cry, Thomas lunged forward before the creature could so much as jolt, bare of a weapon and bare of a chance. But he ran until his body collided with something akin to flesh, and he ripped and he tore and he hit, all until something cold touched his shoulder, and then he was being hoisted into the air. 

The creature brought him over its head, its array of weapons making all sorts of threatening noises, but Thomas didn’t care. The claw holding him up had only his shirt in its grip, so he swayed and kicked and shoved at the thin arm until it released him. 

And he was falling, landing on the mutt’s back. 

And so many things were grabbing at him, slicing at him, but he didn’t stop. He raised a hand above his head and slammed it down onto the blubber of flesh, trying to conceal his disgusted surprise as it broke down through the mutt's body and landed on a cold, hard interior, one covered in wires. 

Thomas began pulling at whatever he could. Wires broke loose and knobs were torn off, but nothing seemed to happen. He pushed himself forward and kept going, ignoring the desperate screeches of the creature, the hot pain sprouting all over, and focusing on nothing more than breaking it, destroying it. 

Suddenly the creature lunged forwards, nearly flipping itself and Thomas along with it, and a shout sounded out into the air, but Thomas ignored it all. 

Eventually his hand wrapped around something that felt solid and round—like a pole—and when he gave it a tug it shifted slightly. A lever. Thomas gripped it with both hands and pulled as hard as he could, feeling the lever give away to the pressure and switch off. The moment it did, the creature went entirely still. Thomas breathed hard and fast, finally feeling the amount of disgusting stickiness his front and arms were covered in, and then the body he lay on gave a final click.

And it melted away into nothing, and he landed on his stomach with a harsh yelp. 

The stickiness that once covered him was gone, but he could feel the cuts and blood dripping from his back. 

He could smell the chalky scent of the stone beneath him, feel the hardness of it as he tried to find comfort lying atop it. He rolled over onto his side and groaned at the thin smear of blood his body left beneath him, feeling the many cuts adorning his skin. 

He just wanted to sleep. He was so tired. 

“Thomas.”

“Please,” he whispered. 

And then a hand was pulling him up from the ground, catching him when his knees buckled beneath him. He leaned into Newt’s side, shaking his head miserably.

“We have to go.” 

Thomas' vision was turning black at the edges, he couldn’t feel any part of himself other than the incessant pounding hiding beneath his temples. He wondered if he was dying, wondered if the mutt’s tools had cut deep enough for him to bleed out. It was a welcome thought, death. He was tired. He was so, so tired. 

“Come on.” 

And then he was stumbling through the concrete halls again, eyes catching glimpses of the same walls and the same ivy. Newt was beside him, walking beside him, he knew. The other’s arm was holding him up, all but dragging him along. Newt was talking, but Thomas couldn’t make out the words over the buzz in his ears. 

This must be what dying feels like, Thomas thought. It was sort of blissful, but it hurt, and he wanted it to stop. He wanted everything to stop. 

Kill me, he wanted to whisper. Let it be Newt who does it.  

Because then he would see, he would understand. Thomas wanted so badly for him to understand. Everything would be different. Everything. All of it. 

And then they weren’t moving anymore, and then Thomas fell to the ground. 

And then hands were holding his face, and he wanted to cry. It felt so good it nearly hurt, and he wanted more. He would’ve begged for it. He would’ve given anything to keep the hands there, holding him like he was something else, someone else. 

But they vanished. 

And the world fell black. 

The first time he woke, it wasn’t really waking at all. His eyes blinked open into the dim light of the arena and his mind was in a panic. His hands fussed around to feel the firm rubbery floor he was laid upon, and then to a bag, Chuck’s bag, which his fingers found quickly. He tugged it towards himself, shoving a hand inside to feel the warm fur of the rabbit. And then his heart slowed, and his eyes slid shut once more. 

The second time wasn’t much better. He woke again, fearful, feeling the bag ruffle against his chest as he craned his neck up to get a clear look around. They were in some kind of…short tube? It seemed. It was black and lined with something slick and slippery, and the light emitting from the sky barely reaching inside. 

Thomas looked to the circle leading back out into the maze. They were shielded by a thick curtain of wriggling ivy, though on the other side of it were just more walls, and the noise of vines brushing up against them in the slight breeze.

He looked the other way, to the darkness that clouded over the end of the tunnel, and he realized that there wasn’t an end after all. It was somewhat difficult to make out, but after fisting the sleep from his eyes Thomas peered intently, and sure enough some of the fleeting light met the edges of what looked to be a tunnel going down. 

Danger rose the hair on the nape of his neck, but figuring they had already gone so long without issue, Thomas only turned onto his side once more and stared for a few moments at his arms that were folded together in front of him, clutching the bag. He knew that they should move, he knew it was the safe thing to do, but he was so tired. Newt was so tired. The world faded to black once more. 

When he woke a third and last time, Thomas was certain he had slept through half a day, if the ache in his back was anything to go by. He allowed himself a minute to just stay still, eyes shut and mind still fogged with sleep before he pulled himself onto his back. 

Something was wrong, he soon realized. 

He looked over, and found Newt sitting up in the middle of the tube, staring at Thomas intently while his hands fidgeted with themselves. Except…they weren’t. They were toying with a knife. He sat up as quickly as he could, the other’s eyes tracking him. 

“Newt,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “What are you doing?” 

“Sitting,” Newt answered. “Thinking.” 

He swallowed. “Where did you get that?” 

“Picked it up just in case.”

“In case of…?” 

“You.”

And it was like a gut punch. 

“Didn’t think I could, of course,” Newt went on in a soft voice. “No, but after seeing what you did to poor Alby, I couldn’t risk it.” 

“Alby–” 

“Yes, yes. I know," the other scoffed. 

Thomas blinked a few times, then looked his ally over. Really looked him over. Newt’s fingers were shaking against the knife, and his eyes were rimmed with red. He looked ill, Thomas thought. But this…this anger sparking in his voice, it was unlike him. What had Thomas done to elicit such agitation? 

And the knife, it was small, and familiar. He knew–

“Is that Chuck’s knife?” 

Newt shrugged like it didn’t matter, like it was unimportant. “Dunno. Might be.” 

“Where did you get it?” he managed, withholding himself from lunging forwards and trying to wrestle it from Newt’s grip. Chuck’s hands had once held that knife, had once used it to carefully whittle away at wood to create the carvings that still sat in Thomas’ pocket. 

“Was on the ground while you were battering Alby up and about,” Newt told him. 

He shut his eyes for all of five seconds, forcing his composure into place. Newt was still watching him when his eyes reopened, and he put all of his strength into keeping his voice steady. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.” 

“Wrong?” Newt hummed. 

He frowned. “Did I do something?” 

“No,” Newt said simply. “I’ve just been thinking.” 

“About?” 

“About how things will be if we manage to live long enough to be the last two alive.” Newt paused, looked down at the knife, contemplated. “I’ve been thinking about killing you. About what it would feel like.”

“Killing me?” he asked. 

“Do you think you deserve to die, after all you’ve done?” Newt hummed. “Or do you think you deserve to go home, wash the blood from your hands, and live a rich life?” 

Suddenly Thomas’ focus was back on Newt’s hands, or more specifically, his veins. They protruded in the crook of palm and wrist, and they were far larger than what was normal. Even in the dim lighting of the little hole they’d been hiding in they looked dark. 

Thomas’ stomach flipped. “Do you?” 

“Do I think you should die?” Newt clarified. Thomas nodded. “You know what’s funny, Tommy?” 

He shook his head, wary. 

“If it were anyone else, anyone else, I’d say yes,” he muttered, setting the knife aside, focus fixated on Thomas. “But I don’t want you dead.” He cocked his head. “Odd, isn’t it?” 

“I’ve…I’ve got to piss,” he mumbled, abandoning his bag and sliding out from the dark of the tube, batting away ivy that attempted to wrap itself around him. 

He made it a few paces away, and took down the zipper of his pants, the pain all over his back and sides making itself especially obvious as he relieved himself. On the bright side, the blood that once left him feeling soaked through his clothes had dried, meaning at the very least he wasn’t bleeding any longer. To dim that bright side, pissing hurt. 

Newt was acting strange, and the reason for it was blatantly obvious, but Thomas was trying to push it away. It could’ve been something else, it could’ve been a change of mind that was brought alight in hearing the screams of that girl through the monster. Thomas knew it was altering, hearing it, knew it was terrifying to the core. 

But it wasn’t that, he knew. 

There was a mutt that had been used for many years, one that Thomas believed to be introduced during the Eighty-Eighth Trials. It was some sort of species of bird, one that was both avian and reptilian, with fangs that shot venom into the blood of tributes and drove them insane. The symptoms were more quick-acting, and far less monstrous than Ben’s own, but it was enough that Thomas knew. 

He thought of Ben, of the protruding veins that pulsed with something far too dark to be blood. Skin tinted with a sickly green and stained teeth clamping down again and again, hard enough that it had to hurt. He remembered feeling Ben’s throat in the crook of his arm, remembered how the other hadn’t fought it, how his attention remained on Isabelle below. 

It wasn’t just unreasonable anger that drove Ben in that moment, it was hunger. Thomas knew what it looked like. It was desperation in its purest form, and that thought alone was more than enough to make his stomach churn. Ben must’ve gone into the maze early on in the Trials. Must’ve been injected within the first two days.

How long had the pair of them slept? How long did Thomas have before Newt lost himself? 

Newt was in his mind enough to keep his composure, now. It must’ve been slow enough. He had a mind to keep from attacking Thomas despite the knife available to him—Chuck’s knife, Thomas’ heart ached—which meant that, though they were now under a much stricter deadline, they had time nonetheless. 

There were four of them left, Thomas was mostly certain. And by the looks of it, it would only be another few hours before the Makers cut their merciful rest period and brought some new disaster or other to keep the population entertained. He didn’t have time to worry, didn’t have time to give up. This was likely their last day—whichever day it was—and Thomas needed to keep it together.

He put himself away and fixed his zipper and belt up, but made no move to return to the odd tube where Newt resided. With Newt’s mind having begun its slow deterioration, would it be a better idea to leave Newt now and go off to find the others alone? Or would one of them find the blond and ruin Thomas’ plan? 

No, they had to stay together. But how long would that last?

Thomas found Ben on the third day, but he didn’t know when the boy had been injected in the first place. It could’ve been a day prior, or a handful of hours. 

Thomas only needed a little time.

He could do this. 

But…could he?

What was his plan? To kill Gally and Triton? Thomas could barely walk without pain exploding in one place or another. He hadn’t eaten in far too long and was living off daydreams of water. His clothes were torn and blood-crusted. His only ally was infected with some kind of disease that made him hate Thomas. There was no more plan, it was just him moving and hoping things worked themselves out. 

Maybe he could just…stop. Maybe he could just stay in the tube and wait for everyone else to die out, or just wait until he himself died. 

He wouldn’t even be allowed that, would he? 

Suddenly his mind cleared as he watched some odd little creature—the metal bug thing he had seen days prior—skitter past his feet.

And—as if his pleading thoughts had a power of summoning tediousness—Thomas heard the scuff of a shoe behind him. He didn’t move for a second, half letting himself believe it was only Newt, but inevitably swiveled on his heel to be met with the Nine boy, Triton. 

He caught a quarter of a glimpse, just enough to recognize the guy, until a fist met his jaw in an instant and hot explosion of pain. He reared back but recovered quickly, jumping forward and catching both the other boy’s wrists in his hands. 

Chuck had been right, Triton was much smaller and skinnier, but that didn’t stop him from harboring a decent amount of strength in which he used to wriggle against Thomas. 

In Triton’s right hand was a long dagger as thin as a straw, and the boy was covered in some sort of greenish-black sludge, making his skin stick to Thomas’ own. It reeked like burnt vegetables and Thomas wondered what it was. 

Quickly he squeezed the boy’s right wrist as hard as he could manage, watching as the other’s fingers twitched and loosened their grip, the knife tumbling to the ground. Thomas kicked it away with a grunt, then pulled Triton’s arms forward, bashing their foreheads together, then released his grip as the Nine boy stumbled away from him. 

He ignored the burst of pain pulsing through his face and followed the other, shoving him with as much strength as he could, watching as the other boy crumbled to the ground. He drew a foot back, then slammed it into place right in the center of the boy’s stomach. 

Triton wheezed and coughed, slumping onto his back and groaning as Thomas jumped atop him, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt. He threw as much force as his body allowed into pelting the other’s face, the crunch of bone beneath his fist growing more and more painful the longer he went. He stopped for a moment, breathing hard, then raised his closed hand again. 

Something hard was thrown into his temple, and Thomas cried out, his body slumping off the other when pushed as he tried to blink away the explosion of pain the rock left on the side of his head. He shook himself off, vision blurry, and forced himself to his feet. 

“No weapons?” he heard the other say in a smug, high-pitched voice. 

Thomas rose to his full height, feeling the hot trickle of blood drip down his cheek. “Don’t need them.” 

Triton lunged forwards at a surprising speed, throwing them to the ground and landing on Thomas, his bony little arm raising before he could blink. Thomas didn’t have a second before a hard punch landed against his jaw. He canted his hips up roughly, arms pulling at the other’s shirt to launch him over Thomas’ head, and Triton landed with a wheeze. 

The other kicked at his head until Thomas got up, but by the time he was on his feet Triton had already risen, as he steadied himself another impossibly hard hit landed on his cheek, and before he had a moment to recuperate an arm was wrapped around his throat, a hand coming onto his shoulder to shove him on his knees as oxygen refused him.

His hands came up to rip and tear at Triton’s arms, feeling the flesh pile up beneath his fingernails as his vision began to darken at the edges. He could hear his own desperate rasping, but the fear he had experienced while climbing the West Wall didn’t come for him then, not even as he felt Triton’s wiry arm tighten further. 

Because he had tried. He had really, truly tried. Tried for Teresa, tried for Chuck. He had given all of himself for Newt, and it wasn’t enough. He had never been enough. And this was how he was destined to meet his fate, at the hands of someone far, far too unworthy. 

So be it. 

His arms dropped and smacked against the cold stone beneath him, touching against something metal and cold, and he felt as his airways betrayed him. Death wasn’t so scary, in the end. And as the sort of bliss took him over, he thought of Beth, Beth and the way her eyes found peace before the last of her light disappeared out from inside her. 

“Tommy,” he heard. It was quiet, but it echoed in his mind nonetheless. 

It felt as though he had been slapped across the face, woken into something cold and sharp and real. His fingers immediately spread out to the area at his knees, wrapping around the grip of the thin dagger Triton had dropped, and his arm wielded the very last of his strength to drive the sharp into the Nine boy’s leg. 

In a second the arm around him slipped away, a cry sounding into the air, and Thomas fell onto his hands, gasping as he desperately tried to get his head to stop spinning. 

He weakly turned around and found Triton sitting behind him, hands around the dagger as he attempted to will himself to pull it out. Thomas crawled forwards quickly and tore the other’s hands away from the knife, then ripped it out himself. Triton shouted, and Thomas moved quickly enough to shove the weapon into his chest with a grunt. 

The cannon went off after a minute, echoing loudly for a few seconds around the tall concrete walls, and Thomas slumped forwards onto the body, panting heavily. 

It felt as though death was both evading him and closing in on his heel all at once. 

“Tommy,” Newt breathed, suddenly beside him, hand coming up to press into the space between his shoulder blades. “I’m sorry, mate. I’m sorry. I should’ve–I couldn’t–”

“S’fine,” he rasped, feeling his blood cool and fill out once more. 

“You almost died,” Newt muttered, looking down at Triton’s corpse. 

“Had him–” He was cut off by a harsh breath. “Had him right where I wanted him.” 

Newt didn’t laugh. He only kept his hand on Thomas’ back and breathed with him for a few minutes, sitting there, Triton’s body beneath them. 

Thomas didn’t question Newt’s quick change of mood, and instead rolled off the body after a little while and gasped in pain as his back hit the concrete. With a hiss, he pulled himself up off the ground, only stumbling for a few moments until he was able to right himself. If the general aches and pains that never left weren’t an indicator that he was in no place to fight, the screaming agony that ran through him now certainly was. 

It took three steps back towards the pipe for him to give up entirely. He batted away a few branches of ivy, then used a hand to lean against the wall, ignoring the green that coiled around his wrist. He sucked in long breaths, trying to keep himself together, trying not to make things worse by losing his composure. 

Thomas hadn’t gone through his life as a protector, as someone who cared for others. He was the one in need of care, all these years. Jorge first, as a step-in for his parents. Then it was Teresa, talking him down from the worst of himself and allowing him to follow her everywhere she went. Then it was Dan. And then it was no one. 

It was because of him, because of Thomas, that Chuck died. That Newt got infected. It was due to the fact that he was wholly and entirely incompetent. Years were spent training, practicing for such an event, and here he was. He stood then within an arena built by the best and brightest, and there wasn’t a single piece of information within his mind that could help him. 

What was he doing?

He wanted to cry. 

Everything hurt. 

A hand snaked around his forearm, and when Thomas looked up he found Newt pressed a blade to the ivy that had wrapped itself around him. The blond cut it away, then another thin piece coiled around his throat, and a few more, before he pushed him out from their reach, the green branches dropping to the ground. He finished, and looked to Thomas for a long, withering moment. 

Eventually, Newt cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t worry about it, I had it,” he responded. 

“Not for that—well, that too—but…” Newt sighed, paused. “For earlier, the things I said.” He swallowed. “I don’t feel well. And I think hearing my–hearing Lizzy set something off in my head.” 

Thomas met the other’s eyes and just looked, because he was afraid and disoriented and there was the body of a person he killed behind them. And he found Newt, eyes red and hands shaky, but he was still Newt. The Newt who sat on the roof with him and Brenda, the Newt who gave him a hand instead of a sword through the heart, the Newt who was here, now, who needed Thomas. 

And he did need him. Now more than ever. Thomas remembered why he was doing this in the first place. It wasn’t because he knew what he was doing, it wasn’t because he thought he could. It was because he was needed. It was because he was important, in that regard. Important to Teresa, important to Chuck, even important to Dan.

And now it was Newt. 

And he wasn’t going to let this end like the others. Because Newt was the answer. Newt was a light that the world couldn’t go on without and Thomas needed to spare it, to save it. And he would. He would do it clueless and terrified and idiotic, but he would do it. 

No more questioning himself. No more giving up. 

“It’s only going to get worse,” Thomas said. “Where did it get you?” 

“Come again?” 

“That creature. Where did it get you?” 

Newt looked between his eyes for a moment before holding out his right arm, the pale underbelly of his forearm facing the lifeless sky. At first glance nothing looked amiss, but the longer he looked the more red and irritated the arm seemed to appear, and then his gaze caught on a small—almost unnoticeable—purple ring. Where the needle had sunk into skin. 

“I was trying to distract it,” Newt explained. “It was more focused on you, but then I hit…something, I dunno, and it attacked me with its–”

“Tail, yeah.” Thomas shut his eyes for a moment, then shook off the anxiety built up in his gut. “On the third day, after Dan…” He cut himself off, licking his lips, something metallic flaring up on his tongue like the ghost of a taste. “I killed the Three boy. Ben.” 

Newt nodded, frown especially prominent.

“He was ill,” Thomas went on. “His blood turned black and his–he just looked wrong. I found him attacking the girl from Eight–”

“Isabelle.” 

“Isabelle,” Thomas parroted. “He was attacking Isabelle, tearing her to shreds. But it wasn’t just fighting, he was…it looked like he wanted to eat her. Like a rabid dog that caught a–” He paused, thinking of Chuck’s rabbit. “A weasel, or something.” 

“And you think that the…” Newt made an odd gesture.

“Yeah,” he answered. “The mutt injected something into you, a virus, I think. I don’t know how much time we have left, but it isn’t infinite.” 

A Berg appeared above them, drawing their attention as a claw dropped out from its belly and collected Triton’s body. The knife was still lodged in his chest, and Thomas felt a pang of anger at himself for not retrieving it. He watched—helpless—as the weapon disappeared with the body. 

Newt turned his attention back. “You think that’s gonna happen to me?” 

“Yes,” he said, then steadied his shoulders. “But not if we get you out, Newt. The doctors in the Capitol, they can fix it. I mean, look.” He gestured down to his foot. “They’ll whip you back into shape.” 

“Tommy,” Newt muttered. 

“It’ll be fine,” he assured. “I just need a little time to get my strength back.” Saying it aloud made it feel more real, and a burst of confidence briefly surged through him. “We can still do this. I can still do this.” 

“You know that means that you’ll die, right?” Newt asked, tone serious. “Aren’t you afraid?” 

“No.” Thomas closed his eyes, speaking to himself just as much as he spoke to Newt. “Living in a world without her doesn’t feel like living at all. It feels like I’m already dead, but my body is still moving.” He opened them again, finding the lines between Newt’s brows more prominent. “And if I don’t do something, she’ll have died for nothing.” 

Newt didn’t look like he understood a word Thomas had said, but he nodded a bit nonetheless and began walking back towards the pipe. The pair climbed inside, Newt handing him a bag of dried fruit, and as Thomas ate he forced his mind to pull itself together, forcing himself to believe that they still had a running chance. That he could avenge and soothe the dead. That he could fix this. 

It wasn’t that he wanted to—though he did—but he had to fix this, had to right it. If he had volunteered, killed his own sister, all because of a view he refused to see until it was too late, that would make him just as bad as the rest. Those who bet on the Trials, those who made them. And he couldn’t be grouped in with those who did this, all of this. 

It was only what he guessed to be a few hours later that he felt his energy return to him, if only slightly. He and Newt were sitting cross-legged in front of each other, Chuck’s rabbit switching between their laps every few minutes. Thomas leaned forwards and pulled the other’s bottom eyelid down, gaze running over the red that stained what was usually the whites of his eyes.

Roughly half an hour ago they were more tinged with pink at the very edges, but now there were far more obvious red veins creeping closer to his irises, and the edges now sported bits and pieces of a purplish black web. His pupils were responding normally enough, but stress had long set in Thomas’ stomach. 

The needle wound had worsened as well, the affected area having begun to go yellowed, and his veins—especially ones close to the artery in his wrist—had begun perking up under the skin further. They were dark, but not dark enough for Thomas to be able to properly make out the differences in the dim light of the pipe. Overall, it was looking very, very bad. 

The shaking had worsened a few minutes prior, prominent in his hands and legs, which was the reason Thomas forced him to sit up so he could look him over. Newt had seemed especially put off by it, but that didn’t stop him. The front and back of the other’s undershirt were soaked in sweat, and his skin looked a minute away from being paler than a dead body.

“Fine,” Newt muttered. 

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look fine.” 

“You flatter me.” 

“Newt.” 

“Fine then,” the blond spat. “I’m hot. Feel like there’s bugs under my skin. And I want to batter you half to death.” He glared at Thomas. “Happy?” 

“I don’t even know what I’m looking for,” he muttered. “You need a doctor.”

“Quite the keen eye, you have.” 

Thomas sucked in a small breath and slumped a bit, dropping his face into his hands. “What are we going to do?” 

“Look,” Newt said, tone somewhat softer. “Things are gonna be fine. We’re gonna be fine.” He coughed into his hand, wiped his nose. “You’ve gotten us this damned far, haven’t you? You think some lad from Seven can stop you? Where’d that optimism go, huh?” 

He shrugged. “Gally’s…different.” 

“He isn’t,” Newt said quickly. “He’s just like the rest.” 

“Even Dan was put off by him.” 

“Ah, well he was a coward.” 

“He wasn’t,” Thomas huffed out, offended. “He would’ve won.” 

Newt raised an eyebrow. “Liked him then, did you?” 

“He was my friend.”

“No one here is your friend, Tommy,” the other mumbled. “Sooner you quit thinking they are, the sooner you stop carrying the weight of the world around.” 

Thomas sighed. “Aren’t you the one who’s supposed to see the good in everything?” 

“I never said a thing like that,” Newt hummed. “I see good. But I’m not stupid enough to be blind to the bad.” 

“And yet you’re here with me.” 

“I don’t see bad in you.” 

Thomas raised an eyebrow.

“What? I don’t,” Newt said again. 

Thomas steered the conversation away, swallowing. “If Gally’s in the maze, how have we not run into him, or at least heard something from him?” 

“Dunno,” Newt muttered. “You reckon the doors’ve opened?” 

“There’s nothing to go back–”

As if on cue, a voice appeared in the air, speaking clearly as if speakers lined every wall. 

“Tributes of the Ninety-Ninth Trials,” Anderson said, something akin to joy in his voice. “Your last days are upon you, the end creeping near…”

Newt looked at Thomas, eyebrows raised. “He giving poetry a go?” 

Thomas couldn’t help but snort. 

“And in your last days we—the Makers—feel like being especially generous.”

“Doubtful,” he heard Newt breathe.

“We see you there, each and every one of you. The likelihood of your survival is dampened by a certain…” A long, purposeful pause. “ – issue. And all of you need a touch of help. And we are more than willing to distribute such a thing.” 

Thomas felt his hackles rise, though his interest peaked, knowing that if anyone could fix what was wrong with Newt, it would be the Capitol. 

“A feast will be hosted in the Center,” Anderson went on. “A feast that will gift each of you exactly what it is you require, and boost your chances of returning home crowned a Victor.”

Thomas looked at Newt, gaze following a bead of sweat as it fell from place on his forehead and slid down the straight bridge of his nose. The blond had his eyes shut, hands wrapped around his middle, a certain shiver raising bumps all over his skin. 

“In sixty seconds, the Doors will open. And in sixty minutes, they will close.” Something clicked, and Anderson’s smile was clear in his showy voice. “May the odds be ever in your favour.”

“Thomas–” Newt started. 

“It’s the only way we’ll be able to win this,” Thomas said immediately, grabbing the rabbit and shoving her into Chuck’s bag. “It’s the only way. And it’ll get us close to Gally, maybe I can get behind him or something.” 

“And if you don’t?” Newt countered. “You said it yourself, you don’t know if you can take him.” 

“He’ll be weak, we’re all weak,” he argued. “This place is empty of food and water, he’s probably worse off than us.” Thomas didn’t truly know if that was possible, but it felt like the right thing to say. “We have to go, now. It’ll probably take us an hour to find our way back.” 

The rubbery curved floor beneath them began to vibrate with the rumble of the opening doors, and Thomas’ determination coursed through him like fire. He pushed Newt’s satchel into the other’s hands, slinging Chuck’s bag over his shoulder, and set a hand on Newt’s own, ignoring the heat he could feel radiating from the blond’s skin. 

“We’ve got to go.” 

Newt shook his head. “I can hardly stand being awake as is. I don’t feel like walking.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Go without me. I’ll only slow us down.” 

“I won’t be able to find you again.” 

“I’ll whistle or something.” 

“Newt.” 

“I won’t make it.”

“You will,” he said firmly, squeezing the other’s shoulder. “You have to.” 

Thomas had won, he could see it in Newt’s eyes. “This is a bad idea.” 

“You’ll be thanking me for this in an hour,” Thomas told him, then scooted towards the exit and slid down onto the stone floor below. He turned around, offering Newt a hand down. “We’re wasting…” He looked up at the lifeless mass where the sky used to be. “Graylight.” 

“Oh you think you’re so clever,” Newt grumbled, taking his hand and dropping down. 

Thomas grinned, starting off.

The first few minutes of the walk were simple enough, Newt only slightly slowing them down. But as time wore on—the more turns and grounds they crossed—the blond weakened further and further. It seemed as though the exertion of it all was worsening his condition more rapidly than it had been doing previously, if that was even possible. 

The veins in his arms and throat were growing impossibly prominent, and pulsing something sickly and black. All that was missing was the spouts of blood splattered over his mouth, and the greenish tinge to his skin. Not to mention the thirst for violence. But there was still time, and it was that fact that had Thomas hooking Newt under his arm and trudging on further, trying to lead them both to the Center. 

By the time what he guessed had been over half an hour had passed, Newt was all but a puddle under his arm. His weight rested solely against Thomas’ side, and his breathing had gone entirely ragged. Sweat came off of him like a river, and a stench—something that reeked of sickness—lingered in the air around them. 

“Newt,” Thomas urged as the other’s eyes slid shut, head bowing. “Hold on, okay? Hang in there.” 

“M’fine,” Newt sputtered, a cough coming up to wrack through his body. “M’fine. Keep going.” 

Thomas chanced him a lingering glance, watching as sweat dripped down the darkened fringe of his hair, sticking it to his forehead. The heat coming off of him was impossible, but it was fine. Soon it would be fine. Soon. It would be. 

“We’re close,” he muttered. “I promise.” 

Of all the lies Thomas had ever told, that may have been the biggest. For all Thomas knew, they were miles and miles away from the Center without a single clue as to which direction led them the way they were meant to be going. The mammoth walls looked alike—every one of them—and he had been half sure they were going in circles. Whatever hopes he held for them were long gone, and even his injuries appeared to be getting worse holding both his own weight and Newt’s. 

He was a few seconds from giving up when suddenly his eye caught on something metallic moving on the maze floor. It was another of those little metal bugs he had spotted during his first days in the arena, with green writing across its side he still couldn’t make out. It scrambled to a stop before him, made the smallest little clicking noise, then scurried off. 

And for some unbeknownst reason, Thomas followed it. It was far too quick for the trudge he had to take to, but it stopped before every turn, and skittered off only when it was in view of him. It could have been leading both he and Newt to their graves, but a part of him thought that would’ve been a rather anticlimactic choice for the Makers to make. 

No, they wanted something brutal and violent. No one wanted to watch Thomas and Newt—who were already hours away from death—be put down quickly by some mutts. 

And in the end, he was right, because what could’ve only been a few minutes later he was brought upon one of the four doors. For a bit there he had forgotten that the interior of the arena had fallen apart, crumbling and torn ground disappearing through an abyss, but the event was only brought back to him when he peered through the West Door.

There was no remnant of an earthquake-like incident. The Center was entirely intact, resting between the four walls like nothing had ever gone on. The only evidence that remained was the fact that it was no longer sporting a forest, a swamp, or a field of tall grass. It looked as though all of that had been replaced by a flat, constant plate of fresh grass. 

He set Newt down a few feet away from the wall, and even further from the threshold, and pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the way his skin burned against Thomas’ hand. Newt tossed his head back at the contact, looking up at Thomas with eyes blackening further by the minute. 

“Okay,” he said, swallowing a round of bile. “Okay. I won’t be long, alright?” He didn’t move, couldn’t move. “Just hang in there for a few minutes, okay? Don’t–”

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” Newt told him with a weak smile. 

“Of course,” he replied, feeling stupid. 

Newt pursed his lips. “Have fun.” 

“Right, okay.” Thomas’ hand was still on Newt’s forehead, and he remained to be crouched over him. It didn’t feel right, leaving him alone. “Uh–” 

“Don’t fight him,” Newt said suddenly, hands coming up to pull Thomas’ hand off his forehead, clinging onto him with a painful grip. “Don’t, Thomas. You’ll die. Swear to me. You’ll get the stuff and come right back.” He paused, breathing hard. “Swear it!” 

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I’ll get the stuff and come right back.”

Newt didn’t let go, still staring at him. 

“I swear.” 

The blond nodded and loosened his grip until his hands fell into his lap. Thomas watched him for another moment, eyes flickering over the dark vein running beneath the skin of his cheek, the ones running under his ear, the rapid fluttering of his pulse on his throat. 

This felt like a goodbye, even if it wasn’t meant to be. “If I don’t–” 

“Just bloody go, Tommy,” Newt spat, seeming like the words were causing pain. “You’ll be fine.” 

“Right. Okay.” He stood up. “Try to stay awake.” He reached into Newt’s satchel and pulled out Chuck’s knife, running his thumb over the grip before pushing it into Newt’s hands. “Scream if you need help.”

All he got was unintelligible nonsense in return, but Thomas took it as agreement and plopped Chuck’s bag beside the blond, then turned to face the field before him. 

It was grass from here to each of the four walls, green and lush. The Box remained in the middle, but the trap doors were shut. The pedestals around it, however, had moved places. One had disappeared, and the other three were laid out before the West, North, and East Doors. They stood what he assumed to be around twenty feet from The Box, and even from a distance he could make out the colour of each bag. One red, one black, and one orange. 

They didn’t have long before the doors slid shut again, and whatever supplies had been laid out for them disappeared. And it would be no better if Thomas got ahold of Newt’s medicine and then got locked away from him, so he had to be as quick as possible, no distractions. 

He sucked a deep breath in, forced himself to push away the bits of pain scattered all around his body—the worst of it coming from his foot—then, he started running. 

The pain was there, obvious and unrelenting, but in some way he couldn’t even feel it. Ahead stood a pedestal holding a red bag, and north of it sat the one bearing the black one. He was far slower than he would usually be, but he pushed himself, pushed and pushed and pushed until the searing burn was no longer muted, and instead pumped through him in agonizing waves.

As he got closer and closer, he looked around briefly and caught no sight of Gally anywhere near. He remembered the Seven boy well enough, remembered the suspicion that burned in his eyes upon seeing Thomas, remembered his offering of salve that likely saved Thomas a lot of pain. 

And he remembered the pained howl that rang through the forest when Gally found Beth. 

And Thomas didn’t want to kill Gally, no part of him did. But he had to, for Newt. And he would, for Newt. 

But not now. Not yet. 

Thomas slid to a halt right before the first pedestal, grabbing at the red back and attempting to bolt off with it, but got stopped as he realized that it was wired down, much like the weapons were in the bloodbath. He pulled the bag up as much as he could revealing the thick wire holding the straps in place, and his fingers quickly got to work. 

His hands burned and ached with every deft movement, the scrapes and splinters stinging brutally. The small pain was nothing compared to the ache in his foot nor the soreness of the wounds covering his arms and back, but he pushed all of it away, focusing on the task at hand. 

When the wire was halfway undone, he glanced up for a brief second at a movement in his sight line. He looked fully after a moment, realizing that someone was slowly, painfully slinking into the Center. He knew it was Gally, it could only be Gally, but a part of him didn’t believe it. 

The distance between them was enough that Thomas couldn’t make out much, but he could see that the Seven boy was limping on both legs, clearly wounded far more severely than Thomas. He frowned for a moment, but looked down again, focusing on the wire. 

But Gally was right there, and clearly weak. 

No. It didn’t matter, it couldn’t matter because Thomas had a mission, a purpose, and though he had messed up the majority of things he had put his mind to in the past few days, he wouldn’t ruin everything again. He couldn’t lose again, couldn’t lose Newt, couldn’t lose yet another person. This was his very last chance, and there was no circumstance that could stop him from doing what he needed to do. 

If he went after Gally now, he could end up getting himself killed. He didn’t know the extent to which the other was hurt, and he himself was battered enough, as Newt would say. And if Gally’s bag bore something to make him better, then he’d go straight after Newt. Thomas couldn’t risk that. He wouldn’t risk that. 

Gally was moving along, though Thomas refused to break his focus and check how close the other boy had gotten. He could feel the presence, looming as it was, growing closer and closer the more his pained fingers fiddled with the tense wire. He shook off the anxiety climbing up his throat and focused. Unwinding, unwrapping, unravelling. 

When it broke free he was off a second time, bolting towards the black bag and chancing a glance at Gally. The taller boy was halfway towards his own bag, dragging his feet as quickly as he could manage. Thomas shook himself off, fixing his gaze on the bag ahead. 

He began working on the wire the second he skidded to a stop before Newt’s pedestal, hands aching viciously. 

And while he worked to undo the wire, his mind slipped for just a moment. He considered wasting another few minutes in grabbing Gally’s bag before he could manage to reach it. It looked as though Gally was struggling to walk, and if Thomas could steal whatever was in his bag, he’d leave the boy far worse off for the next time they came to meet. 

Thomas looked again at the Seven boy, his eyes catching on the way Gally bent over and spit something dark from his mouth, head ticking to the side. 

And then it clicked. 

He could nearly smell it now, the stench of sickness that followed the Seven boy around like a fog, just as it had on Newt. The longer he looked, the more it made sense. The staggering, pained walk. The determination to get to his own bag, the lack of awareness of anything else. Gally must’ve been injected, but he was far worse off than Newt. Though not as bad as Ben had been. 

Thomas imagined the sickness would be more consuming the weaker you were, the weaker your mind was. His own inner eye suddenly supplied images of Ben at the reaping, tears sliding down his face and a tremor in his hands, while Gally had stood tall and unreachable. 

But his loss of himself was inevitable, just as Ben’s was. Just as Newt’s was. He would turn into a monster one way or another, and Thomas couldn’t decide if it was worse for him to fight someone senseless, or to fight someone who knew what they were fighting for. He couldn’t help but think of Isabelle, the claw marks that were torn into her. 

Newt’s bag came loose but Thomas didn’t move. 

He looked up. Gally was close to his bag now, far closer. Too close. 

But Thomas could get to it, it wasn’t impossible. Not if he really tried. Or he could use the straps—thick ropes—of the bags to kill the boy, suffocate him, just as he had Ben. He could put an end to this now, send Newt home now. He could. He knew he could. 

He tensed, and turned around, bolting with the last of his strength back towards the West Door. 

And he was lucky, too. As the moment he began running a tremble ran through the ground beneath his feet and the doors began to slowly, slowly close. His vision reduced to nothing more than a pinhole, Thomas zeroed in on the West Door, the slowly shortening distance between he and it, and he focused on what was beyond it, who was beyond it. 

Thirty feet became twenty. Twenty to ten. Ten to five. Four, three, two…

He jumped between the wall and the opposite one closing in on it, bags on his shoulder scraping against the concrete. His hands pressed to the stone to push him forward quicker and quicker until finally he broke through the other side and collapsed on the floor, his body trembling in pain, legs shaking. 

He turned to watch the Center disappear, and when he did he caught a glimpse of Gally in the distance just as the boy raised his hand and threw something down into his thigh. The West Door sealed into a wall, and he stared after it for just a moment.

But he didn’t remain any longer, instead he crawled to Newt—who was slumped on the ground with the knife held limply, twitching every few seconds—and shook his shoulder, dropping down to sit in front of the other before he pulled the bags from his shoulder and set them on his lap.

The blond stirred. “Tommy?” 

He didn’t respond in favour of catching his breath, and ripped open the black bag, turning it over above his lap. From it fell a water bottle and a sleek black box, and his nerves jumped at the sight of it. He tossed the bag aside, hands taking to pulling the small box open. 

It clicked, opened, and inside lay…

Lay a piece of fabric. 

He frowned, pulling it into his hands and feeling the odd thick, elastic fabric between his hands. It looked like a large sleeve, or a–

A knee brace. 

Thomas swallowed hard and grabbed his own bag, tearing it open to reveal yet another water bottle and a black box from inside. He pulled it open, it clicked, revealing a container similar to the one they acquired atop the wall a short time ago. It was far smaller though. And it wasn’t what they needed. He knew. 

It didn’t matter. He twisted it open and pulled Newt’s right arm towards himself, staring down at the web of black veins starting from the needle wound that had begun leaking pus. He scooped out the small amount of a weird light cream and spread it over Newt’s arm, waiting for something to happen. 

His fingers tingled where he had touched the substance, and when he pulled his hand up to look he found the small cuts seemingly mending themselves, splinters pushing up out of his skin. 

He looked down at Newt’s arm, but nothing had happened. 

He swallowed, looking up. “Newt…” 

The blond’s head lolled, eyes sliding shut, and Thomas felt his stomach sink.

Chapter Text

It felt as though there was another person living inside of Thomas, just beneath his skin. Someone who was far larger than he, and far angrier than he had ever been. One small nick and they would be revealed out to the world, screaming and ripping buildings down to the foundation. 

But he held it in. He did. It was hard, and his breathing had gone ragged, vision blurring, temples pounding, but he did it. It took biting his tongue until the metallic sting of blood flared up on his tongue—images of Dan’s remains flashing through his mind—and squeezing a fist so tight he knew it’d add a bruise to the many he sported beneath the cloth. But he kept his composure. 

He was straddled over Newt’s knees, hand on the back of the other’s neck as he tilted the open water bottle into his mouth. Newt was conscious, somewhat, but his eyes were squeezed shut, brows furrowed, and occasionally a hand would come up to weakly bat at Thomas’ face. He dumped sips of water onto the blond’s tongue nonetheless, waiting until his throat bobbed with a shallow swallow before trying again. 

Whatever had infected Newt, it was moving through him rapidly. It had only been minutes since the West Doors sealed shut, but his ally had somehow managed to look worse off. Light hair had been made dark by sweat, and it was stuck to his forehead as the pronounced veins grew darker and darker all along his face. 

It was nothing like Thomas had ever seen. There had been biological elements many times, but this was something otherworldly. He could almost see Newt—the real Newt—disappearing slowly, as if his mind was truly dying, pieces of him falling away into the nothingness below. 

“Tommy,” Newt rasped out, water spraying from his mouth as a cough followed his words. Thomas wiped what trickled down his chin with his sleeve, putting the water bottle aside. “Drink.”

Thomas frowned. “More?” 

“No, you daft moron.” Newt leaned heavily against Thomas’ hand on his nape, eyes flickering open weakly, as if he were struggling to stay awake. “Drink water.” 

“Oh,” he murmured, slowly removing his hand and slumping off to the side, grabbing the bottle that had been within his own bag, uncapping it as he looked over Newt. “Thanks.” 

Newt was on his back again, hands over his stomach. “Gally?” 

Gally.  

The image had been burnt into his eyelids, Gally standing in the middle of the Center, arm high in the air with something in hand, something to rid him of the sickness that plagued him. Something that would’ve fixed Newt as well, had Thomas grabbed it. 

And he could’ve. He knew he could’ve. 

And yet he didn’t. Why hadn’t he? 

Newt could’ve been recovering now, the illness flushing out from his body as he spat stupid remarks Thomas’ way, his grin wide and genuine. Not…not laid over cold stone, pulling in breaths that sounded as though they hurt. Thomas could’ve just killed Gally then, then himself, could’ve ended it there and allowed a Berg to collect Newt, pull him into safety. 

He didn’t answer Newt, instead tipping the water back into his mouth and nearly crying out as the coolness of it spread from his mouth to down his throat, and into his stomach. The second the first drop fell onto his tongue, Thomas’ free hand fled up to get a better grip, sucking the liquid down desperately. 

“Slowly,” Newt muttered. 

Thomas pulled it away from himself, panting as tears nearly spilled over his waterline. He twisted the cap back on and put it aside, willing himself not to touch it again. The water settled—not without a few burps—and Thomas’ skin broke out in a light sweat, heaviest between his shoulder blades. He licked what remained of it from his lips, looking off to the wall that was once a door. 

But his eyes didn’t stay there long. Instead, they fled to the black piece of fabric that laid against the gray of concrete. It was an ugly thing, so obviously born from the Capitol with the shine in the fabric and the silver logo sitting in the bend of it. He wanted to burn it, to watch as it broke down into nothing but stringy pieces of char. 

But he only stared, listening as it mocked him. He could almost see them up wherever they chose to station themselves, likely above so they could look down on the tributes. The Makers. Laughing as he unveiled the brace, laughing as he spread the useless cream over Newt’s arm, desperate to fix what he couldn’t. 

Laughing, laughing, laughing. 

He could hear it in his mind, the throaty sound of it, the joy that they would all feel aching in their ribs at his dismay, just as they had with Chuck. It didn’t matter who suffered, so long as it wasn’t one of their own, so long as they got to watch. 

And there they were, somewhere, watching. Watching. Thomas could feel their eyes—everyone’s eyes—burning into every inch of his skin. He could feel the presence of cameras even if he couldn’t point them out. And he could hear Toad’s stupid voice, narrating every moment of Thomas’ agony, of all of the tributes' agony as he had done for years now.

“Do you think this is funny?” he asked into the open air, staring up at the lifeless sky, slowly pushing himself onto his feet. “Do you?” 

Teresa, Chuck, Dan, Beth, Mara, Aris, Rachel. Isabelle, Perdita, Poppy. Ben, Triton, Alby. 

The others—the ones that Thomas didn’t know—all of them, and those who came before. Twenty-three over ninety-nine years, not including the Quarter Quell that doubled the numbers. Children. Twelve to eighteen. All of them, dead. Families robbed and groups gathered around to watch their torment unfold. 

Knives slashing slits into flesh. Spears punching into bodies. Arrows wedged into throats. 

Laughing, laughing, laughing. 

Laughing because that’s what it was, entertainment. Crying because that’s what it was, entertainment. Their deaths, their pain and their suffering, all of it was nothing more than an event to look forward to. Something to wear your best clothes for. Something to bet on. 

“Such a joke,” he went on, closing his eyes as a smile spread over his face. “All of this. Laughing at them. At me. You must be so proud of yourselves.” 

“Thomas,” he heard below. 

“And oh, how truly admirable it is, avenging those who died in the Dark Days.” He opened his eyes again, gaze immediately flickering to a machine-bug crawling high up on the wall. “Yes. You’re all doing a good thing, don’t forget that.” He cocked his head at it. “Killing hundreds of innocent kids and pretending it’s for retribution.”

“Thomas,” Newt hissed. 

“They’re keeping you weak!” he shouted at the bug, hoping he was right in doing so. “Keeping you scared. And you want to know why? Because they’re terrified. Because you could rip their city to shreds and live to see fire turn to ash. That’s fucking why.” 

The bug was staring right at him, Thomas thought. 

Like it could hear him. 

“They don’t care about you.” He bent down, plucking up the knee brace. “You’re a joke to them. Your torment is their entertainment. And–” 

Something sharp hit his new-foot, and Thomas cried out, looking down to see Newt had kicked it with his own. “Shut your damn hole.” 

“What does it matter?” he snapped, tossing the knee brace at Newt’s chest. “They’re just going to keep doing this, toying with us because they’d rather see a damn rabbit win this stupid thing than you!” 

Newt looked up at him, anger sharp in his eyes. 

“Is that it?” he asked the sky again, turning on a heel with his arms spread wide. The bug remained up on the wall, watching. “You wouldn’t want the world to find out you’re starving out District Twelve, do you? Or Eleven or Ten or whoever else you’re trying to keep weak.” 

“Stop,” Newt all but pleaded. “You’re making it worse.” 

“I’m going to kill Gally,” Thomas told the world. “I’m going to kill him. And you’ll be begging Newt to win, begging, because if I ever get out of here I’ll kill all of you, just like you killed all of them.” He paused, chest heaving. “Not just the Makers. Not just the Elites. All of you. All of you who sat around and laughed and–”

“Thomas!” Newt shouted, and it came out horribly broken. 

And then Thomas looked down again, eyes finding Newt’s blackened irises. And the fire inside him withered into nothing but weak strands of smoke, because the blond was on his hands, legs off to the side of him, expression tired and sick and so, so terrified. 

Thomas went to move to him, but something sounded—rapidly clicking—and he looked up just as the bug high on the wall burst into sparks, immediately flying off the wall and landing a few feet to his right with one final ejection of hot light. 

Thomas moved to it, peering down at the green writing painted on its side. 

W.C.K.D.

He swallowed.

“Thomas,” Newt said, but Thomas didn’t move, focus fixed on the metal bug, on the writing, on the letters he knew, the letters he had seen before. It meant something, he knew it did. “Tommy!” 

He took a few steps back, eyes flickering over the bug for just a moment before he gathered himself and turned to face his ally, quickly dropping to a crouch and giving Newt a hand up to sit. 

“Listen to me,” Newt started, head lolling as he tried to meet Thomas’ gaze. “You have to let me die. You have to–” 

“No,” he said fiercely. “I won’t.” 

“And they won’t let me win!” Newt snarled. “You said it yourself, just a bloody minute ago. They’d rather–” He coughed violently, dark blood splattering on Thomas’ knees. His voice came out weaker as he went on. “They’d rather Shuck win. They’d rather anyone. This–keeping me alive, it’s torture.”

“Then suffer,” Thomas seethed. 

Newt blinked a few times, eyes wide as if such words were the very last thing he expected. Thomas’ own gaze darted between them, studying the inky black overtaking them, the dilation of his pupils. It wasn’t anger that sparked deep in his chest, wasn't sadness, it was pure and unadulterated determination. 

“I don’t care if it hurts.” He brought a hand up to grab at Newt’s nape again, steadying the other as he pulled him closer, firm whispers coming out scratchy and vicious. “I don’t care if you’d rather me kill you now. I don’t care. I won’t. You will go home.” 

His hand—the one holding him up in his crouched position, planted firmly against the ground—detected the deep, far away rumble long before his ears did. But he didn’t move, he didn’t worry. He just held Newt’s eyes and stared and stared and stared. 

And Newt wasn’t sick anymore, not for the time being. No, he was studying Thomas with all of himself. The two deep lines between his furrowed brow, the scrutiny laced within his iris, the deep-rooted curiosity that ran through his veins instead of blood. It felt better than the water had as Thomas took it in, a sign that all wasn’t lost. Not yet. 

The rumble grew closer and closer, and Thomas knew they were out of time to argue. Quickly he dropped his hold on the other and stood up, Newt stumbling for a moment before catching himself. Thomas began packing up their water, leaving the ridiculous knee brace there on the cold stone, though he plucked up the odd salve and shoved it into his bag alongside the rabbit. 

There was little to nothing in Newt’s satchel, so he tossed it aside, taking Chuck’s knife and tucking it into his belt. It was only moments later that the first massive boom sounded from a distance, and he fell in front of Newt, grabbing the blond’s shoulders. 

“Just a few minutes,” he said loudly over the next large explosion that rang out much closer to them. “Okay?” 

Newt wanted to say something, wanted to argue, Thomas could see it in his face, but he didn’t. Instead he gave a curt nod and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, Thomas catching his weight as his knees buckled from under him. 

The ground vibrated beneath their feet as another deafening blast echoed around the halls, each new one growing closer and closer than the last, and Thomas turned around to see that the West Wall—still sealed—had six cracks running along it, pieces of stones separating and shifting beside one another. He shut his eyes for just a moment, feeling the pain running through him, leaning into it.

And then he was pulling them down the corridor, arm tucked over Newt’s back, trudging along as more explosions sounded and more walls cracked and broke. The ivy was wild, shaking viciously and reaching out, but they kept to the center of the passageways and pushed forward. 

They ran towards a fork, the right wall leading up to it broken into a hundred chunks, the jaggedly cut stone dropping into itself the painful crack of stone slamming against stone. Thomas tried hurrying their pace as much as he could, dragging them through the left turn of the fork as the walls began crumbling to the ground behind them. 

With the way that the explosions were sounding, and the speed at which the maze was crumbling around them, it wouldn’t be long before there was nowhere to run, nowhere to escape to. They needed to get…to get where? Where could they hide from–

The tunnel, the tube, the pipe, whatever it was, they had to get back to it. 

The pain that once panged through every part of his body disappeared, replaced with something more numb, and Thomas set his jaw and took off, pulling the blond along beside him. Great fractures broke in the stone as he ran from corridor to corridor, but he ignored them all, focused on one thing and one thing only. 

In his mind he revisited their walk to the Center, the turns they took both before and after that little metal beetle began leading them towards the right direction. And here—despite the world falling apart around him—he forced the memories back to him, leaning into turns that felt right. His legs were numb enough that all he could feel was the vibrations of them moving. 

A left at the fork, dodge the huge chunk of rock that fell from above, then go and don’t stop until your only choice is right, then run, run, run, run.  

Newt was saying something, Thomas knew, but he couldn’t make out the words and he didn’t try. His arm remained looped around the blond, snug under his arms, and Newt made no attempt to stop running as best he could, so Thomas paid him little to no mind, far more focused on the path they ran over, the way back, the stones falling from above and breaking around them. 

His head was screaming, not in pain, but the voices were screaming at him. All of them. Teresa and Chuck and Aris and Rachel and everyone, everyone, Dan, Mara, Beth and Poppy and Perdita all of them. It was agony and pushing him further and he could do it but could he? He could. They knew he could. 

Shut up, shut up, shut up.

Soon, soon, soon.  

They took another harsh right—which Thomas recognized by an especially thick bunch of ivy—and he knew they were going to make it. They were. Everything was working out, they were going to live, Newt was going to live and it would have been Thomas’ very own doing. 

And it would all have been worthwhile. All of it. All of Thomas’ mistakes will have been rectified and everything would just stop. All of the anger and the sadness and the pain, it would all melt and peace would become and he would be dead and Teresa would be waiting for him. And she would forgive him, and she would hold him. 

And then Newt fell. 

And the voices stopped. 

Thomas’ shoe—and his new-foot—scraped against the stone below as he stopped, turning on his heel only to drop to the ground and grab Newt under the arms as the maze broke to pieces. He hoisted him up, but Newt didn’t so much as try to stand again, hands coming up to push away from Thomas. 

“Go,” Newt croaked. “Leave me.” 

Yet another explosion sounded, this time close enough that it left Thomas’ ears ringing painfully, but he only dipped down again, grabbing Newt under the arms and forcing him up again, fighting back a shout as Newt crumbled. 

“Just go, Tommy! You bloody idiot!”

“Get up!” he barked, attempting to haul the other to his feet again. 

Newt didn’t move, folded to the ground and exhausted and shaking against Thomas’ grip. But this couldn’t be it, it couldn’t because Newt—rooftop Newt, reading Newt, smiling Newt—wouldn’t die here, crushed beneath towering stone walls, cold and bleeding and alone. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t okay. 

So Thomas steadied his racing mind and jumped forward, grabbing Newt under the arms and hoisting him up in one quick movement. His back ached at the movement, but it didn’t matter, because as he looked up he watched as a piece of the wall broke off from the rest and began its fall towards them. 

He swiveled and all but threw Newt away from himself, bolting after the other as the stone fell and fell and fell until it crashed just behind him, the jolt of it throwing him onto his stomach. He scrambled up, grabbed Newt’s arm, and coughed the dust out from his lungs until he could manage a few broken words.

“Keep fucking going.” 

And then Newt was under his arm again and they were running, slowly, but they were running. The maze was unrecognizable now, but Thomas trusted in himself, in his memory, and kept taking turns, kept running, kept going because there was nothing else he could do.

Newt’s feet were dragging, but he didn’t stop. 

His own legs were beginning to stiffen, but he didn’t stop. 

It would be minutes until the area was nothing but rubble, but he didn’t stop. 

And as he took a sharp left, hand scraping against a fissure in the wall, a slit being cut into his finger, Thomas considered himself, considered what it would be like if he just stopped. He was tired, Newt was tired, and by the looks of it neither of them wanted to keep going, wanting to keep suffering. 

The Makers, they wouldn’t let either of them go home, that much was sure. Thomas was a traitor, and Newt was…well, Newt was better than them. He knew on some level that they would both die, he knew in some way that he was running towards the impossible. And what if he just…didn’t. What if his efforts were futile? What if none of the pain inside of him was worthwhile?

And then his eyes locked onto a bright rusty stain. 

It was blood, Thomas knew. 

It was Triton’s blood. 

“Here!” he cried, pulling Newt in front of him and bolting until they came upon the rubber circle entrance. He grabbed Newt by the back of his shirt and shoved him up into the pipe, then jumped after him.

The pair scrambled as far inside as they could without falling down into the shallow drop, and they watched as large, jagged rocks piled up before the entrance until they were sealed inside. A harsh tingle ran over Thomas’ body, so intense it hurt, and it was only seconds before he was on his hands and knees, puking up his stomach lining. 

When it stopped, he couldn’t do anything but slump onto his side and suck in deep, cool breaths. The rumbling hadn’t stopped, but the stone set around the pipe didn’t seem to be breaking away or close to caving in and crushing them. At least for the time being. 

“Newt,” came his whisper, as if his tongue had a mind of his own. It woke him from his sickness, however, and he pushed himself up on one elbow, looking over the other as much as he could in the dark. “Newt?” 

“Idiot,” the other hissed out, sitting opposite to Thomas. 

“Hm?” 

“They wouldn’t’ve done that had you kept your damned face shut,” Newt muttered. “And now we’re…we’re here. Trapped. Bloody hell.”

“Better here than out there,” he said quietly. “We have a second to think.” 

“You should’ve left me.” 

“Stop saying that,” Thomas uttered weakly, elbow slipping from under him as he returned to lying on his side. “Believe it or not, you can tell me to let you die a thousand times and I’m still not going to do it.” 

“Then you’re stupider than you look.” 

“Insult me all you want,” he muttered. “It changes nothing. I won’t stop trying.” 

“I don’t want you to try!” Newt shouted, his words bouncing around the pipe. “I never asked for you to show up and start demanding that I stay alive and win this stupid fucking game!” 

“I’m not demanding–"

“Shut your hole,” Newt bit. “You’re a vicious idiot, did you know that? Do you ever think about anyone other than yourself? Have you ever once considered that you very much aren’t the only person in the world?” 

Thomas swallowed. “I don’t think–” 

“Oh of course you do. Your sister died and suddenly it’s the end of the damned world and you’ve got to be this…this bloody martyr when you’re nothing more than a pathetic dolt!” Newt shifted around, and Thomas wondered what the other would do if his hands were clasped around Chuck’s knife. “Teresa’s dead so now the world matters, everyone else matters.” 

He pushed himself up to sit, eyes locked on the outline of Newt the dim lighting—entering through the cracks of rocks holding them in—offered him. He couldn’t make out much, but he knew Newt wasn’t looking at him, knew the blond was angry and staring into his lap or the wall or anywhere that wasn’t Thomas. 

“Newt I…” He ran a hand over his face, wiping away the sick that remained around his mouth. “I know that it seems that way, but I really didn’t–” 

“Kill yourself,” Newt growled. “Do whatever you want to do to make yourself feel better, but leave me out of it. I want nothing to do with your ridiculous cause.” 

“You’re the only thing that matters,” Thomas said quickly. “The only thing I can–” 

“For the love of everything, shut up.” Newt’s hands came up to scrub at his face, exasperated. “You don’t understand a single damned thing. You’re just…you’re the dullest, most inconsiderate person I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.”

“I–” 

“Don’t talk to me.” 

It felt like Newt had hit him, if anything else. But it wasn’t real, that’s what he told himself. Newt was sick, and in pain, and exhausted. Whatever words that came from his mouth as they sat there, trapped in a pipe as the arena crumbled around them, well, they simply weren’t true. 

Thomas couldn’t even be angry about the outburst, it was unfair of him to be. He didn’t understand just how badly Newt was suffering at the hand of the virus that was tearing its way through him, he couldn’t. So he swallowed away the emotions the other’s words stirred, and shook himself free of the fear that their situation left him in. 

He had to be stable, just for now. He had to be. There wasn’t another option. 

It was only a few minutes later that the explosions stopped entirely. It was confusing, if anything, and slowly Thomas crawled towards the entrance of the pipe and listened through the cracks of the rocks. Broken bits of walls were still falling, crashing into the ground, but the arena itself had stopped shaking and the worst of it looked to be over. 

With a deep breath of dusty air, Thomas put two hands on one of the hunks of concrete that barred them from leaving. With all of his strength he pushed and pushed but the piece wouldn’t budge. 

“Tommy,” Newt said behind him. 

But Thomas’ composure was at the end of the wick as it was, and he didn’t feel like being hit with insult after insult when all he was trying to do was help, so he didn’t turn. He pulled out a few smaller rocks, placing them in a pile beside where he knelt, and kept pushing, feeling the larger of the chunks shift just slightly. 

“Tommy!” 

He whirled around, brow furrowed. “What–?” 

Above them, a long, perfectly straight crack had broken through the thick rubber of the tube, and the top of it had begun to bow downwards, the weight of rubble above finally taking its toll. Thomas stared at it for all of two seconds before an ear-splitting boom sounded right above them, and then he was lunging. 

Lunging, because the pipe was caving in. 

Lunging, because they were going to die.

His hand caught Newt’s arm in the last second, and he tugged him close before hurtling them both down the slick, dark drop at the end of the pipe. It was pitch black, and the slope dropped far more steep, the pair picking up speed at a rapid pace. Thomas had Newt’s arm in his grip, and Newt’s other hand had fled to take a hold of him, fingers prying deeply into skin. 

The pipe twisted and turned violently, slamming the pair of them against walls and bruising the both of them as they sped throughout the pipe at an alarming speed. Thomas couldn’t breathe, couldn’t shout, he could only hold onto his ally and hope that it would come to an end. 

Suddenly their backs hit a wall and remained there as they slid through the darkness, careening through turns and spirals. Thomas quit trying to gather himself and just focused on Newt and keeping from puking his organs up. It seemed endless, that fact worsened by the complete and total darkness. 

The pair could breathe finally, but the panic settled within Thomas had his lungs seized and his heart stuttering rapidly. More explosions came from above, rattling them, and every drop of rock against rock made his ears ring painfully. 

He didn’t know when the end would come, nor did he know where the pipe was taking them. It could truly be endless, and they’d die of exhaustion or starvation or something. Or maybe it would drop them into the abyss below, and they’d fall to their deaths or land in more hot water or fire or something miserable and painful. 

Had Thomas given Gally his victory? Would the Seven boy be lifted from the arena and brought home, remembering Thomas as nothing more than a body among bodies. Or would he think of him as the boy who slaughtered Beth, slaughtered her and let her bleed out on the forest floor, scared and grasping at her life desperately. 

Thomas would die, and Newt would too. And the world would dim and rot without the blond, and the Trials would go on. Kids would die and adults would watch. And the Capitol would rule until their world was run deep into the ground. 

And it would all be his fault. 

He didn’t know how much time had passed when the first of a dim light shone through his shut eyelids, but the terror that fled through him was certain and paralyzing. He squeezed Newt’s arm and let his entire body tense, preparing for the worst. 

And then he was in the air, limbs beginning to flail. 

And then he was on his back, the oxygen vanishing out from inside him, Newt falling onto his front, sharp limbs feeling like knives stabbing into Thomas’ stomach and legs. 

After a few moments composing themselves, Newt pushed himself up, open palms pressing into Thomas’ chest as he looked around. 

“Holy shit,” the blond murmured. 

But Thomas didn’t even register it. 

Because Newt’s skin was all but white, darkened veins visibly pulsing through it. If he pressed a finger to one of them, he’d be able to feel Newt’s heart pumping the black sludge all throughout. The heat coming off of him soaked through both of their clothes, and Thomas couldn’t do anything but stare. 

The greenish tinge had begun, surrounding the area around any protruding veins, staining his skin and making Thomas’ insides clench feverishly. 

How much longer did he have before his mind shut off? 

Suddenly Newt met his eyes, and Thomas’ heart almost stopped in his chest. The whites of them were gone, the dark brown of his irises were gone, Newt was gone from inside himself, leaving only a slightly red ring around what was once his pupil, the rest swallowed by the sickening black. 

Newt read the emotion on his face and quickly looked away, sliding off of him and landing on the jagged chunk of stone they had fallen onto. Thomas took the opportunity to take in the arena around them, trying not to think of Newt’s eyes and his skin and his…well, his everything. 

The walls had come down, and all that was left seemed to be piles upon piles of broken rock. Explosions still sounded somewhere distant, though Thomas couldn’t make anything out over the heaps of rubble surrounding them. The pipe they had been flung from remained to be uncovered, the wall it had once been a part of now crumbs hardly holding it up. 

Had Gally survived it? 

Newt began to cough violently, and Thomas pushed himself up to sit—his back burning at the movement—and he found the other on his hands and knees, black blood splattered on the slab of concrete beneath them. 

“Newt,” he tried, voice weak. 

“M’fine,” came a rasped response. 

And maybe he had thought himself sure of it before, but in that moment Thomas knew that he was ready. He didn’t think he was, he knew. Thomas wanted to die, if it meant Newt was the one to live. Thomas would suffer a painful, drawn out death, if it meant Newt would go on to pull air into healthy lungs and hold his loved ones with the same arms that shook beneath his weight. 

“Sleep,” he found himself saying. 

Newt coughed again, but sat up on his knees, wiping the blood that dripped down his chin. “Fuck off.” 

“You need to rest.” 

“Who d’ya think y’are?” Newt slurred, shaking his head. “G’on. Tell me.” 

“Lie down for a little bit, I’ll keep watch, alright?” 

“Liar,” Newt hissed, though his eyes still refused to meet Thomas’ again, remaining instead on the stone below them. “You…you’re gonna go off and die, I know y’are. Don’t lie.” 

“I’ll stay with you,” he mumbled. “I will.” 

“Swear.” 

“I swear.”