Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Revolution. An act done by the governed, an overthrowing of an established government or political system in favor of a new one.

A simple definition that promised so much more. A brighter future free of oppression, slavery, and torture. A nation that shared resources and goods rather than feeding them all to the Capitol and only getting to keep the scraps. A world with no more Hunger Games or Reapings or Victory Tours.

But first, the rebels had to win. And they were so far from that, not one person could see the finish line.

Finnick Odair, Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games and survivor of the latest Quarter Quell, sits quietly in his unofficial seat at the table in District Thirteen’s Command Center. It was a large room, the walls covered in television screens that constantly showed the Capitol’s coverage of the war and interactive maps of the Districts. Upon them, you could easily see where the rebels were either surging or struggling.

Currently, one of their main screens showed the live aerial footage of Katniss Everdeen visiting District Twelve. It was her first time there since it’d been bombed by the Capitol. Finnick hated to admit it, but the destruction in Twelve was even worse than he’d imagined. The District was gone, there was no other way to phrase it. President Coin, the leader of Thirteen, hoped that letting her see it pushed her into accepting the role of the Mockingjay.

Finnick had met Coin for the first time two weeks ago, shortly after he’d been released from the hospital.

She’d been polite and straight to the point, thanking Finnick for his vital role in keeping Katniss alive in the arena. Immediately after, she’d launched into her hope that he’d step into the role of rebel leader as well, helping to encourage not only District Four, but others as well, to fight back against surging Capitol forces.

Initially, he had just stared at her, his jaw twitching once, then twice. Amos had elbowed him in the side then, getting him to spit out a short agreement. Now here he was, with a schedule printed on his forearm that always had the same thing at thirteen hundred hours: Command.

He watches as Gale Hawthorne stays a few feet from Katniss as they walk around the District, the younger boy’s eyes never leaving Katniss’s figure for long. Finnick had met Gale as well, though his opinion of the other man wasn’t very high. It was obvious he pined after Katniss, more obvious that he had no idea of the horrors one actually experienced in the arena.

But still, if Gale was committed to being there for Katniss, then who was Finnick to judge?

The contributions Finnick had made to the rebels so far hadn’t been great, just providing intel on District Four, teaching them about the District’s social hierarchy, telling President Coin more about the man in charge there. Riptide Clarke had stepped easily into the position of authority among the rebels following Stellar Mere’s reaping to go compete in the Third Quarter Quell.

She volunteered, Finnick reminds himself. His hands clench into fists as he thinks that maybe she’d be here with him if she hadn’t volunteered. If she’d just let Annie go instead. The thoughts are pointless. Because Stell was Annie’s mentor, she never would’ve let her go. Besides, she was essential in the plan of keeping Peeta and Katniss alive in the Quell, Stell had been the one to remove Katniss’s tracker and had led Enobaria away from her.

And what did she get for it? Imprisonment? Possibly death?

None of it was fair, “Our radar’s still clear?” President Coin speaks up now, Finnick’s eyes flickering her way as she questions the defense captain in the room.

“Yes, ma’am.”  

His gaze moves to the map of Panem, zoning in on District Four. The lines indicating the rebel and Capitol forces still hadn’t changed from where they were when he last saw it three days prior. In fact, they hadn’t changed in the past two weeks. “Soldier Odair?” They’d heard the rebel forces had suffered greatly the night the Victors broke out, mainly because of Stell and Finnick’s involvement. It made him think that President Snow knew more than he was letting on too.

“Finnick?” He jumps slightly when a hand rests on his shoulder. Looking up, he sees Amos. The man was one of his own mentors for his first Games and was also the Victor of the First Quarter Quell. Now, he nods towards Coin, “She asked you a question.”

“We were discussing the decreasing moral in District Four.” Coin updates him, “Do you have any ideas.”

Finnick shrugs, “With all due respect, I don’t think morale is the main issue.” His answer seems simple, even to him, “They need supplies,” he swallows once, “According to Stell, they’d been ready to fight for years.”

“We can’t reach District Four with air support, not while the Capitols got aircraft on the ground there.” They’d received photographs of choppers landed just outside the fence shortly after the Quell. “If they were taken out, then it’d be a possibility.”

Coin sets her lips for a moment, “That’s where we need more people on our side.” A pointed look is thrown in Finnick’s direction, “Morale.” She repeats.

“Show them we’re alive,” Finnick’s voice comes off snippy, but he takes a breath to fix it, “They don’t know what’s happened to us,” He glances around the room, first at Amos, then to Mags, “Any of us.”

“I agree with the boy,” Amos has his broad arms crossed over his chest. His own dark gray hair has been cut short in Thirteen and looking at it, Finnick thinks it makes him look even older, “It’s time for Panem to learn that their Victors are still alive.” He looks down to Mags, a gentle smile curving onto his face, “Though they may not care much about us.”

Mags chuckles, pointing to Finnick, “Him.” The singular word is garbled coming from her mouth, the result of a stroke she endured a few years prior. That, combined with her old age and thick accent, made it difficult for those not from District Four to understand. 

“We can’t broadcast nationally yet,” Plutarch Heavensbee speaks up from his chair at the table, hands perpetually folded atop the matte surface, “But Beetee’s working on it, I believe we could get singular transmission to District Four.”

Beetee. Finnick hadn’t seen the man from District Three in a while. They kept him locked away in some lab, too important to attend these silly little meetings, “Make sure of it.” Coin nods once as she speaks, then looks to Finnick again, “And get him camera ready.”

The world wouldn’t end in a bang. Nor quietly or in any sort of peaceful manner. Rather, it would end one scream at a time, each one different than the last. Resonating through her very soul and twisting her mind until it snapped, no longer able to differentiate reality from nightmares.

It was, for Stellar Mere, an absolute truth. Each night she heard them in her dreams, just as clear as they’d been in the Quell. And then she’d wake, just to hear more, the same two: Johanna and Peeta.

She couldn’t see them; they shared a cell block while Stell was kept in a separate room which she guessed was down a small hallway from them. There wasn’t much to it. A small bed, a toilet, a sink. No windows, no mirrors.

And she only saw one other person, a peacekeeper who never spoke to her, they just delivered meals. At least the Capitol wasn’t starving her to death…not yet. They weren’t beating her either, though she figured that was just a matter of time.

For the first week she’d been strapped to a table, various machines hooked up to her. She’s not sure what they did, her scars were still visible, she could feel the wound on her face slowly healing. But with no reflective surfaces, it was impossible to really say.

At the present moment, she sat cross legged on the bed. At least as cross legged as she could, they’d detached her prosthetic left leg upon her arrival and had yet to give it back. That, along with all the plastic spoons, had led her to believe that they didn’t want her killing herself during her stay.

Glancing down at her hands, she can see where they’d get that notion. Dark red scrapes covered the back of her knuckles. They were from her own nails, a nervous, scratching habit that she’d picked up over the years. With no one else around to catch her it had gotten a bit out of hand.

The one on her right forefinger was particularly red, she’d been hyper focused on it the past few hours but to no avail. It stung, even then, when she wasn’t even touching it.

She makes her eyes roam over the cream-colored walls, all devoid of anything, leaving her just with her thoughts to entertain herself, when she hears the faint sound of footsteps approaching her room. Her dark eyebrows furrow together, she didn’t have a clock, but it felt much too early for her next meal to be arriving. And then…there were two sets of feet.

She sits up straighter, sapphire eyes already narrowed at the door when it opens. An armed peacekeeper enters the room first, followed by one of the last people she expects to see: Caesar Flickerman.

Her voice is rough as she addresses him, “Caesar?” His hair is still a bright pink, same as it was for the Quarter Quell interviews. She guesses, with the war going on, he hasn’t had time to dye it a different color.

The eccentric man pauses, hands held over his heart for a moment as he looks at her, “Oh, Stellar.” He looks as though he’s about to cry, standing there stupidly in her jail cell in a full suit, “I’ve been so worried!”

A small part of her thinks his words are genuine, and as he scurries closer, she accepts the hug that he bends down to give her, “What’re you doing here?” She asks quietly in his ear, eyeing the peacekeeper who still stands by the door.

“Why, I asked to see you.” He’s smiling at her as they pull away from one another, “May I?” He asks, glancing at her bed. She nods once, slightly speechless as he sits beside her, hands folding in his lap easily.

The man looks completely out of place, sitting on her bed in her prison cell. It stinks, she knows it does because her toilet doesn’t flush half the time and she hasn’t been given a change of clothes or gotten to shower, but Caesar sits there comfortable as can be. “Can I ask you something?” The interviewer nods, “Where’s Finnick?”

“I don’t know, my dear.” A small smile stretches across her lips at the answer, “Do you?”

His seemingly innocent answer is asked in such a way that makes her narrow her eyes. He wants her to say it, to confirm that she knows about the rebels existence, “President Snow sent you.”

“Darling, President Snow has been much to busy to do something as mundane as speak to me these past few weeks.” He reaches out as though to take her hand, but Stell leans back, her move makes the man frown. The light in his eyes shifts, dimming just a little bit, “They know what you’ve done.”

Her heart feels as though it skips a few beats before she asks smoothly, “What do you mean?”

“The rebels,” Caesar’s gaze searches hers intently as he speaks, “Snow knows you knew about them. He knows you helped incite the rebellion in District Four. He knows you cut out Katniss’s tracker.”

She doesn’t miss a beat this time, “I thought he was much too busy to speak to you.”

“His assistant isn’t. He wants you to do an interview, live, national broadcast.”

Stell scowls, “No.”

“It’s a shame,” His eyes flicker to the left side of her face, “You used to be so beautiful.”

Her unwillingness to cooperate made clear, Caesar stands up, his persona towards her now colder, “I’m sure President Snow will be in touch soon.”

Stell watches as he turns away from her, a hand coming up to feel the mangled left side of her face as he nears the doorway, “You know Caesar,” Her words stop him, “We all thought you truly cared for us.”

She almost misses the way he chuckles lowly, “I do, my dear, I do.” She watches him leave, surprised to see that at some point in their conversation the peacekeeper had removed their helmet.

It’s a boy, possibly Stell’s age, with hair black as the night sky. It’s kept in the standard buzz cut required by his profession, but it’s his eyes that keep her attention.

The light in them, the determination and purpose, flickers like a flame when he meets her gaze. His bone structure is such that it’s easy to tell he’s never wanted for a meal in his entire life, but he’s not from the Capitol originally, he looks too normal for that.

He must be from Two, Stell thinks, wondering how he drew the short stick to be her guard. To his credit, he doesn’t break eye contact as he informs her, “No dinner tonight.”

Her stomach rumbles audibly, loud enough for the both of them to hear, “Good,” She snips, “I wasn’t hungry anyways.”

The door to her cell opens again only a few hours later. The time, she’s really not sure of, but she’s just woken from one of her nightmares when the hinges creak. Her throat feels raw, and her breathing is still heavy, but she manages to focus on the peacekeeper who enters the room, “Do you have to keep that helmet on all the time?” She questions, the words only slightly painful. Her lips purse together as she notices her prosthetic in his left hand.

He ignores her question, instead motioning towards the open door with a slight incline of his head, “Let’s go.” The fake leg is tossed haphazardly across the room, the sound of metal hitting concrete so loud in the normally silent space, that it makes her jump.

It’s still a good six feet from where she sits, and he makes no moves to help her. Instead, Stell has to stand on one foot then hop over, practically falling in a heap onto the cold floor. She winces, then easily reattaches the object to her knee joint.

A sense of calm washes over her when she’s able to stand on two feet for the first time in two weeks. Right away, the command is repeated, “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Her eyes follow the peacekeeper’s movements as he reaches to his belt and unclips his pistol. He points it at her, then, once again, nods towards the doorway.

She cooperates, walking through the doorway and down a short hallway, “Open the door,” She can feel the mouth of the gun pressed against the small of her back, “Then you’ll go to the other end and take a right.” She turns the handle, the sound echoing on the other side, and pushes carefully.

“Stell?” Her eyes lock onto Peeta, who sits behind bars on a twin bed. A coffee table is a few feet away from him, a deck of cards littering its surface. When she looks over at him, he shoots to his feet, practically bounding over, his hands gripping the bars tightly.

Last she saw him; she was yelling at him to run. Had explained quickly that District Thirteen and the rebellion were real and that he needed to find them. She’d tried diverting the Capitol’s attention to give him a chance of escape, but clearly, she’d failed.

Her eyes scan his entire body for bruises and cuts. It’s odd because she finds none, “Are you okay?” They ask one another in unison. The occurrence makes Stell smile, the ends of her mouth curving up slowly.

“I’m fine.” She answers, watching as Peeta’s hand comes up towards her face, hovering just below her left eye, “Is it bad?” she asks softly.

Another pair of footsteps draws her attention to the right, “That’s fucking frightening, heartless.” Johanna Mason leans against the bars of her own cell, which is adjacent to Peeta’s. Her hair’s been chopped off, but other than that and the dark circles under her eyes, which Peeta and Stell also exhibit, Stell can’t see any major injuries or signs of abuse. Instead of being relieved, it unsettles her.

She’s heard them screaming, she’s sure of it. And not nightmare screams, but painful, gut-wrenching screams. Johanna smirks at her now though, “Do you have any roommates?” She looks at Peeta, “We’ve gotten quite close, haven’t we, Peeta?”

The boy rolls his eyes, “Yeah, sure we have.”

“No,” Stell answers her question, “It’s just been me.” She glances over her shoulder, “And sometimes him.”

“That’s enough,” Her guard speaks up now, pressing the gun further into her back, “Keep moving.”

Stell glances at Johanna as she walks by, “See, he’s real sweet.” Johanna barks out a laugh, the sound echoing in the room. They pass by a few more empty cells, before her eyes widen at the sight of scalpels, needles, wires, and headpieces. Various monitors sit idly as well, but they’re turned off at the moment, giving no clues as to what’s actually been happening on this side of the room.

She turns right as instructed, finding another door that pushes open easily. And then there, sitting behind a large desk that matches the out of place grandeur of the room compared to the last, is President Snow.

Stell sees two more guards in her peripheral just as she enters, but it’s not soon enough, “President – ah!” She lets out a cry as she’s hit over the head, falling onto her knees as her hands come up to shield her face. A sharp kick to her ribs makes her gasp and tip over onto her side.

Days in the Games, followed by weeks in her cell, have left her in a much-weakened state. As much as she wants to fight back, to defend herself, Stell knows she can’t. And so does everyone else in the room. But no more blows follow, her eyes open and as she tilts her head up, she can see President Snow smiling at her from his chair, “Stellar,” he smiles, “It’s so good to see you again.”

Chapter Text

Stell’s head is still pounding, both palms flat on the floor, when President Snow speaks again, “I kept telling Plutarch to kill you,” Stell pushes herself halfway up off the floor, “in the Games,” He clarifies, still looking down at her, “now I know why he didn’t.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” Stell pushes the words past clenched teeth, glancing at the peacekeepers on either side of her before standing up from the floor. She flinches visibly when one of them shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Snow motions to the single chair in front of his desk, “You did, however, do a fantastic job convincing the Districts that you were in love with Mr. Odair.”

The words come out instantly, “I do love him.”

“Do you?” Snow retorts, the question making her physically pause for a moment, his hands are still folded atop the table as Stell walks forwards a moment later. He smiles once, briefly, the expression disappearing in the next moment when Stell opens her mouth to retort back, “Now, let’s be truthful with one another.”

“Truthful?” Stell parrots.

Snow nods, “Yes, not lie anymore. I think it’d save time.” She scowls, “Miss Everdeen and I had that arrangement with one another.”

“I want you dead.” The words feel good coming out of her mouth as she sits, “I want to drive a knife into your heart and watch the light leave your eyes.” The longer she speaks, the wider Snow’s smile becomes.

When she’s finished, he chuckles, “That’s better.” He raises one eyebrow, “I’m surprised you grew so fond of Mr. Odair.”   

“Why’s that?”

“You two were such adversaries for years.” The years flash quickly through Stell’s mind. The glares, the fights, the animosity that Finnick and her had for one another, “That’s a lot to let go.” From her seat, Stell shrugs, not really having an answer, “But, we have more important things to discuss. Right now at least. Instigating a rebellion. Plotting the escape from the arena.”

“Forgive me for not wanting to die.”

President Snow leans forwards, “You belong to me,” Stell’s expression darkens, “From the moment your name was picked from that bowl, your life became mine to do with as I please.”

“Then kill me now.”

“No.” He snaps, then leans back after a second of silence, “No,” He repeats, calmer this time, “Then you’d be a martyr for their cause. But you will urge them to stop, alongside Mr. Mellark tomorrow evening.” He holds up a hand when she starts refusing. And then the projector on the desk comes to life, and Stell’s eyes widen as she watches hovercraft drop firebombs on what she recognizes as District Twelve, “Agree,” Snow urges her, “Or watch everyone in District Four die.”

Her eyes never leaving the horrific scene being played beside her, Stell simply responds, “You’re bluffing.” Her eyes follow the form of a small child, running frantically through the streets. A few moments later the screen sizzles out, “You would’ve destroyed it already, just like Twelve.”

She’s right, she can feel it in her bones. Letting out a breath, she leans back in her chair, letting her eyes flicker back over to the President. “You’re a smart girl,” He tells her, “You always have been. So cooperative, so good at putting on a show.”

“I’m a sucker for theatrics.”

“Johanna Mason, though,” Stell sets her facial expression into one of indifference, Snow continues with a playful grin, “She’s here.”

“Yes, I saw her.”

“Then you agree, or she dies.” Stell’s expression doesn’t change, “I suppose it doesn’t hurt for you to know that you’ve become quite influential, they’ll listen to your encouragements of a cease fire-“

“A cease fire?” Stell scoffs.

“Yes, to save what little life we have left on this planet.” Snow’s eyes never leave her own, “And you can apologize for your soirées with the rebels. May I suggest speaking to the regret you feel for your actions.”

Stell narrows her eyes, “I haven’t agreed.” Not yet, she hasn’t. Because Stell’s smart and she had her innocence ripped away when she was sixteen years old by the very man sitting across from her. None of them are likely to be getting out of the Capitol alive. Maybe one, if Stell plays her cards right.

Protect District Twelve. She still can, she realizes then, and maybe, she could have some fun while she was at it.

Snow’s glance changes, directed behind her as he looks to the one of the peacekeepers, “Go get her.” He commands, “And be sure to mention she’s coming here to die due to her friend’s lack of compassion.”

Stell turns in her seat to watch, wondering still if this is just another bluff, but then the guard’s turning, and she calls out, “Wait!” The peacekeeper goes still but doesn’t turn around, “I’ll do it.” Snow smiles slowly and Stell takes a breath, her mind already turning with ideas on what to say during the interview, before she states again, “I’ll do it.”

“Good evening, please, for a moment I’d like your attention,” Finnick sits in his usual chair in Command, arms crossed over his broad chest as he watches himself on the screen. The footage was recorded yesterday, shortly after gaining approval from Coin to film a short, motivational message for the fighters in District Four.

He studies himself, his bronze hair, combed through perfectly to give off the aura of dishevelment. His eyes, shining back at the screen, appeared to have more life than Finnick had seen looking back at himself in the mirror for the past two weeks. And when he chuckles on screen, lips tugging into a smirk for a moment, even Finnick can see his obvious charm, “This is Finnick Odair, Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games,” For the first time on camera, Finnick’s not trying to hide his natural accent, “But you already knew that.” He gestures to the space around him, though not much, one can tell he’s in room underground, “I’m alive, and in District Thirteen. Mags and Amos are with me as well but…” his words trail off for a moment, lips pursing together as he composes himself, “Stell isn’t.”

His gaze travels around the room then, tuning his own voice out as he speaks about the importance of their cause and continuing to fight back against pressing Capitol forces. Plutarch is smiling, as is Mags, and even President Coin has her lips slightly upturned at Finnick’s performance.

A quick glance at himself on screen again, standing tall with his shoulders pulled back, he’s impressed he was able to pull it together so well. Then he looks to his arm, frowning at 18:30 – Dinner because his 17:30 – Command was going longer than expected. His stomach rumbles and he has to fight back a groan when Coin says, “Let’s get Katniss and Gale to come see it, rewind it back.” Then Plutarch is tapping away at the table monitor, seemingly sending said messages.

It doesn’t take long for the two from Twelve to arrive, Katniss smiling right away when she sees the Victors from Four. She gives Mags a quick hug first before wrapping her arms around Finnick, much to Gale’s dismay, “What’s this about?” She whispers in his ear, arms still wrapped tightly around him.

“Oh,” Finnick pulls back, his hands still on Katniss’s shoulders, “I did a thing for Four, they want you to…” His words trail off when he looks to the screen, which now shows the Capitol seal with the words ‘Special Broadcast’ underneath.

And then Ceasar Flickerman appears, sitting in a tall-backed velvet chair that Finnick recognizes instantly. He knows exactly where he is, a room deep within President Snow’s mansion, right in the heart of the Capitol. Finnick had done countless interviews there before, both alone and with others over the years. The curtains in the windows were a different color, a deep red now instead of green, but yes, he was certain the room was the same.

Finnick’s hands fall from Katniss’s shoulders as he turns, a pit forming in his stomach as he faces the screen fully, watching in raptured silence with everyone else in Command.

The small word ‘live’ is in the bottom right corner of the screen, and Caesar smiles, gesturing widely to the camera, “Good evening, and a big welcome to all in Panem.” He looks the exact same as he did for the Quell interviews, right down the suit he’s wearing. "I'm Ceasar Flickerman and whoever you are, whatever it is you're doing. If you're working, put down your work. If you're eating dinner, stop eating dinner. Because you're going to witness this." Finnick crosses his arms over his chest, standing up from his seat, "There's been rampant speculation as to what really happened in the Quarter Quell, and here to spread some light on the subject is someone who was there." 

And then the camera pulls back, revealing his guest: Peeta Mellark.

A sound somewhere between a groan and a gasp escapes Katniss, and it only takes another moment for her to begin pushing through the crowd till she’s directly in front of the screen. Her hands come up, as though she can reach through the screen and touch Peeta. Finnick studies Peeta’s features, smooth, healthy, practically glowing.

It’s easy to recognize the full body polish that’s been done on him. He sits relaxed in his own chair, identical to Ceasar’s, waiting as the host shifts into a more comfortable position, “So…Peeta….welcome back.”

The two chuckle, just a short breath out their noses, before Peeta replies easily, “I bet you thought you’d done your last interview with me, Caesar.”

“I confess, I did,” says Caesar, “The night before the Quarter Quell…well, whoever thought we’d see you again?”

“It wasn’t part of my plan, that’s for sure,” Peeta says with a frown, his eyes flickering over to the camera for a moment. Finnick’s mind keeps wondering the same thing over and over: where’s Stell?

Caesar leans towards Peeta, “I think it was clear to all of us what your plan was. To sacrifice yourself in the arena so that Katniss Everdeen and your child could survive.”

Finnick’s eyes flicker to Katniss at the mention of the child. Word was she’d lost in it the Quell, from the stress, but he doubted the exactitude of the entire thing. “That was it. Clear and simple.” Peeta’s fingers trace the upholstered pattern on the arm of the chair. “But other people had plans as well.”

Yes, Finnick thinks, we all had a plan. He wonders if Peeta’s figured it all out by now. The boy was smart, after all. He wonders if he thinks of it as a betrayal, being left out, or if he sees the safety in the ignorance they allowed him and Katniss to have. Because one thing was certain, he was well enough to show to the nation, but Stell and Johanna? The two who knew the plan, were in on it from the beginning?

Where were they?

“Why don’t you tell us about that last night in the arena,” Caesar suggests, “Help us sort a few things out.”

Peeta nods, then is silent for a long moment, glancing somewhere off camera, “I think she can help with that too.” Finnick’s heart speeds up at his words, his breath hitching in his throat at the hope that he’s talking about Stell.

Caesar looks off screen as well, before nodding and holding up a hand at the same time, “So that it doesn’t come as a shock to our nation. Our next guest has already been found guilty of conspiring against our great country and admitted to aiding the objectors.” And then he’s nodding again and there she is.

Finnick can practically hear the stunned silence that spreads across the nation at the sight of her. The long, only partially healed scar that runs down the left side of her face, from her hairline, through her eyebrow and down her cheek, is still red and inflamed. It’s broad, giving away the size of the blade that caused it. It’s marred her once celebrated face, making her look every bit the part of cold blooded, unremorseful traitor.  

But even still, she dawns a white summer dress, with a subtle floral print and a ruffled bottom, it contrasts immensely with the gold handcuffs that shackle her wrists together. Finnick’s eyes scan her body, his feet carrying him towards the screen much in the same fashion as Katniss’s had her. People part for him, wordlessly as Caesar greets his second guess, “Stellar, it seems your goodbye wasn’t final either.”

She’s standing beside Peeta’s chair, and shrugs as she sits on the arm of it. Finnick’s eyes narrow as Peeta readjusts his position, his arm draping over Stell’s bare leg as she replies, “No,” She agrees, “I guess I changed my mind about dying when the time actually came for it.”

“And that was that last night?” Caesar prods, turning her flippant answer into something useful.

“It was,” She agrees.

“To tell you about that last night though,” Peeta begins, his words slow, “You have to imagine how it felt in the arena.” Caesar nods, not saying a word as he waits for Peeta to continue, “It was like being an insect trapped under a bowl filled with steaming air. And all around you, jungle…green and alive and ticking. That giant clock ticking away your life. Every hour promising some new horror. You have to imagine that in the past two days, fifteen people have died – some of them defending you.” From beside him, Stell shakes her head slightly at the last comment, “At the rate things are going, the last nine will be dead by morning. Save one. The Victor. And your plan is that it won’t be you.”

If he wasn’t so focused on Stell, Finnick would marvel, yet again, at Peeta’s ability to paint such vivid pictures with his words. But then she’s speaking, her words calm and controlled, “Once you’re in the arena, the rest of the world is very distant. It doesn’t matter anymore because your chances of survival are already slim. All the people and things you love and care about cease to exist. All that there is is that pink sky, the monsters in the jungle, and the tributes who all want you dead. And you’re going to have to do some killing, because in the arena you only get one wish. And it’s very costly.”

“It costs your life,” says Ceasar, as though years of interviewing tributes and Victors makes being in the arena something he could even comprehend.

“Oh no. It costs much more than your life, murdering innocent people?” Peeta corrects him, “It costs everything you are.”

“Everything you are,” Caesar repeats quietly.

A hush has fallen over the nation, people everywhere leaning forward in their seats, because no one ever talks about what it’s actually like in the arena. They talk of glory and sacrifice and bringing pride to their District, but never the personal costs.

“No one’s ever won the Games by holding on to their personal values.” Stell emphasizes Peeta’s point, then glances at him, “Except for him.”

Before Caesar can ask more, Peeta’s speaking again, “So you hold on to your wish. And that last night, yes, my wish was to save Katniss. But even without knowing about the rebels, it didn’t feel right. Everything was too complicated. I found myself regretting I hadn’t run off with her earlier in the day, as she had suggested. But there was no getting out of it at that point.”

“You were too caught up in Beetee’s plan to electrify the salt lake,” says Caesar.

“Too busy playing allies with the others. I should have never let them separate us!” Peeta’s voice is rising, and Finnick watches as Stell adjusts her hands so that they lay over Peeta’s arm. A small motion of comfort.

“Stell?” Ceasar looks to her, “Any comment? You knew about this plan from the beginning, didn’t you?”

“No, Beetee’s plan was his own.” Stell remains poised as she speaks, visibly not as worked up as Peeta is, “And you all think I wanted to leave Finnick? We were separated too.”

“When you took the wire.”

Stell nods, “It was a blur after that. The wire getting cut. Chaos, killing Enobaria, trying to find Finnick, not being able to see.”

“You tried to kill Katniss.” Caesar tells her, Stell shakes her head.

Finnick’s eyes stay on Stell as she speaks again, “She would’ve died in seconds if I actually wanted to kill her.” Beside him, Katniss’s hand drifts upwards, her fingertips brushing lightly against the bruising on her face.

“So what were you doing?”

“Don’t say it,” Finnick mutters the words under his breath, “Stell, don’t-“

“I removed her tracker.” She says nonchalantly, “Then led Enobaria away from her.”

A long silence follows, Stell offering no more on the matter. Ceasar doesn’t prod her, instead turning to Peeta, “What do you remember?”

“Bits and pieces,” He supplies, “Trying to find Katniss. Watching Brutus kill Chaff. Killing Brutus myself. I know she was calling my name. Then the lightning bolt hit the tree, and the force field around the arena…blew out.” Stell’s eyes flicker to Peeta, watching him carefully to see if he’ll keep talking. But he doesn’t, and Finnick picks up on her questioning gaze.

Somewhere after the arena blew up they’d found each other. More had happened, but Peeta wasn’t divulging that.

“Katniss blew it out, Peeta,” continues Caesar. “You’ve seen the footage.”

“She didn’t know what she was doing. None of us could follow Beetee’s plan. You can see her trying to figure out what to do with that wire,” Peeta snaps back, and Stell’s eyes are still on him. Her brow furrows as she hears this information for the first time.

Caesar raises his hands, “All right. It just looks suspicious,” He says, “As if she was part of the rebels’ plan all along.”

“She wasn’t.” Stell’s words snap out as Peeta’s whole body tenses at the accusation, “Some of us were, but not Katniss,” She nods to the boy beside her, “And not Peeta.”

The air in the Command room stiffens, the tension among the room’s occupant’s tangible as Ceasar carefully questions, “But you were?”

They don’t know what she’s already told President Snow, have no inclination of the tortured rebels in District Four who have already given her away as an instigator. And of everyone in the room, only three trust her as she speaks, they trust she knows what’s safe to say. “Yes.” She doesn’t offer anything more.

“I was hoping we’d all get the chance to talk about the war,” Ceasar seems pleased, his hands folded neatly, “Peeta, since you weren’t directly involved, what’re your thoughts?”

Peeta swallows once before speaking, “I want everyone watching – whether you’re on the Capitol or the rebel side – to stop for just a moment and think about what this war could mean. For human beings. We almost went extinct fighting one another before. Now our numbers are even fewer. Our conditions more tenuous. Is this really what we want to do? Kill ourselves off completely? In the hopes that – what? Some decent species will inherit the smoking remains of the earth?”

“I don’t really...I’m not sure I’m following…” Caesar’s confusion is clear.

“We can’t fight one another, Caesar,” Peeta explains, “There won’t be enough of us left to keep going. If everyone doesn’t lay down their weapons – and I mean, as in very soon it’s all over anyways.”

“So…you’re calling for a cease-fire?”

“Yes…a cease-fire.” Peeta sighs, “Now, could my guards escort me back to my quarters? I’d like to build another hundred card houses.”

He looks off screen, and Ceasar makes him wait, “Now, let’s get Stell’s word in before we sign off.” He looks to her.

Stell bites her lower lip, just for a split second. Peeta shifts in his seat, raising his hand up just a little, wordlessly, Stell takes it her own before speaking, “I think people should do what they believe in,” She speaks quickly, and even though the cafeteria is a few floors away, Finnick can hear the cheering, “Our world is changing, and it’s about damn time.”

Ceasar glances between the Victors, sitting together, once again their hands joined. It’s a familiar sight, Finnick thinking back to their conjoined hands at the end of the Quarter Quell interviews. Their words may not have matched, but Stell and Peeta were together.

He doesn’t hear Ceasar signing off, just watches as the program switches. Another news reporter who talks about the newest shortages in the Capitol. Neither Finnick nor Katniss move, their eyes staying glued on the television. Behind them, people speak in hushed whispers about Peeta. Traitor, liar, and enemy bounce off the walls. Amos has made his way closer, his hand coming up to rest of Katniss’s shoulder.

It spurs the girl to move, she backs up quickly, striding towards the exit. “Soldier Everdeen!” Coin’s voice rings out, “You haven’t been dismissed.” Finnick watches as Katniss runs then, her friend Gale blocking Bogg’s path as he goes to stop her. Everyone left in the room watches the scene unfold quietly. And then, “We should release Finnick’s statement to District Four as soon as possible.”

Plutarch nods his head, “I can have it aired within the hour.”

Amos’s hand on Finnick’s shoulder draws the younger man’s attention, “She’s alive.” Finnick’s eyes are on his shoes, “She’s protecting him, you realize that don’t you? Drawing Snow’s wrath from Peeta to herself, not complying and supporting the Capitol regime. Besides,” He lets out a sardonic laugh, “When has Stell ever done what she’s told? No one should be surprised.” The last part makes Finnick smile a little bit.

“Your room looks a lot nicer than mine.” Stell comments as she watches Peeta re-enter his cell, she glances towards Johanna, “Terrible neighbor though.”

Johanna barks out a laugh, “Did she behave?” Peeta rolls his eyes, “Figures.”

Despite the peacekeepers that surround them, Peeta snaps back at Stell once his cell door is closed, “You shouldn’t have done that!” He runs his hands through his hair as she raises her eyebrows at him, there’s no time for a response as she’s prodded to keep moving.

She’s almost to the door that leads to the hallway to her own cell when suddenly, a sharp pain flares at the back of her head. Stell falls to the ground, the sound of someone screaming seemingly far away as she’s beaten again and again from behind. Another blow and her cuffed hands slip, the side of her face smashing into the tile floor. Her dress feels as though it gets heavier and heavier, and in the depths of her mind, Stell realizes it's because it's soaking up blood.

“Stop it!” Peeta screams, hands clutching the bars, “Stop!” A peacekeeper lands a swift kick to Stell’s face, at the impact, she lets out a sharp cry.

Battered and bloody, she’s lifted by her wrists roughly after only a few minutes. Her body limp, Peeta and Johanna watch on as Stell’s dragged away, just to be thrown onto the floor of her cell.

The message from Snow is clear: do as your told.

Chapter Text

President Snow sat in the tallest chair at his conference table, a large, circular surface that he once used for meetings with his Gamemakers. Now, it was his war room. Various political leaders and military generals joined him both physically and virtually, all eager to report on the most recent happenings within the Districts.

A hologram of Panem projects above the table itself, the President’s eyes trained on District Four, which had just changed from yellow to red during his head generals debrief, “Commander Thompson?” Snow questions, turning to face the image of District Four’s head Peacekeeper, “Were troops from Thirteen recently deployed to Four? I thought we’d cut off all transport to and from the District.”

Thompson hesitates for a moment, his eyes flickering off screen, “No new troops, sir. Opposing forces have surged in considerable numbers following the Capitol broadcast last night.” The map zooms in on District Four, the east portion of the District highlighted a moment later, “Especially from this section. We did have a rebel broadcast come through shortly after yours.”

“What was it?”

Thompson frowns, “Finnick Odair, sir.” Snow’s eyebrows rise, a hand coming up to rest over his mouth for a moment as he digests the information, “He urged the rebels to continue fighting for their freedom, he assured them that he’d do everything in his power to support them as well.”

“Did he address Peeta’s words?”

“No,” The answer comes out relieved, “it wasn’t live, it was pre-recorded.”

Snow’s hands fold atop the table, “How did he look? Mr. Odair?”

“Uh,” Thompson thinks for a moment, “Good?” The answer comes out as a question, then his eyes light up, “We have a recording,” He looks down, the muscles in his arm flexing as his hands type away, “It should be coming through to you now.”

And then he’s there. The image of Finnick standing in District Thirteen replaces the map of Panem. He looks better than President Snow was expecting, and really, that irks the old man. He doesn’t listen too closely to the words the Victor says, but rather studies his expressions, keeps track of the emotions in his eyes. The way they flicker off the to the side every few moments, how he doesn’t stare into the camera for more than a few seconds at a time.

Finnick was a strong man, Snow knew that. He respected him and was, daresay, proud of the man Finnick Odair had become since winning the Games at just fourteen years old. He’d been a fierce tribute, twice now, and one of the most influential mentors in the history of the Hunger Games. But Snow also knew how much the man cared for the other Victors from Four, and there was still a few he could use to hurt him.

Finnick Odair thought he was free, helping the rebels in District Thirteen, Snow needed to show him, and Katniss Everdeen, that even there, their actions affected those they loved.

“Get up.” Stell grunts as something nudges her bruised body. Her eyes stay closed, she didn’t recognize the voice, and they weren’t yelling at her so the threat didn’t seem like much. She was exhausted still, and each constriction of her muscles brought a fresh bout of pain throughout her limbs. “Come on, get up.”

“Who’re you?” She mumbles the words, her voice sounding dull even to herself.

“Doesn’t matter, just get up. They want you to shower.” That gets Stell to crack her eyes open, sapphire blue staring up at a dark-haired boy in full peacekeeper uniform attire sans the helmet, which he held against his side with his left arm.

She recognized his posture right away, “You’re my guard,” She grins at the surprise on his face, “Everyone has different posture.” She lets him know, “You stand with your left foot angled out that way all the time.” The boy glances down at his feet, fixing them as she asks, “What’s your name?”

“You need to get up.” He raises his other hand as he tells her this again, bringing her attention to the gun he holds.

“You won’t use that,” She says to him, grimacing as she rolls over and then slowly places her feet on the floor. They hadn’t taken her leg after they beat her last night. She was still in her dress, albeit now ruined, it clung to her body and was caked in dried blood. Her eyes were narrowed at the boy before her, “you were raised in District Two,” it’s a statement, but she still adds the rhetorical, “weren’t you?” to the end.

The peacekeeper jerks his head towards the door, a silent motion for her to move. She does so, trying and failing to hide her winces as the wounds on her back stretch. Slowly, she sucks a breath in through her nose once, letting herself adjust to the pain, “Come on.”

Stell glares at him as she passes by, the peacekeeper following behind, giving the occasional direction towards the shower. They don’t pass Peeta and Johanna’s cells, instead turning before that room, and go down another corridor.

The shower is a welcome sight. The peacekeeper, who’s name Stell wonders for the entire journey there, leaves her alone with the information that he’ll be back in ten minutes to collect her. She strips, the dress falling to the flood in a thud, before turning on the water.

It’s cold, not heating up at all as she turns the handle. Even so, it’s a welcome feeling, being able to wash the blood away. There’s a small bar of soap on a shelf that she takes, rubbing it along her skin. Scars line her arms and legs now, all fresh from the Quell. Part of her wonders what she would’ve looked like if they’d left her scars from her first Games.

Her eyes linger on the small dot on her right arm, the place where they’d taken blood from her before dressing her for the interview with Peeta. When she’d questioned them about it, they’d told her not to worry, that they simply wanted to check her health.

She’d worried about it for hours, wondering what invisible thing could’ve been in the arena that would appear on a blood test. Maybe it was the poison fog, or the water from the trees, or something around the Jabberjays.  

The thoughts of arena wounds draws her attention to her prosthetic, which she left on to shower. It sends a stinging sensation up her leg every few moments due to the water, but she’d rather that than be left with only one lower extremity.

Having one leg again here was something she wanted to avoid.

Stell’s just finishing rinsing off when the water sputters, stopping for just long enough to make her look up at the shower head. It starts up again immediately, the liquid soaking her battered form.

Her screams echo off the tile walls in the next moment, the distinct smell of alcohol filling the room. It runs from the shower head, already soaked directly into her still open wounds. In her panicked state she turns around first, then crumples under the blinding pain as alcohol soaks into opens wounds. The metal of her prosthetic crashes into the tile forcefully.

On her hands and knees, she crawls quickly away, turning over and pressing her back into the far wall, eyes wide as she stares at the shower head.

Her nostrils flare as she breathes deeply over and over again. As fast as it came on, the pain is gone, just the distinct smell lingers in the room. Slowly, Stell rises to her feet.

Seconds later there’s a knocking on the door, but rather than her guard, it’s President Snow who enters the bathroom. Stell’s left standing there, completely naked before him. He has a towel draped over his arm but makes no move to offer it to her, “Did you enjoy your shower, my dear?” She says nothing and makes no move to cover herself from his eyes, “I’ve been wondering, when did the rebel meetings for the Victors begin?”

“I’m not sure,” Stell lies, her voice coming out harsh.

Snow shrugs, taking a few steps closer to her, “No matter,” He motions to the shower head, “That wasn’t punishment for your misconduct last night, you should know,” Her eyes meet his, “Mr. Odair made his opinion on the war quite public as well,” Her heart beats faster in her chest at the mention of Finnick, “The wrong opinion though, Miss Mere, for which you will suffer.”

They’d moved her to a different cell. Down a different corridor that smelled entirely too much like antiseptic for Stell’s taste, she didn’t want to know what had become of the cell’s previous occupants. Besides, the smell just reminded her of the shower she just endured. She didn’t want to think about it anymore.

There were four cells in the room. Two on either side with a walkway down the middle. It was smaller than her previous chambers, though that wasn’t much of an issue. It’s not like she needed much space. The walls around her were mostly solid, except for the door and bottom three inches of two of the walls. The latter was the reason she’d been able to count how many cells there were.

All in all, the conditions were a drastic improvement. She was clean, even dawning fresh navy prison garments, and her new confinements didn’t reek of her own feces. In fact, she even had a toilet in the far corner just across from a very small mattress, which she sat on now.

I do love him.

Do you?

Her mind kept replaying President Snow’s words from two days. The question that made her stand a little straighter. It sent her mind into a frenzy, which also bothered her because really, it shouldn’t…right?

She loved Finnick Odair, had for the past four months, at least. That’s why she was engaged to him. And yes, the two had a history. He’d treated her terribly for years, but hadn’t she done the same to him? It had been two sided, the animosity: cruel words, cold glances, even physical altercations.

But no overt malicious action had ever…she pauses that thought. Reflecting on the hatred her District held for her for the past five years. They’d been terrible to her, cast her out and excluded her when she needed support the most.

And Finnick hadn’t done anything about it. She shakes her head, it wasn’t his responsibility. Right?

You never stop being a mentor, her mind tells her. She was his tribute, he should’ve been there for her.

He’s your fiancé. It’s a thought that instead of making her smile, makes her mentally pause. She wanted to be with him, enjoyed almost every moment they were together.

But what about everything else?

Her head snaps up at the sound of the far door opening. Two sets of boots file in and Stell sits silently, hands clasped together in her lap. “Your new quarters.” A peacekeeper. The hinges on the cell beside her open with a loud creak, the door slamming shut behind her new neighbor.

“Thanks.” Peeta.

She perks up at the sound of his voice, but still waits to speak as the guard locks his cell and marches out of the room. She hears the younger boy sigh, can practically hear him running his hands through his hair, “Did they leave you cards?” Stell asks, the mention of them during their joint interview lingering in her mind.

Peeta takes a quick step, turning towards her voice, “Stell?” He’s surprised, “Is it just you here?” She can see his shoes a few seconds later as he walks towards their shared wall.

Stell nods as she answers, “Yes.” She pushes herself off the bed, walking over to the wall as well before sliding down to the floor and taking a cross legged position. Her back rests against it, the stone cool to the touch even through her clothes. Peeta unknowingly copies the position, “Where’s Johanna?”

“I’m not sure,” Peeta replies, his tone frustrated, “They marched her out for questioning, but that was almost an hour ago.” A weight settles on Stell’s chest at the news, “They just showed up and brought me here, didn’t say much.”

Her gaze flickers through the barred door to the cell across the small hall, “She may show up, or other Victors.”

“You think they’ll get more?”

“Snow knows we conspired against him,” Stell reminds Peeta, “One of his first moves will be to round up the rest of us.”

“I feel like I should know but…” Peeta seems embarrassed to ask, but does anyways, “How many Victors does Four have?”

“Oh, there’s seven of us. Overall though we’ve had thirteen,” She thinks for a moment, “Maybe fifteen.”  

Peeta just hums initially, “Impressive.” Her eyes close as they lapse into silence, lips pursing together when he gently says, “I’m sorry about Gloss.”

There he is, Stell thinks, her mind conjuring up the image of Gloss’s lifeless body floating in that god forsaken lake. His eyes unmoving, heart still in his chest. Tears well in her eyes as she spits out a “Why?”

Peeta remains unfazed by her tone, “I saw you two during training,” He explains, “You seemed close.”

Memories of dancing in his arms, laughing beside him, and sharing in his sorrows and triumphs rush through her mind and all she settles on is a simple, “We were.”

“Can you tell me about him?” Peeta requests, his tone genuinely curious, “What he was really like, not the Capitol version.”

Stell’s mouth curves upwards, he figured it out then, that the Victors weren’t really who they let everyone else see. “He was kind.” She remembers, “Kind, and empathetic and remarkably selfless for someone from District One. He was the only light in my life for years after I won the Games. He didn’t treat me like I was a monster.”

Peeta chuckles, “Are you a monster?”

Stell shrugs, then remembers he can’t see her, “Depends who you ask, I guess.” Her head tilts to the side a little, “My own mother thought I was,” She muses, remembering the woman telling her that a few weeks before she died, “she was right, but it still hurt to hear at the time.”  

 “Gloss didn’t though,” Peeta reminds her, a valiant effort to make her feel better about herself.

That gets a laugh out of her, “He did, he just didn’t treat me like one.”

“Weren’t you two together?” It’s an innocent question, “Off and on for a few years?”

“We were friends,” The word doesn’t feel like enough to describe what Gloss was to her, but she can’t think of anything else. Flashes of nights spent together fill her mind one after the other and yet, she finds herself ashamed when she thinks of telling Peeta about it.

No one’s ever talks about the Trade…not to anyone who wasn’t already in it at least. And the thought of Peeta knowing she was forced to sleep with Gloss, on tape no less, doesn’t sit well in Stell’s stomach. And the idea of telling him how she was sold? She could only imagine the looks he’d give her, the pity and judgement. He’d think she was weak, or easy, or defiled.

She swallows once, then continues, with the familiar feeling of self-disgust now heavy on her shoulders, “He was ruthless though, in protecting the one’s he cared for. I was lucky to have that apply to me.”

“I rewatched his Games,” Peeta tells her, “They were impressive.”

“I don’t really remember them,” Stell admits, “I was only eleven.” She lets out a breath, “How old were you then? Five?”

He thinks for a moment, “Yeah, I was five.”

“Fuck,” They both chuckle, “Making me feel old, Mellark.”

They lapse into silence. Stell’s mind stays on Gloss, how he spoke, how he carried himself. After a few moments, she begins saying it aloud, “Did you know he volunteered to save his family?” It’s rhetorical, “His father had just gotten hurt on duty, he was a peacekeeper in District Eight, they were going to lose everything. So, he volunteered.”

“Really?” Stell grins at the disbelief, “Why’d Cashmere volunteer then?”

“That bitch?” Peeta’s eyebrows rise, “She did it for the glory. Back to back sibling Victors? She wanted that.” Stell pauses for just a moment, “Their mother also really wanted that.”

“That doesn’t happen in Twelve.” Peeta murmurs, “We just try and survive, the Games are just an hopeless event that happen every year.” He sounds dumbfounded when he says, “How could people look forward to them?”  

“Because they have a shot at winning,” She’s speaking from experience, “and if you win, you feed your District for a year. You never worry again, your family never worries again. At least that’s what everyone thinks. Sure, in One and Two, the glory is real, the honor is real. But it’s mostly providing security for everyone else.”

Peeta mulls her answer over. It made sense, the monthly rations were a bright spot in winning the Games. And he supposed that Twelve never had the hope of a Victor, not till Katniss. “Is that what it’s like in Four?”

“A little, we’re a Career because our skillsets transfer easily to the Games. There’s very little purposeful training. Most of our Victors are respected, but not worshiped like in One and Two.”

“And by most?”

“All but me.” She clarifies, “They’re just scared of me.”

“Yeah,” Stell looks down as she feels something bump into her hand. It’s Peeta’s, he’s slipped his hand through the bars. After a moment, she takes it in her own and he gives it a squeeze, “you’re terrifying.” They both chuckle darkly, and neither one of them let go.

“What’s going on?” Finnick’s gripped onto Amos’s shoulder, his eyes slightly frantic as they make their way to the main dining hall well before dinner time.

His former mentor sighs once, shrugging Finnick’s hand off his shoulder and frowning at this more susceptible side of him. It’s appeared ever since he got out of the Quell, and Amos was starting to lose hope that Finnick would make a full mental recovery. Even after seeing Stell, his mind still seemed scattered. “I don’t know, Finnick.” Amos answers, “Seems like a District meeting.” They’d all been called to a room called the Collective, which most of the new refugees have only seen in passing.

Finnick nods once, accepting the answer but not entirely happy with it. His gaze goes to Mags, who walks slowly on Amos’s other side. In his free hand, his strand of rope dangles. He looks up at Amos again, frowns slightly, then swings the rope so he holds both ends. Absentmindedly he begins tying notes.

The hallway they walk down is crowded, a sea of grey jumpsuits all bobbing along in the same direction. It’s hard to recognize anyone you know when they all wear the same thing.

But apparently that’s just for Finnick, because a few moments later his name being called out a few feet behind him. At first, he doesn’t notice, but a nudge from Amos draws his attention to the little girl now on his opposite side. He smiles, turning to see Primrose Everdeen walking beside him, “Hi!” She’s as bright as ever, her blonde hair pulled back away from her face, “How’re you feeling?”

“Oh,” He question catches him off guard, “Good. I’m good, how’re you? Where’s Katniss?”

Katniss Everdeen’s voice is suddenly right behind him, “Right here, Finnick.” They’ve entered the Collective now, and all come to a halt near the back of the room. Up ahead, Coin stands on a small stage behind a podium. The other Victors from Four turn, Katniss giving Mags and Amos quick hugs in greeting as Finnick still nervously ties knots, only half listening as Katniss and Prim discuss the lack of children in Thirteen. “Why are we meeting here?” He asks, not really directing the question to anyone specifically.

“I told Coin I’d be her Mockingjay. But I made her promise to give the other tributes immunity if the rebels won,” Katniss tells him, “In public, so there are plenty of witnesses.”

“Oh, good.” Finnick’s hands still, his shoulders visibly relaxing, “Because I worry Stell will be forced to say something that could be construed as traitorous. Did you ask for anything else?”

“We get to keep Buttercup!” Prim pipes up, Finnick’s eyebrows coming together.

“Who?”

“Her cat.” Katniss doesn’t seem very pleased about it, but Prim’s beaming up at Finnick and even tugs on his sleeve.

“You’ll have to come meet him! You’ll love him, Finnick!”

Finnick looks down at the little girl and nods, “Okay,” he agrees, “you know Mags used to have a cat, I’m sure she’d love to meet him too.”

Mags is already looking over in interest, and nods enthusiastically at Prim when she invites her as well. Moments later, President Coin is calling everyone to attention. She wastes no words and informs them all that Katniss has agreed to be the Mockingjay, provided the other Victors – Peeta, Stell, and Johanna – will be granted full pardon for any damage they do to the rebel cause. There’s clear dissent in the rumbling of the crowd. The small group of Victors give no attention to the hostile looks thrown their way.

Coin allows only a few moments of it before continuing, “But in return for this unprecedented request, Solider Everdeen has promised to devote herself to our cause. It follows that any deviance from her mission, either in motive or deed, will be viewed as a break in this agreement. The immunity would be terminated, and the fate of the three Victors determined by the law of District Thirteen. As would her own. Thank you.”

Finnick looks over at Katniss, a new weight settling between them as they both process Coin’s words. If Katniss steps out of line, they all die.

Chapter Text

Peeta couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t for lack of trying, he’d closed his eyes, been lying in his bed for hours. He was even sure it was nighttime. They didn’t have windows here, but the lights had been turned out a while ago. A few hours, at least.

His body was stiff, sore from the latest round of questioning he’d endured earlier that afternoon. He didn’t know anything about the rebellion, but no one here seemed to believe him. They’d taken to ramming his body with the butts of their guns, but still, Peeta truthfully told them he knew of no plan.

By the end he’d figured the peacekeepers just enjoyed beating him. Snow’s orders, most likely.

Stell was asleep. He could hear her steady breathing across the small room. The sound comforted him a little, one of them should get some rest.

His eyes drift around in the darkness. Looking from one bare wall to the other, then through the bars of the door. The two cells across the narrow hall were still empty, Johanna Mason’s whereabouts unknown.

He was still worried and had planned on asking the guard about her when dinner was dropped off…but that never happened.

His stomach growls loudly at the thought.

Peeta thinks about his previous conversation with Stell. Really, the two hadn’t spoken much. They had only met about three weeks ago, he reminds himself. It was hard to comprehend, the Quell only lasting three days, especially after his first Games dragged on for over two weeks. Considering everything, Peeta’s time in the Quell hadn’t been too bad. He didn’t starve this time, didn’t want for water for very long.

There’d been more fighting, but really – his head turns towards Stell’s cell when he suddenly hears her let out a sharp cry. It’s so short and quick, that for a moment he thinks he imagined it. Another moment passes, her breathing pattern is different. Her breaths become shorter, shallower.

He’s just sitting up when the first scream rips up her throat. It’s not like when Katniss screams in her sleep. No, this one’s not fear. Panic is the first one Peeta thinks of, then pain. It jolts Peeta out of bed, his feet carrying him to their shared wall, “Stell?”

“RUN!” He can make out the word now as she screams again, “Gloss….no….” Peeta’s heart sinks at the name.

Her breathing is still frantic, “Stell? Stell, wake up.” Peeta stands motionless by the door, cringing as he hears her thrash in her bed. “Stell!”

“No!!” Her cry is barely coherent as she screams, the sound forcing Peeta to purse his lips together to avoid the tears that threaten to well in his eyes.

He feels useless. Standing there, listening to her scream for somebody who’s already dead. Peeta pounds his fists against the walls, yells her name at her, but to no avail. Stell doesn’t wake up. The sounds her body emits echoing throughout the room. But Peeta just stands there, forearms resting against their wall, listening to the whole thing.

“Why, she was screaming again.” Wiress replies easily to Katniss’s question of District Four’s whereabouts. The woman from Three chuckles, “Used to happen all the time.” She frowns, “The poor girl.”

Katniss looks at Beetee, “What is she talking about?”

The man gives a meek smile, “We all have our demons from the Games,” Peeta remembers how Glimmer looked when she died, all bloated and ghastly from the tracker jacker stings, “Stell is-“

“Insane?” Johanna offers up the word as she joins them unexpectedly. She’s tapping the side of her head with a forefinger as she crouches down beside them to whisper, “She gets trapped in her head.”

This isn’t something Peeta’s ever seen before. But still, he tries, “Stell! It’s not real!” But the girl keeps screaming. Seconds turn into minutes and Peeta doesn’t know what else to do. He doesn’t even know if she’s still trapped in a nightmare or has woken up and is in something much worse.

A door on the far end of the room bursts open, the sound of boots running down the hall muffled by Stell’s shrieks. “No!” Peeta’s moving towards his door, hands clutching the bars, “She’s asleep! She’s just asleep!”

But the door to Stell’s cell has been thrown open, “That’s enough!” A peacekeeper shouts. Peeta can’t see what is happening, but the noises are clear. Bodies colliding, a male cry of pain, Stell’s hysteria as her brain struggles to sort out what’s happening now from whatever was happening in her nightmare.

A strangled cry from Stell, half a second before Peeta hears her body crumple to the ground.

“Fuck!” The peacekeeper is swearing, scrambling backwards out of the cell, coughing repeatedly, “She tried to choke me!” Peeta’s mind is still reeling when a forearm crashes into the door he holds on to, “Get back!” The officer barks, Peeta flinching as pain spreads through his hands. The boots disappear the same way they came then, the only sound being Stell’s ragged breathing.

“Stell?” He hears her take a deeper breath, “Are you okay?” She doesn’t reply. He wishes he could see her, then he’d know if she was even aware of her surroundings or not. Peeta gives her a minute, then another, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” She doesn’t even think about the answer. Her voice is barely audible.

“It might help if you-“

“I said no!” She snaps, her voice rising with each syllable.

Peeta backs away from the wall, “Okay, it’s just…” He searches his mind for a moment, her screams still fresh in his brain, “It helps sometimes.”

He can’t see Stell’s hand on her throat, it’s raw and she craves water, but there’s none for her. “Or,” Her jaw tightens as Peeta keeps talking, “If you want to talk about anything else.”

“I don’t.” He starts to say something again, but Stell cuts him off, “Go to sleep, Peeta.”

He doesn’t. And she doesn’t either.

“Where’s Finnick?” Katniss asks at breakfast, glancing around the hall as Mags and Amos take their seats across from her. Mags frowns, and Katniss notices the dark circles under the old woman’s eyes. She looks at Amos.

“He had a rough night,” The older Victor explains, “He’s back in the hospital wing.”

Mags only pushes her food around her plate as Gale rolls his eyes, “That’s a real help.” Katniss kicks him under the table, “What? He’s supposed to be helping and-“

“You ever been in the Games, boy?” If looks could kill, Gale would be a goner with how Amos glares at him. The younger man shakes his head once as he clenches his jaw, “Then keep your mouth shut.” The two men stare at one another for another beat before Amos addresses Katniss, “I hear you’re no actress.”

Katniss groans, rolling her eyes, “Yes, it didn’t go well.” She frowns deeper when Gale chuckles, “Haymitch said it was a sure way to kill the entire revolution.”

“Haymitch?” Amos perks up at that, “They let him out?” Gale nods, “It’s about time.” Mags garners Amos’s attention by pulling on his sleeve. Katniss watches, a little in awe, at how they wordlessly communicate, “Yeah, we’ll go find him after this. We have a lot to discuss.”

“Are they going to try and film again today?” Gale asks, nodding politely as Katniss’s prep team joins them at the table.

“I doubt it, I was so bad yesterday, no one knew what to say.”

“You’ll get better, dear.” It’s Octavia who’s found her voice first. They were all quiet yesterday, but it was little Posy who saved the day when she told the woman she’d be pretty in any color. Katniss glances around for a moment as Fulvia fills Amos and Mags in on just how bad Katniss was.

They made quite a sight, their table. Full of Victors and Capitolites and people from the Seam. It’s a comforting thought; they have a community here. It reminds Katniss of the lunches during training for the Quell. How the Victors pushed the tables together rather than all sitting separately. There was a camaraderie there, and maybe she should’ve been able to see it then, everyone was working together.

But the look of concern coating Mags’s face troubles Katniss, reminding her that they all had people missing around them. Katniss finds herself reaching across the table, placing a hand over the old woman’s, “I’ve got a free hour after lunch, would you come with me to visit Finnick?” Mags nods, a wide smile on her face.

It didn’t take long after breakfast for Katniss to run into the Victors from Four again. They walk into Command with Haymitch, the two men speaking in hushed voices that cease once the door closes behind them. Katniss also notices how Haymitch’s hand rests gently on Mags’s back on she finds a seat at the table.

A few moments later, Finnick enters the room, pushing Beetee along in a wheelchair, Dalton, a cattle farmer from District Ten, walks beside them. Finnick’s still in his hospital gown, and just ends up sitting in the far corner with his rope constantly moving between nervous hands.

They’re joined by others as well: Coin and her people, Plutarch, Fuliva, Katniss’s prep team as well as Greasy Sae. Gale occupies the chair beside Katniss, his eyebrows rising with each new addition to the room.

As people file in Haymitch makes his way over to Finnick, clapping the young man on the shoulder, “Thank you.” The older Victor’s words are genuine as Finnick’s hands still for a moment. Sea green eyes meet grey, “I never said that on the chopper out of the arena, and I should’ve.”

Finnick’s lips perk upwards, “You’re welcome.”

Haymitch steps away then to welcome everyone, and by his words it’s easy to tell that he’s called this meeting and personally invited those in attendance. Finnick studies him as he does. The man’s lost a lot of weight during his dry out. It gives him a shrunken appearance, but Finnick figures he’ll get used to seeing him thinner eventually.

He’ll gain the weight back after the war, Finnick muses, when they can all drink again.

The first thing Haymitch does is show the footage from yesterday. Katniss’s movements and words are jerky, disjointed at best.

“All right,” Haymitch says when it’s over. “Would anyone like to argue that this is of use to us in winning the war?” No one does. “That saves time. So, let’s all be quiet for a minute. I want everyone to think of one incident where Katniss Everdeen genuinely moved you. Not where you were jealous of her hairstyle, or her dress went up in flames or she made a halfway decent shot with an arrow. Not where Peeta was making you like her. I want to hear one moment when she made you feel something real.”

Everyone’s quiet for more than a moment, so long in fact that Katniss is beginning to think no one will speak, when Finnick’s baritone voice cuts the silence, “When she volunteered to take Prim’s place at the reaping,” Gale narrows his eyes at the stunning man from Four, “There’s no way she thought she’d win then.”

“Good. Excellent example,” Haymitch says, turning to the screen behind him and writing ‘Volunteering for sister at reaping’, with just his finger, “Somebody else.” He’s glancing around the table.

Boggs speaks up next, “When she sang the song. While the little girl died.” Katniss remembers seeing Boggs in the dining hall a few days ago, a little boy perched up on his hip.

“Who didn’t get choked up at that, right?” Haymitch writes it down.

“I cried when she drugged Peeta so she could go get him medicine and when she kissed him goodbye!” blurts out Octavia. Then she covers her mouth, like she’s sure this was a bad mistake.

But Haymitch only nods, “Oh, yeah. Drugs Peeta to save his life. Very nice.”

“When she extended her hand to Chaff on interview night,” Amos contributes, arms crossed over his chest.

Greasy Sae raises a shaky hand, Haymitch nodding her way, “When she held out the berries to Peeta.” And more moments begin to come thick and fast. When Katniss took Rue as an ally. When she told Peeta that she needed him during the Quell.

Haymitch waves his hands to get everyone to stop once the board is full, “Now, the question is, what do all of these have in common?”

“They were Katniss’s,” says Gale quietly, “No one told her what to do or say,”

“Unscripted, yes!” Beetee exclaims. He reaches over and pats Katniss’s hand, “So we should just leave you alone, right?”

People laugh, Katniss even smiles a little.

“Well, that’s all very nice but not very helpful,” Says Fulvia peevishly. “Unfortunately, her opportunities for being wonderful are rather limited here in Thirteen. Unless you’re suggesting we toss her into the middle of combat…”

Haymitch snaps his fingers, grinning, “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” He confirms, “Put her out in the field and keep the cameras rolling.”

“But people think she’s pregnant.” Gale points out.

“We’ll spread the word that she lost the baby from the electrical shock in the arena,” Plutarch already has a solution, “Very sad. Very unfortunate.”

Many people raise concerns, but Haymitch makes a pretty tight case. If Katniss only performs well in real life situations, then she needs to be put in them. They talk about safety, about a squad of bodyguards and camera crews.

Finnick listens on from the corner, only piping up after it’s been decided to send Katniss to District Eight that afternoon, “I want to go.”

“No.” Amos’s answer in instant.

Finnick ignores him, looking up from his lap at Coin, “I can be a guard, it’ll look better on the cameras to have us both there, wont’ it? I already told my District I’d do anything to help, let me do this.”

“Weren’t you put in the hospital last night?” Gale questions.

“Actually doing something will keep me out of my head,” Finnick argues, “It always has.”

Everyone looks to Coin, “I agree,” She raises a hand as she says this, “But, three Victors in one place may be too tempting for the Capitol to pass up, especially since Soldier Odair has spoken out publicly already. But I agree, you should do something. Fulvia, didn’t you have an idea?” She looks at the woman in question.

“Yes, I think it may be a good idea.” The woman is stammering slightly, her face a light shade of pink, “I was thinking we could do a series of propos called We Remember. In each one, we would feature one of the dead tributes. Rue from Eleven or Blight from Seven. The idea being we could target each District with a very personal piece.”

“A tribute to your tribute, as it were,” Plutarch summarizes, then looks to Finnick, “We were hoping you’d narrate, and given you’ve known so many of them yourself, you could-“

Finnick cuts her off, “I’d be an honor.”

“It is brilliant.” Katniss says sincerely, “It’ll remind people why they’re fighting in the first place.”

“Well then,” Coin claps her hands together, “we’ll split into two teams, let’s get all this rolling.”

“Since it’s inception our nation has had seventy-five Hunger Games Victors,” Finnick sits at the head of the table in Command. His hair once again perfectly groomed, a dark sweater covering his torso, and perfectly placed spotlights on his face. His hands are still, sat atop the hardwood as he stares straight into the camera before him, “But what we remember, are the seventeen hundred and twenty-five children who brutally lost their lives.”

The camera pulls back, showing the screen that Finnick sits besides, “Today, we remember one that died much too young. The female tribute from District Eleven, from the Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games: Rue.”

Don’t flinch

The words were a stagnant mantra in her head. For every hit, every shove, every infliction of pain.

Don’t flinch

She’d been through worse, much worse. Another reminder that seemed insignificant in the moment, but her mind tried its best. Someone was speaking to her, another question she may or may not know the answer too. No matter, she still wouldn’t answer.

Stell hadn’t ever been so thankful for how her mind slipped away from her surroundings. She made no move to stop it, no mental effort to keep herself in the present.

The two words of advice gently fade away as instead, she thinks of Gloss. Of Gloss and Reed and Evelyn and Cato and Lando. All the people who had died under the Capitol’s control. She thinks of her District, who carried hatred in their heart for her for years.

And here she was, taking a beating for them all. Starving for them all.

Seconds blend into minutes and finally, the man holding the club lets it fall to the ground. The clattering sound does enough to make Stell focus on what’s happening now. But she still doesn’t move as he rushes at her, grabbing her chin so roughly in one hand that the chair she’s bound too tilts on its back two legs, “It’s a shame,” He taunts her, turning her face one way, then the other, “You used to be so stunning.” His lips turn down in a frown, which quickly turns into a grimace, “Have you lost the ability to speak you whore!?” He roars at her, holding her there in imbalance.

As she focuses on his eyes, she becomes acutely aware of the pain spreading throughout her body. Arms, shoulders, torso. Even her hands. And yet, “No.” She can barely slip the word past her teeth with how he’s holding her.

The man roars again, shoving her backwards as he stands up violently. Theres the sensation of falling, then her hands slamming into stone, being crushed not only by the chair but by her own bodyweight, then the back of head follows. The ringing in her ears instant as her skull collides with the hard surface.

The words sound far away now, “This isn’t working!”

More voices, more speaking. Stell was somewhat aware of her chair being pulled back up. Once again, she could see the room itself. Her head was pounding still, and concentrating on one thing made it even worse.

Another sound, the scrapping of the door. A heavy, metal thing that locked from the outside and had two guards out front while they beat her bloody in here. And then, “Stell”

Her head whips over, the movement so fast she thinks she’ll tip over. Bruises lined his face, red hair disheveled and longer than the last time she saw him. But it’s him, hands tied together behind his back, dirty clothes hanging off his thinner outline.

“Favian.” He shouldn’t be here; he was in District Four. He didn’t even go to the Capitol. He was supposed to be watching, “Annie,” Her name is a whisper on Stell’s tongue, “Where’s Annie?”

Her abuser now smiles behind Favian, “Oh don’t worry, she’s just down the hall.”

“Don’t hurt them.” Stell tells him, Favian pursing his lips together at her words, “They didn’t-“

“Didn’t do anything?” The peacekeeper cuts her off, he laughs once, “He,” He shoves Favian forwards, the Victor falling to his knees, “is already convicted, already interrogated, already taught us some new things.”

Stell glares at Favian, “They were going to hurt her.” He whispers, and Stell understands. Annie Cresta was her Victor, but Favian loved Annie too.

“Now,” The man standing behind Favian reaches down his own side, pulling a pistol out and holding the mouth of it to Favian’s head, “How many of the tributes knew about the escape plan from the Quell?”

“Do you accept this as your rightful time?” Her words aren’t for the Peacekeeper, but for Favian. Favian: who’s laugh she can hear ringing in her ears. Favian: who she can still hear singing, his voice carrying throughout Victor’s Village. Favian: who was more so a brother to Finnick than anybody else. “Say no, and I’ll stop him.”

Favian swallows, his chin tilting upwards, “I should’ve died in my Games.”

Stell’s eyes shift to the Peacekeeper, “I don’t know.”

The Peacekeeper scoffs, the weapon clicking, “You’re so soft and quiet, not much of a Victor anymore.” He takes a step closer to Favian, his eyes still on Stell’s, “This will break you, I can see it in your eyes.”

“I’ve never been soft or quiet. People shudder at the sight of me,” Stell smirks, “Even before the Quell.”

“How many of the tributes knew about the escape plan from the Quell?”

Her eyes go back to Favian’s. Minutely, the young man nods, “I don’t know.” The Victors from Four don’t look away from one another. Not as the Peacekeeper unlocks the safety, not as he shoves the gun firmly against Favian’s head, and not as he pulls the trigger.

Don’t flinch

And she doesn’t.

Chapter Text

Stell doesn’t know how long they leave her there with Favian’s body. Perhaps it’s only a few minutes, maybe a couple hours. She doesn’t look away; she doesn’t say a word. His eyes are open, staring lifelessly back at her. They’re remarkably dull, with no spirit behind them.

In her mind, she can still hear his voice. With time, she knows the ability to hear him in her brain will fade. After a few months, she’ll only be able to think certain phrases in his tone. Get his accent down correctly, home in on the syllables where his voice would raise or lower. And then, it’ll just be gone.

She wonders if the inability to remember a person’s voice is something others think about too. It must be, a voice is so unique, more unique than a face. Her mind wanders a little, wondering if she could remember how Reed used to say her name.

But she reels it back to now, or to Favian, because he deserves her thoughts more than anyone else right now. It’s hard though, with the back of her skull still pounding. Keeping her thoughts on a single wavelength was proving near impossible.

When she is led back to her cell, her feet dragging against tile the entire way, she just sits. Slumps her body against the wall she shares with Peeta. And when he asks if she’s alright, asks what happened, she just wonders, “Do you know who won the Sixty-first Hunger Games?”

Peeta thinks for a moment, then answers her honestly, “No.”

“Favian McTavish.” She tells him everything. How his father was a teacher, how he volunteered for his Games and almost died in the bloodbath. She tells him how he always went to the market on Tuesdays and that he bought too much booze and sang too loud and too long with Finnick. She tells him about his house in Victor’s Village, about how everything he tried to grow in his garden would die, about how when he was wasted, he’d wink, point at Stell, and say without a care in the world “You’re the prettiest bitch I know”.

She tells him about poker night, about how close all the Victors from District Four are. She tells him about birthday celebrations and Reapings and Victory Tour parties. She tells him how Favian loved Annie, “She’s here,” Stell whispers, desperation seeping into her voice, “They have my Victor here.”

Peeta’s quiet for a moment, then asks, “Did they kill Favian?”

“Yes,” The answer is instant, “I think they’re going to kill us all.”

“Maybe,” Peeta speculates, silence lapses between them and Stell’s almost drifted off the sleep when Peeta whispers, “They showed me footage of Katniss today.” He divulges the information slowly, as though he’s not quite sure he should let Stell know, “While you were gone.”

Her eyebrows draw together as she fights to stay awake, “New footage?”

“No,” he says, “it was from the Games last year.”

“Why would they show you that?”

“I’m not sure.” A few beats of silence pass by, “She was trying to kill me.”

There’s an edge to Peeta’s voice that Stell’s never heard before, “When?” The Seventy-Fourth Hunger Games roll like credits through Stell’s mind as she asks, trying to pinpoint the moment where it would’ve looked like Katniss was actively trying to kill Peeta. She doesn’t remember a lot of it, her tribute only lasted seventy-eight seconds that year.

Her memory is jogged a little when Peeta answers, “When she cut down the tracker jacker nest.”

Stell’s initial thought is that Peeta’s not wrong, but she chooses to side with Katniss, “You were with the Career pack, she didn’t have another way out.”

“She wanted me dead.”

“She wanted to survive,” Stell’s perplexed by Peeta’s tone still, how he’s so focused on that one notion that it was all just to kill him, “Peeta that’s what you do in the Games, try and survive.”

The boy huffs, “I know that, it’s just…” He sounds defeated now, “I saw the footage.”

“Footage doesn’t show someone’s thoughts.” Stell reminds him, “Just think about that.”

She gets to see Peeta the next day. He’s lost weight, and by the shocked look on his face, so has she. His cheeks are slightly sunken in now, with dark circles under his eyes. What stuns her is how much muscle he’s lost in a matter of days. But then they’re ushered away to be prepared for another television appearance.  

Questions rush through Stell’s head. Did the rebels make an offensive move? Did Katniss say anything to the nation? Did Finnick? Her and Peeta’s appearance were in response to a rebel broadcast before, it only made since to be doing the same thing again now.

But President Snow waits in her makeshift dressing room, seated across the room in a makeup chair, “What’re you doing to Peeta?” She questions forcefully, her eyes narrowed, “Even without food he shouldn’t be that thin!” She knows she’s right, but again, Stell even thought she was thinner than she should be.

Snow just motions for her to calm down, “Simple experiments, nothing more.” Her hands tremble, her mind itching for her to just attack the old man. But the armed peacekeepers on either end of the room are a strong deterrent. “What we really need to speak of, Miss Mere, is whether or not you’ll cooperate if I put you on live television again.”

“I was truthful last time.” The words spit out of her.

The President frowns, “I need you to lie,” his head tilts slightly as he speaks, “You’re very good at that, and to be forward, if you don’t, then others will suffer for it.”

Annie. Stell knows he means Annie. “Let me see her.”

“No.” He grins, “She’s accompanied by Miss Mason, I assure you they enjoy each other’s company.” Stell remains quiet. She’s still standing just inside the doorway, a few feet away from where the President stands. The old man pushes himself to his feet and begins to wander the room, “There’s an additional reason as well, why I’m certain you’ll cooperate.” He stops beside a small table, lifting up a thin sheet to reveal a small food platter.

Everyone in the room can hear Stell’s stomach rumble at just the sight of it. She makes no move towards it, just looks over at Snow, “You think that’ll make me talk?”

“You need to eat.” He saunters closer to her, each step deliberate, “We don’t want you dying on us. If you go, who will protect dear Annie Cresta?”  Stell glares at him as he smirks, “Peeta knows his lines, I suggest you agree with them.” Snow opens his mouth to say more, then seems to decide against it. One last smile, and he vacates the room, followed by his peacekeepers.

Alone at last, Stell makes her way over to the food on the table.

Chicken and vegetables make up the majority of what she’s been provided. And while she’s halfway through the second chicken leg, the door to the room swings open.

Her prep team enters the room, their usual hysteria for life now gone as they take in their Victor. They’d been happy to see her last time, even if they’d just found out she was a traitor to the Capitol. Heidi reaches out for her now, tears already spilling down her face.

Stell takes a step back, not being able to help the involuntary flinch. “Oh Stellar…” Winford’s frowning behind her, “We can cover most of it, you’re not to worry.”

They motion her into the chair, getting to work quickly and quietly. It takes them a while, every time Stell catches movement out of the corner of her eye she winces, her body anticipating being beaten once again.

By the time she’s acceptable, her hands shake, and her arm muscles keep spasming. She’s ushered into a pair of clean pants and a soft blue blouse. It’s different for her, but at the present time, Stell can’t focus on it much. She still sees Favian being shot in the head every time she closes her eyes.

Peacekeepers flank her on either side as she’s led to another room within the tower. Upon arrival, Stell recognizes the room as the same one they were filmed in previously. And Peeta’s there, dressed up in an all-white suit, complete with a white rose on his lapel.

His lips turn downwards at her expression, and when she strides towards him, he doesn’t have time to question her motives before she’s wrapped her arms around him. “Hey!” Peeta’s returned the gesture in an instant, both ignoring the peacekeeper who barks out at them.

“Oh, leave them be.” Stell pulls away from Peeta at the sound of Caesar’s voice. The familiar man smiles sadly at the two, “I’m glad they’ve decided not to handcuff you this time.” He nods towards Stell’s unshackled wrists.

She nods, “Me too.”

Peeta watches in awe then as Stell instantly pulls herself together. Her back gets straighter, her shoulders pull back and she begins asking Ceasar how he wants the two of them to enter for this interview. She’s done this hundreds of times, he remembers, but is still surprised when she suggests that Caesar announce the two Victors in order to show them walking to the loveseat that’s been provided.

All the details only take about two minutes to put together, then Caesar is getting into place. The camera crew is the only audience, and they do some last-minute checks as Stell whispers to Peeta, “You have lines?”

The boy’s hands still tremble, “Yes, addressing Katniss.” He holds out a small card towards her, letting Stell read it a few times over.

“Okay.” Stell holds her arm out to Peeta then, “Together?”

“And we’re live in five! Four!”

Peeta looks down at Stell’s arm, only pausing for a moment before looping his own through it, “Together.” He agrees.

Finnick brings his dinner over to Katniss’s hospital room that night, pulling a chair closer and plopping down in it. He’d been informed earlier that they’d been able to broadcast the propos from District Eight all over Panem, excluding the Capitol, throughout the day. He’d recorded a couple more We Remember propos, but they wouldn’t be ready for broadcast for a few more days.

Now, the rebels air the “Because you know who they are and what they do” propo that Messalla edited. The footage is intercut with short studio clips of Boggs, Gale, and Cressida describing the incident. And while Katniss buries her face in her pillow when they show the bombs rain down on District Eight, Finnick keeps his eyes on the screen.

When it’s over, he doesn’t applaud or act happy, he just says, “People should know what happened. And now they do.”

“Let’s turn it off, Finnick, before they run it again,” Katniss urges him. His hand moves towards the remote, freezing in place when the Capitol begins introducing a special segment. And yes, there’s Caesar Flickerman and only a moment later, he’s introducing his special guests.

Their body transformations are shocking. The Capitol has tried to cover it up. But Peeta flinches with each step, and the baggy clothes can’t hide how thin Stell truly is. While their arms are looped together, both sets of hands have a slight tremor. Finnick looks to her hands, and yes, they’re there, the dark red marks along her knuckles, darker than he’s ever seen before.

To her credit, Stell appears to be more aware than Peeta. The older girl seems to half lead Peeta towards the loveseat, guiding him to sit down. Finnick’s eyes never leave her face as Caesar and Peeta have a few empty exchanges before Caesar asks them both about the rumors that Katniss and Finnick are taping propos for the districts. All the while, Stell just keeps blinking, her eyes never quite focusing on one thing, “They’re using them, obviously,” Peeta says.

“You think they’d have much of a choice?” Stell questions, and despite her poised posture, her voice is remarkably flat, “They picked them up from the arena the rebels probably make immense demands of them now.” It’s a different tune for Stell, almost a complete turn around from last time.

“I doubt they even know what’s going on in the war, what’s at stake.” Peeta visibly struggles with the words, and Stell rests her arm atop his thigh, grounding him there.

And then Caesar’s asking Peeta if he has something to say to Katniss, and Peeta replies affirmatively. But Finnick only sees Stell’s fingertips. They tap on Peeta’s kneecap. Three times successively, then three times slower, then three times successively, then three more times slower. And the same pattern again, and again. “If you’ve got any real influence, use it to put the brakes on this thing. Use it to stop the war before it’s too late.” Peeta fumbles over words for the first time in his life, but Stell picks up easily.

“Do you trust the people you’re working with? What’s really going on in Thirteen? Because if you don’t know…then find out.”

Capitol Seal. Black screen. Program over.

Finnick lurches for the remote, the gears in his mind going in overdrive as he shuts off the television, “We didn’t see it.” He says quickly, already hearing the footsteps headed their way. Because despite Stell’s signaling, which he knows Amos and all of District Four will pick up on, her words take precedence.

Finnick didn’t trust Coin, Plutarch, or anyone else in Thirteen. He could tell Katniss didn’t either and right now they had the perfect opportunity to find out if they could trust the rebels. “What?” Katniss questions, her eyes still wide.

“We didn’t see the program. Only the propo on Eight. Then we turned the set off because the images upset you. Got it?” He asks, noticing how much he sounds like his old self in that moment. Katniss nods, the tension in her shoulders relaxing just a hair, “Finish your dinner.” Finnick instructs her, turning back to his own and putting a forkful of cabbage in his mouth. He chews, swallows, then brings up, “Gale came across really well on screen, nothing like how he does in real life.” Fulvia and Plutarch enter mid sentence, Katniss letting out a laugh at Finnick’s jab. They congratulate them on the propo. Make it clear it was so powerful that they had to turn off the screen right after.

They look relieved. They believe them. Neither mentions the Capitol broadcast.

The next day Katniss brings Finnick out to the woods with her. Gale’s been called down to special defense to go over tactics with Beetee, so she had to pick a new partner for the day. It doesn’t take very long before the two of them to ditch their communicators under a bush. When they’re a safe distance away, they sit to discuss the broadcast.

“I haven’t heard one word about it. No one’s told you anything?” Finnick says, Katniss shakes her head. He pauses before asking, “Not even Gale?” Katniss is quiet for a beat, “Maybe he’s waiting to find a time to tell you in private. That’s what I’m hoping Amos is doing…” Finnick’s trailing words give away his lack of confidence in that idea.

Katniss replies with a shrug, “Maybe. You don’t think Mags would tell you if she saw?”

“I know she would,” Finnick answers, “She goes to bed early though, and the propos in general upset her so she tries not to watch.”

They settle into silence for so long that a buck wanders into range. Katniss takes it down easily with one of her arrows, and Finnick hauls it back to the fence.

The rest of Finnick’s day is spent in Production. Filming segment after segment of We Remember propos. After a few, he begins requesting breaks between each one. “You’re doing a brilliant job!” Fulvia tells him, “They’re all so detailed,”

“Because they were my friends,” Finnick mumbles, fighting back the tears that threaten to well in his eyes after speaking about Chaff. He pulls at the ends of his sleeves, trying to give his hands something to do.

They don’t want him holding his rope, which sits on a table at the other end of the room. They say it’ll be unsettling. Because these people are dead and I’m not allowed to come across as mildly unstable, Finnick thinks it’s unfair.

And he keeps wondering about Stell. They’re torturing them, clearly. The aftereffects of her last concussion line up perfectly with how she appeared on screen yesterday. The rapid blinking, inability to focus.

He’d had nightmares about her. Being beaten as she refused to answer questions. Close ups on the scar she now wore down her face. Her voice begging for someone to save her, and Finnick not being able to do a thing.

“Finnick?” He shakes his head, trying to physically get the thoughts out, “Are you ready?” It’s Cressida, her camera crew all waiting impatiently for him to return to his chair.

“Yeah,” Finnick nods, reminding himself that this will help. This is how he can get her back sooner, “Let’s do it.”

District Four doesn’t rally behind the Mockingjay. Of course, they see the propos of her in District Eight, are outraged by the atrocities of the Capitol, but it’s not news to them. They cheer in the streets when Finnick Odair comes on screen and revolt more when it’s discovered that their remaining Victors have been abducted in the night.

Favian, Annie, and Klaus disappeared just after Stell first appeared on television. Annie’s father was found dead, his body left in the Square. The people rallied behind the actions, pushing Capitol forces to fight even harder to remain in control of the District.

And throughout the entirety of it, people speak of Stellar Mere. Yes, of how she killed her district partner. Of how she betrayed everyone’s trust. Of how she could be heard screaming in the night. But also her stories of being a slave to the Capitol following her Games, of being forced into appearances and parties and having everything taken away from her. Her words about providing a better tomorrow for those to come. Her actions in the Quell with protecting Katniss and Peeta while clearly being targeted by the Gamemakers.

Those who once hated her, shunned her for years and refused to think of why she’d done what she’d done, now rethought their own actions. Because if they didn’t…weren’t they just as bad as the Capitol?

But then Thirteen airs a propo that captivates the entire District. Finnick Odair speaking about one of their own: Reed Baltic. He speaks highly of Stell’s district partner, weaving a story of a boy who was born into nothing and got routinely punished for living as close to a happy life as he could. And he talks about his death, how he was killed by his district partner.

Finnick explains it all. How Stell didn’t know, how it haunts her every day, how Reed was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. Finnick tells his District how Stell visits Reed’s grave often, how she remembered his birthday and the anniversary of his death.

He shows District Four that she’s not a monster, but a victim. And with that mindset, she becomes their symbol.

The District Four natives all stop what they’re doing when she’s shown on screen again. And while they hear her words against the rebels, they all see her hands. Her fingers tapping out the distress signal that their ship spotlights use out at sea.

Save our ship. Save our ship. Save our ship.

The Capitol was torturing the Victors. And Stell had never once asked for help before, but she was now.

Riptide rallies everyone he has. They storm buildings that night, they destroy watch towers, they go past the fence and take out the Capitol satellite camps nearby.

The Capitol loses District Four and they have one main request of President Coin when they transmit the news to Thirteen: rescue them.

Chapter Text

“Madame President, District Four is demanding a rescue be at least attempted for the Victors held captive in the Capitol.” It was a small group in Command, consisting of President Coin, Fulvia, and Plutarch. At the present moment, they were waiting for Katniss Everdeen to arrive in District Twelve. Another propo shooting, this one to show the country what Snow had done to the outlying District.

Coin’s lips purse together, “It’s not safe enough, I won’t risk soldiers on a suicide mission.”

“It’s not impossible, we have intel that they’re being kept in the Tribute Tower.” Plutarch argues, “We could ask for volunteers, we could-“

“They’ll shoot down any aircraft immediately, probably kill the Victors before we can even get to them.” There’s a beat of silence, “And who knows what condition they’re in.”

The comment confuses Plutarch. What condition they’re in? “Isn’t that why we need to save them? They’re being tortured, that’s obvious.”

“Yes, and my heart goes out to them.” Coin’s words suggest her heart does anything but that, “But bringing them here may endanger everyone else. They were unstable before.”

“You mean Stellar.” Plutarch guesses, Coin nodding once in confirmation, “I assure you, the people she has here know how to help her, keep it under control.”

Fulvia taps her fingertips against the tabletop, “Do they?” She questions, “That was before the Quell, there’s no telling her psychological state now.”

“Your doctors can help her, just like they’ve helped Finnick and Katniss.” Plutarch leans back in his chair, his grip tightening on the arms, “Frankly, I think it’s absurd this is even a conversation we’re having; we should try and rescue them.”

“We will,” Coin assures him, “When it’s safer to do so.”

“They may not be alive then.” There’s a beat of silence throughout the room, “You need favor within the Districts after the revolution.” Plutarch reminds her, going a different route to convince District Thirteen’s President, “This is one way to get it.”

The woman raises an eyebrow at him, “As I said, when it’s safer-“

“We’re close to hacking their airways,” Fulvia supplies, “A broadcast could be used as a distraction.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s safer for our troops, I’m not risking unnecessary life.”

Plutarch shrugs casually, “Make it a volunteer mission, you’ll have takers, I know it.”

Coin scoffs, “Who? Solider Odair? He’s not stable, he wouldn’t be able to handle it if anything went wrong.” She leans back in her chair, arms crossing over her chest, “Once we can block their security systems, get in undetected, then we’ll go.” It’s clear that’s her final decision. Neither Plutarch nor Fulvia argue further.

“Please, eat.” Stell eyes the cheese platter cautiously, “Or have you forgotten your manners?” Her gaze lifts to President Snow, a smile on his face as he teases her.

“I’m not hungry.” It’s the truth. She’d been sick most of the morning, puking what little food she had left in her stomach up. She would’ve felt bad for Peeta, but he wasn’t there. He’d been gone from his cell for most of the night.

There’s a chair in the middle of the room, metal restraints hanging from the arms and two peacekeepers standing on either side. Stell inclines her head towards it, “I’m guessing that seat’s for me?” Snow simply motions towards it.

She takes slow steps, eyeing the peacekeepers as she makes her way around them, then sits.

“I wanted to share some old audio files with you,” Snow begins, not even watching as she’s bound to the chair, “ask you some questions myself about District Thirteen.”

“I don’t know much about District Thirteen.” It was the truth. She knew they were alive, never fully destroyed. That was it. “What audio files?”

She grips the arms of her chair tightly, hands shaking ever so slightly, “Why I thought you’d like to hear what Mr. Odair’s had to say about you over the years.”

Finnick. She’d thought about him often, wondering what he was doing, if he was pushing for her rescue, or just leaving her to suffer. The President’s words from weeks ago still echoed through her head, do you?

No answer comes to mind right away anymore.

Snow leans forwards, pressing a small button on a box that sits on his desk, “This one’s from right after your Crowning.”

A second later, Finnick’s voice fills the room, and Stell wonders if the President really thought she’d ever forget the moment he replays for her, “You’re a fucking monster!” Pure disgust oozes out of Finnick’s words, even as they echo through the room, “I should’ve let you die!” He scoffs, the sound of something shattering on the wall breaking the beat of silence. He’d thrown a lamp at her head, “I’ll never forgive you! District Four will never forgive you! No matter what you do,”

Stell’s own voice, her younger voice, is heard next, “Finnick, I-“

 “You know they wanted to kill you off!?” He bellows, the regret clear in his voice, and then in a quieter tone, “I should’ve let them.”

The audio goes silent. Stell continues to stare at the floor, at one spot right in front of Snow’s desk. She feels the weight, heavy on her heart as the words sink in again, driving through her like serrated knives.

Another clip starts, “She’s psychotic, just stays holed up in her house. I really get why her mother doesn’t speak to her.”

“No clue how she got that black eye…deserved it though, I’m sure.”

“She’s lucky she’s pretty, not a total waste of money for her clients. At least she’s good for something.” Stell feels her blood run cold in her veins.

Stell doesn’t say anything, her eyes don’t leave the spot on the floor. Her chest aches and she can’t help the single tear that rolls down her face.

It’s old footage, she tells herself, he’s different now. Hadn’t she said bad things about him? Yes, her mind answers, but she never thought he deserved to be in the Trade. She’s good for something. The sentence plays over and over in her mind. Yes, Stell thinks, I brought Annie home.

“You see, Miss Mere,” President Snow begins, something akin to sympathy in his voice, “I thought you should know the true extent of Mr. Odair’s enmity towards you.”

She opens her mouth to respond, to say that she doesn’t care, that it doesn’t matter now. But it does. Because if it didn’t, she wouldn’t feel like this. Blindsided. Ruined. The pain so strong, so vibrantly loud, that she wondered if Snow could hear it inside her. Battering around her whole being.

Hadn’t she spent the past few weeks rethinking it all, wondering if was ever true? Wasn’t this just more proof? They’d both been blinded, not been thinking straight about one another. They did what was needed to stay alive and forgotten that that’s all this was. No one loved her after her Games.

In the absence of love, of almost not one person caring, she’d become cruel. Not only to her old friends but to strangers and even those who tried to help her. She’d become the monster everyone treated her as, unfeeling, unmoving in her hatred for the Capitol and its citizens.

And wasn’t that all Finnick’s fault? It all began with him.

“Now, this is from yesterday.” Again, Finnick’s voice. But this time he’s talking about Reed. Talking about how Stell didn’t mean to kill him, how much she missed him, how guilty she was for what she’d done. After it fizzles out, Snow speaks again, “In the hours after that was broadcasted, your District has rallied behind you. They chant your name in the streets and have overrun Capitol forces.”

Stell finds her voice, but just barely, “Why’re you telling me this?” She looks up slowly, her face emotionless.

“Now,” Snow folds his hands together, “if only he’d said that six years ago.” The old man leans back in his chair, looking off into the distance, “If only he’d asked, and then told the District that you weren’t as monstrous as they thought. I imagine your life would’ve been much,” He searches for the right word, deciding on, “happier.”

He’s right. She knows he’s right. But she can’t let him know he’s so close to breaking her.

So, she floors him with a simple question. A name from a whispered secret. She’s not even sure it’s real.  “Is this how Lucy Gray made you feel?”

It’s true.

Stell knows instantly by Snow’s expression, he opens his mouth, but Stell cuts him off, “Is that why you’re trying to turn me against Finnick? Because a girl didn’t love you years ago?” Her argument doesn’t make much sense, but it’s close enough to it.

“How do you know that name?”

“She won the tenth Hunger Games, why wouldn’t I?”

“But how do you know-“

“About you?” The fire in her chest is burning again, and she sneers at him, “A little birdy told me. Told me about a mentor who brought her roses.” He’s still trying to recover, so she keeps going, this time guessing, “You would’ve been happier if you never met her, is that right?”

Wrong.

President Snow’s eyes harden, a laugh coming out of him once again. She’s lost, “No, my dear girl,” He tells her, “I wouldn’t be President if I’d never met her.” He leans forwards, “Who told you?” Stell shrugs her shoulders, President Snow glances behind her, “Bring her in.”

“Which one, sir?” The peacekeeper asks.

“The fragile one.”

Less than a minute later, Stell hears the door behind her open. She can’t turn her head to look, but she’d recognize the voice from anywhere, “You’re alive!”

“Annie!” Her Victor’s name comes off her tongue easily. Relief lacing her tone. She’s marched around so Stell can see her, sapphire eyes roaming over every inch of Annie Cresta’s body to try and find any sign she’s been harmed.

Thankfully, there’s none.

“Have they hurt you?” Stell asks all the same, just in case the injuries lie beneath Annie’s clothes.

She shakes her head, “Oh, no, but Favian…” her voice fades as Stell’s gaze drops from her own, “He hasn’t come back.” The finishes in a whisper.

Stell can’t find the strength to look at her, “He won’t be coming back.”

The sob that rips up Annie’s throat is almost instant, as is the swift slap from the peacekeeper closest to her, “Don’t touch her!” Stell seethes, going to stand and letting out a growl as the metal bands keep her bound by the forearms to the chair, which feels as though it’s bolted to the floor.

“How many Victors were in on the rebel plan?” Snow asks, his gaze pivoting between Annie, the peacekeeper, and Stell.

His eyebrows hit his hairline when Stell looks over at him. The peacekeeper draws back his arm again, Annie wincing in anticipation of another blow.

You protect your Victor, that doesn’t end in the Games. Finnick may have abandoned that rule, but Stell wasn’t going to, “Thirty-two.”

Finnick’s already angry when Amos pulls him aside, dragging the younger Victor through the maze of District Thirteen until they’re alone in a supply closet. The emotion swims in Finnick’s eyes, making Amos smirk, “You look like yourself.”

“What’s this about?” Finnick snaps, looking slightly down at the shorter man. He swears Amos must be shrinking, he wasn’t always this short, “I’m supposed to be in,” He glances at his arm, “weapons. That’s my favorite part of the day.”

“You saw it, didn’t you?” Amos has always been good at getting to the point, “The Capitol broadcast.” Finnick’s jaw twitching is all the answer he needs, “I thought so.”

“Did Mags?”

“No.”

“Did you tell her about it?”

Amos half shrugs, “No, I don’t want to upset her.”

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?”

Amos scoffs, “I just asked you, didn’t I?”

“Days later!” Finnick snaps, his upper lip curling slightly in the same manner he’s seen Stell’s do on mulitple occasions.

“And you didn’t ask me? Why?” It’s rhetorical, “Because you wanted to see if anyone from here would tell you first.” The fact that he’s right pisses Finnick off even more. “We can’t trust them here.”

“Apparently I can’t trust you either.”

Amos rolls his eyes, “I’m your friend, Finn, you know you can.”

Finnick scoffs, “Hasn’t felt like it.”

For a moment, the two men just stare at one another, both pursing their lips together. After a few beats, Amos lets his shoulders sag, “I know,” He admits, “and I’m sorry for it.” Another breath passes between them, “Why don’t you see if you can spend reflection with Mags and I? We could all catch up.” Amos and Mags had been assigned to the same compartment since their arrival, for convenience and so Amos could keep an eye on the older woman.

Finnick nods, some of his anger dissipating, “Sure.”

Reflection hour for the Victors of District Four gets replaced with a meeting in Command. Boggs tracks them down himself right after dinner, taking Gale and Haymitch as well.

The room becomes crowded quickly, but when Boggs mentions going to find Katniss, Finnick easily offers to save the seat between himself and Plutarch for her. The gesture garners a glare for Gale, which Finnick easily ignores.

 They pull the Capitol broadcast feed up onto the main screens that line the far wall, and Finnick remembers his conversation with Beetee earlier down in weapons. The Victor from Three thought he’d figured out how to break into the nationwide broadcast, Capitol included.

Plutarch asks Finnick how his special weapons training is going, surprised when Finnick actual goes into quite a bit of detail about the trident that’s been designed for him. Their attention turns as Katniss enters, taking the open seat.

“What’s going on? Aren’t we seeing the Twelve propos?” She asks, confusion lining her features.

“Oh no,” says Plutarch, “I mean, possibly. I don’t know exactly what footage Beetee plans to use.”

Finnick stills his hands while he speaks, his length of rope hanging limp, “Beetee thinks he’s found a way to break into the feed nationwide,” He tells her, “So that our propos will air in the Capitol, too. He’s down working on it in Special Defense now. There’s live programming tonight. Snow’s making an appearance or something. I think it’s starting.”

The Capitol seal appears, underscored by the anthem. As President Snow’s eyes appear, Finnick glances over to Mags, but her full attention is on the screen. On it, Snow seems barricaded behind his podium, but the white rose in his lapel is in full view. The camera pulls back to include Peeta, who stands off to the side in front of a projected map of Panem. He’s sitting in an elevated chair, his shoes supported by a metal rung. The foot of his prosthetic leg taps out a strange, irregular beat. Beads of sweat have broken through the layer of powder on his upper lip and forehead. He has a strange look in his eyes, the anger is clear, but they also keep jumping around, focusing for only a moment on something off screen before darting around the room.

“He’s worse,” Katniss whispers, and Finnick grabs her hand. Her grip tightens around it while Finnick’s mind keeps screaming one question: where’s Stell?

Peeta begins to speak in a frustrated tone about the need for a cease-fire. He highlights the damage done to key infrastructure in various districts, and as he speaks, parts of the map light up, showing imagines of the destruction. A broken dam in District Seven, a derailed train with a pool of toxic waste spilling from the tank cars. A granary collapsing after a fire. District Four’s square, the guard towers all lying across the middle, broken boards and glass covering the ground.

All these he contributes to rebel action.

Without warning, Katniss is on screen, standing in the remains of Peeta’s bakery.

Plutarch jumps to his feet, “He did it! Beetee broke in!”

The room’s buzzing with reaction when Peeta’s back, distracted once again. He’s seen Katniss on the monitor. He tries to pick up his speech by moving on the bombing of a water purification plant, when a clip of Finnick talking about Rue replaces him. Peeta’s back a moment later, his eyes distracted again to the spot off screen to his right.

“Finnick!” His blood runs cold at the sound of his strangled name.

He rises to his feet, “Stell.” He doesn’t hear her again as Peeta tries to keep going, but the whole thing breaks down into a broadcast battle, as the Capitol tech masters try and fend off Beetee’s attack. They’re unprepared, and Beetee, apparently anticipating he would not hold on to the control, has an arsenal of five to ten second clips to work with.

Plutarch’s in spasms of delight and most everybody is cheering Beetee on, but Finnick remains still and speechless, as do Mags, Amos, and Haymitch. Dread swims in the eyes of the Victors present in the room. With every cheer, those trapped in the Capitol slip further from their grasp. They'll be punished for this, questioned about rebel motives when they don't know the answers.

The Capitol seal’s back up, accompanied by a flat audio tone. While it sounds, the only thing Finnick can really focus on is the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat. This lasts about twenty seconds before Snow and Peeta return. The set is in turmoil. In Thirteen, they hear frantic exchanges from the Capitol booth. Snow plows forward, saying that clearly the rebels are now attempting to disrupt the dissemination of information they find incriminating, but both truth and justice will reign. The full broadcast will resume when security has been reinstated. He asks Peeta if, given tonight’s demonstration, he has any parting thoughts for Katniss Everdeen.

Peeta’s face contorts at the mention of Katniss. Once again, he looks off screen, at what Finnick assumes to be Stell. Then he starts, “Katniss…how do you think this will end? What will be left? No one is safe. Not it the Capitol. Not in the Districts. And you…in Thirteen…”

He hesitates, and Stell’s voice is clear on the broadcast, “Tell them!” There’s a resounding thud and Peeta’s eyes look insane as he looks to the camera quickly.

“Dead by morning!”

Off camera, Snow orders, “End it!” Beetee throws the whole thing into chaos by flashing a still shot of Katniss standing in front of the hospital at three second intervals. But between the images, they are privy to the real life action being played out on the set. Peeta’s attempt to continue speaking, Stell yelling in the background about the bombers making their way to Thirteen. How they're going to die.

The camera falls, knocked down to the white tiled floor. A flash later, and Stell’s limp body fills half the frame. The dark bags under her eyes, gauntness of her cheeks, and the blood, slowly dripping down from her temple.

Chapter Text

Finnick flinches when the first bomb explodes overhead, the lights above him flickering on and off for several moments before darkness settles around them. Collectively, the entire population of District Thirteen holds their breath, waiting to see if the fundamental structures around them will hold. The hum of generators is audible as they kick in a moment later, and backup lights flicker on around them, these ones a soft yellow rather than the vibrant white Finnick still hadn’t gotten used to. It’s a nice change from the usual brightness of Thirteen.

He glances around from his spot on the lower bunk, looking down again at the small page that tells him to ‘await further instructions’. His eyes glance towards the nearest speaker when Coin’s voice fills the void, “Apparently, Peeta and Stellar’s information was sound and we owe them a great debt of gratitude. Sensors indicate the first missile was not nuclear, but very powerful. We expect more will follow. For the duration of the attack, citizens are to stay in their assigned areas unless otherwise notified.”

The information makes Finnick’s lips turn downwards. Taking a steadying breath, he continues to tie knots, his rough, calloused hands moving effortlessly, forming one knot, undoing it, then tying another. If he stops, he knows where his mind will wander.

I hope she’s dead. The plea had returned as soon as he saw Stell’s body hit the tile floor. Because if she’s not dead now, then she’s suffering. But he knows in his heart she’s alive. Not because of intuition. But because he knows how Snow operates.

Stell will be kept alive as punishment to Finnick. So that he’ll lose his own mind constantly wondering what they’re doing to her. If she was dead, they’d have no leverage, Finnick would do what he pleased for the rebel cause and have no repercussions to face.

But he already was helping the rebels. And for a moment, he regrets his We Remember propos. Maybe that’s why Stell wasn’t on camera this time. She was so beaten and bloody from torture because of what Finnick’s been doing that they didn’t think it’d be right to show her.

He takes a breath to calm his increasing panic. He can’t think like that, he’ll just drive himself mad. Again.

Fingers twitching, he looks to the two compartments beside his own. He doesn’t know his neighbors, but Mags and Amos are a few blocks down. Craning his head forwards, he can make out Amos’s figure.

He’d already gone down to check on them shortly after Plutarch had shown them all where to go. Amos and Finnick had spoken in hushed voices about the broadcast as the rest of Thirteen’s population finished filing in, Mags trying her best to steel her own features.

She was worried, and Finnick’s reassurance of, “They won’t kill her yet,” didn’t help much. But then someone came by and informed Finnick that he had to be in his own quadrant, so here he was, alone again.

He had to admit, the bomb shelter space was impressive. Complete with a kitchen, bathrooms, and a first aid station, it’s clear it was made for a long-term stay. The bunks were even built into the walls, and if Finnick had more self-preservation, he may think twice before using them and opted to sleep on the floor. But as it was, he didn’t really care right now if he’d be crushed to death in a collapse.

So, he was content to wait. Waiting, as long as he could control where his thoughts went, was something every mentor became quite good at over the years. It’s what they did a majority of the Games: watched and waited for something, anything, to happen to their tribute. Sure, sometimes he was watching unspeakable atrocities happen to a child, but he could never do anything in the moment to help them. He was useless, his hands tied behind his back like the rest of the audience.

In that regard, this almost felt like he was back in an arena. Waiting for the entire thing to collapse and end his life in an instant, with President Snow at the controls. At least here, he wouldn’t have to kill anyone else with his bare hands.

The pain was her constant. Pain through her limbs and her nerves. With her eyes closed, she couldn’t even tell what position her body was in anymore. And the heat she could feel? That was all from her own blood, pooling out of her body and staining the cement floor.

They’d moved her to a new room following Peeta’s interview. Not that she remembered, she’d just woken up here, the bonds of a chair replaced by hands cuffs around her wrists. Once again, her leg was gone.

Upon waking up, she’d been beaten for what felt like hours. Her right cheek was split open, her nose broken and given the way her ribs screamed every time she took a breath, she figured a few of those were broken as well.

She wonders what the President thought was going to happen when he told her and Peeta that they were going to bomb District Thirteen. They had to warn them, protect them, save them. There was no other choice really, not for Stell at least.

And now here she was, letting out a low groan as she turns over from her back to lay on her side. She winces, air hissing through her teeth as she fights not to cry out.

“You look like shit.” Her eyes fly open at the voice, across the room, the broad-shouldered blonde shrugs once, “What? Not even going to say hello?” One end of his mouth curves upwards a second before he pushes himself off the far wall he was leaning on, amusement dancing in his brown eyes. Her mouth opens, then closes again.

Gloss shakes his head as he looks down at her. He lowers himself to the floor a few feet away from her as she studies him.

He’s still dressed in his wetsuit from the Quell. But it bears no rips or tears, no arrow sits in his heart. And his voice is so clear as he speaks, “Don’t worry, I’ll just wait.” He clasps his hands together in his lap, glancing around the dungeon she’s now kept in, “This sucks.”

“You’re dead.”

He looks back at her, then runs a hand through his short hair, “Unfortunately, yes.” His answer makes her close her eyes.

“I’m going insane.” She mutters, taking a breath and holding it.

She can hear him shift his weight, “I’ve been telling you that for years, I’m glad you finally believe me.” He’s still there when she opens her eyes again, that same soft smile on his face.

It’s an instant source of comfort, the familiarity of it. He was a refuge for her for years, somewhere that was always safe. And all she wants is to be safe again.

Her arm reaches out towards him, the movement making pain shoot through her shoulder. It was dislocated the last time she was awake. “Please.” She begs but he doesn’t move closer, just shakes his head. “Everything hurts.” She tells him, finally admitting aloud that this nightmare is taking a toll.

“They can only break your body.” Gloss tells her, his lips pursing together for another second, “Don’t let them break you.”

“You just called me insane.”

“True,” He chuckles, “But you’re still able to make choices, think for yourself. Don’t lose that.”

“They can hurt Annie.”

Gloss looks down at the floor, tracing a bloodstain with the tip of his index finger, “You chose Thirteen over Annie, you knew that when you decided to scream about the bombers.” He’s right, she knows he’s right. Probably because he’s all in her head, echoing her subconscious thoughts back at her, “She’s good as dead.” A tear rolls down Stell’s cheek at his words, a lump lodging itself in her throat, “Don’t cry.” The words are stern, and Gloss is sitting up straighter now, “We don’t let them see us cry.”

She nods, her heart joining the lump in her throat when she hears the latch on the door move. Her eyes are frantic as she looks to Gloss as he stands, moving back to the far side of the room, “Don’t leave me.” She whispers desperately.

He smiles once more, calming her erratic soul, “I never would.”

Peacekeepers file in a moment later, their movements quicker than usual, “Get her up!” The tallest one barks, “The President wants her fully conscious in ten minutes. Ah,” He glances down at her, “Good, you’re awake, that’ll save time.” Another peacekeeper grabs the chain that holds her handcuffs together, violently ripping her up into a kneeling position.

She ignores the pain, the screaming of every nerve in her body, and lifts her chin up to stare the peacekeeper in the face. Even with a scar down her face and a split in her cheek, Stell’s expression screams defiance, “Where’re we going?”

The peacekeeper remains unfazed, leaning in till his face is inches from her own, “To interrogation.”

She doesn’t dream when she sleeps. It’s a welcome reprieve from the nightmares that usually plague her, but as she drifts back towards consciousness, she realizes something far more terrifying.

Someone’s touching her.

It’s a cool sensation against her cheek, and helps lessen the pain, but panic floods every other pathway in her brain and she jerks backwards, her head slamming into the stone wall behind her. “Fuck!” She backpedals the best she can with one leg, further away from the voice as her eyes fly open.

Only one does so, the other swollen shut, but she can still see the peacekeeper crouched a few feet away, the damp rag still raised in his hand. “I’m just trying to help.” It’s her guard, the one she hasn’t seen since…Stell wasn’t sure how long it’d really been. A few days, two? Maybe three?

He’d brought her dinner the night of Peeta’s last broadcast and had been absent since. Her eyes drift to the darkest corner of her dungeon, and sure enough, Gloss is there, leaning back against the wall. He raises his eyebrows at her, she looks back to her guard, “Help?” She parrots back at him, studying his face. His helmet sits back by the door, discarded with little thought.

“Yes,” He raises the rag like she could’ve missed it before, “help you.”

“You’re not supposed to do that.” Her voice is rough, the words scratching her throat as they come out. She’d answered most of the questions in her last interrogation, cooperated and told what she knew as they held Annie there before her, but she’d still been beaten after. This time, she couldn’t keep the screams inside herself.

The guard rolls his eyes, “I know but,” He gestures to her, then to the room around them. He glances right where Gloss stands, whose arms are crossed over his chest. “This isn’t right.”

The guard can’t see Gloss, he really is just in her head. “I told you I wasn’t leaving.” Stell looks at him as he speaks.

“Stellar?” Her name sounds odd coming from the guard, but she looks back at him.

Her eyebrows hike upwards, “You just realized now that this isn’t right?” At least he’s decent enough to look bashful at her statement. “What’s your name?” She asks, relaxing a little against the wall but not moving closer.

The boy shakes his head before answering, “Syrus.”

“Well, Syrus,” His name feels odd coming off her tongue, “This is about what I expected to happen here.” The lifts a hand slowly, pointing to the food behind him, “Could I?”

“Oh,” He scrambles to his feet, looking younger already, “Yes, of course.” He grabs it and brings it closer, stepping back a step when Stell flinches at his proximity.

He places it on the ground a few feet from her, “Are Johanna and Peeta alive?” Stell asks, gritting her teeth together as she leans forwards to bring the plate closer to herself.

“Yes,” He tells her, “They don’t want you and Johanna to see one another since they assumed you conspired together beforehand.”

“They assumed Peeta knew about it all too.”

“Careful,” Her eyes look over to Gloss as she bites into a small roll, “This could all be a trap. He’ll just report back to his superiors whatever you say.”

Stell rolls her eyes, I know that, she thinks. “They figured out pretty quick he knew nothing,” Syrus is telling her, “But you and Johanna were involved, it was already confirmed by your actions in the Quell.”

She hums, “They tell you that? Or did you figure it out on your own?” She pauses in her chewing to level him with a curious gaze. Syrus stares, not responding to her, “Do my facial wounds make you uncomfortable?” She quips, “I’d say it’ll get better, but I think I’ve been ruled out of the full body polish.”

She’s mildly surprised when he answers, “They told us.” Silence settles between them as Stell finishes what little food he brought her. She winces when it reaches her stomach and the organ retaliates against her, feeling as though it’s twisting in on itself. Syrus sits down again, Stell studies his facial features. Yes, she decides, he must be around her own age. She’s taken off guard when he suddenly tells her, “My cousin was in the Games.” Her mind immediately goes to Harrison, but he rejects that thought right away, “Cato.”

She can see the resemblance, their noses are similar, their facial structures near identical, “He volunteered.” Stell says it as though that makes everything better, as though it justifies the eighteen-year old’s death. To her, it does.

“I wanted him to win,” Odd statement, Stell thinks, “But now seeing what they’ve done to you.” Even odder statement, but smart man. Syrus shakes his head, “He was right. At the end.”

“I’m dead anyway,” Stell quotes Cato easily, his words still seared into her soul, “I always was right?” Syrus is looking at her with wide eyes, “I admired him,” She admits, she opens her mouth to say more, but instead her body heaves. The food she just consumed comes back up a moment later, spilling over the space that separates the two of them. Her throat burns, her ribs scream and her eyes water.

I’m dead anyway, Cato’s words echo through her mind, though now, she thinks of herself, I always was right?

Across from her, Syrus stands. There isn’t anything for him to say, so he backs away, knowing if he doesn’t leave soon anyways, someone will come looking for him. Stell waits till he’s almost to the door before asking, “Is he going to kill me?”

Syrus pauses, then reaches down to pick up his helmet before turning to face her, “Not yet.” He doesn’t see her lips purse together as he puts his helmet on and exits the dungeon.

Not yet? Stell wishes he would.

It’s the third night of the attack when Katniss appears in Finnick’s assigned area. He’s sitting under his safety light, knotting his rope, when really he’s supposed to be asleep. No one’s going to say anything to him though, so he doesn’t bother to pretend.

He doesn’t want to experience the new nightmares.

Katniss keeps her voice in a whisper as she tells Finnick of how Snow’s using Peeta to hurt her. Keeping him alive to torture her. He throws her a knowing glance, his fingers stilling, and then it dawns on her, “This is what they’re doing to you with Stell, isn’t it?” She asks.

Finnick raises one shoulder and lets it fall, “Well, she does know more than me about the rebel plans in Four, so I’m sure they want that. But yes, otherwise, it’s much the same.”

“Oh, Finnick. I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Finnick surprises her, “I’m sorry. That I didn’t warn you somehow,” He says.

Katniss shakes her head, “You did warn me though, on the hovercraft. Only when you said they’d use Peeta against me, I thought you meant like bait. To sure me into the Capitol somehow,” she explains, Finnick barely recalling the conversation she’s referring too.

“I shouldn’t have said even that. It was too late for it to be of any use. Since I hadn’t warned you before the Quarter Quell, I should’ve shut up about how Snow operates,” Finnick yanks on his rope, and the intricate knot he’d finished upon her arrival becomes a straight line. “It’s just we didn’t understand when we met you. After your first Games, we thought the whole romance thing was an act on your part. We all expected you to continue that strategy in the arena. It wasn’t until Peeta hit the force field in the arena that I-“ Finnick hesitates.

“That you what?”

“That I knew I misjudged you. That you do love him. In what way, I’m not saying, maybe you don’t even know yourself. But it’s clear to anyone paying attention that you care about him.”

She just sits for a long moment, the silence dragging on around them, till she whispers, “How do you bear it?”

“I don’t!” Finnick says, exasperated, “Clearly, Katniss, I don’t. I drag myself out of nightmares each morning to find there’s no relief in waking. I just, try and keep my mind occupied.” He lifts up the rope, “Trust me, it takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart.”

She takes a deep breath as though to steady herself. Then surprises him, “What’s Stell like?”

The question makes Finnick smile, his first genuine smile in weeks, “The real Stell?”

Katniss nods, “Yes, not the Capitol version.”

“She’s brilliant.” Finnick stares down at his rope as he speaks, his lips still curved upwards, “She’s generous and honest and,” He chuckles once, “Not kind, not to everyone at least, but she’s genuine. She goes to the market with Mags to help her carry her bags and is one of the best cooks you’ll ever meet.” His sea-green eyes soften as he speaks about her, “She visits the graveyard to pay respect to the dead tributes at least once a week, she eats way too many vegetables, and she always sleeps with the window open.”

“So does Peeta,” He looks back up to Katniss, who can’t help but mirror Finnick’s expression, “How long have you loved her?”

It’s an answer he’s not quite sure about. He thinks back to his birthday, when she let him sleep on her couch after he’d stumbled over in the pouring rain. He thinks of all their walks on the beach together, his arm wrapped around her shoulders. He thinks of taking care of her after she’d been shot. He thinks back to last Christmas, her feet propped over the side of his living room chair and a wine glass in her hand, “I’m not sure,” He ponders it for another moment, “A few months.”

Katniss hesitates before asking her next question, searching for the right words, “Johanna said she’s…” She taps the side of her head with her index finger.

Finnick’s not offended when he supplies the answer, “Mad?” Katniss nods, “She gets stuck in her head.” He tells her as though he’s telling her about yesterday’s weather, “Sees things that aren’t actually there, people from her Games, mutations from her nightmares. She never really left the arena.”

“Oh.”

He leans back against the wall, looking up at Katniss before asking, “Did you know her crowning got pushed back a day?” The girl shakes her head, she didn’t remember that year well, “She won, but couldn’t see that the helicopter was there to bring her back. She ran from it, killed two Gamemakers who got sent down to try and receive her. They had bring Mags into the arena,” he looks down at his lap again, “Snow said if she couldn’t get her then they were going to kill her. It took her two hours to convince Stell it was over.” Finnick shakes his head, not mentioning that he refused to get her himself, even then the hatred has already festered inside him, “Then they had to keep her sedated for longer than usual, let her brain catch up with the present. They were worried for Ceasar’s safety if the crowning was two days after, so we pushed it back one more. I think they told the public it was because she was in surgery for her leg.”

“That’s…” Katniss is painfully aware she’s not good with words.

“Not what you thought?” Finnick guesses and she nods, Finnick hums, “Everyone assumes I love the famous, bitter, Victor when really it’s just-“

“The poor mad girl.” Katniss finishes.

“We’re engaged, you know?” She turns quickly to look at him, his lips pulled up in a smile, Katniss’s mouth is slightly agape, “I proposed on stage before my interview, that night before the Quell.”

Katniss remembers the two of them stopping on stage, yards away from Ceasar. Finnick’s hushed words that the cameras couldn’t pick up, and Stell’s smile after, “She said yes, didn’t she?” Katniss feels her own smile take over her face, and she reaches over and takes one of Finnick’s hands as he nods, “Well, then we’ll just have to get her here so you two can have a proper wedding.”

Chapter Text

Her sapphire eyes flutter open at the sound of the heavy door opening across the room, then squint at the light that shines through. She was kept in near darkness, save a few sconce lights along the far wall. Three dark figures enter the room, Stell recognizing the one in the middle almost instantly.

“Peeta?” He looks worse than the last time she saw him four days ago. Thinner, his eyes more crazed. “Peeta, are you okay?”

His eyes soften when he recognizes her, chained out of his reach, “You’re alive,” Relief floods his tone, “I wasn’t sure after…” He shakes his head twice, the jerky movement causing Stell to fill with worry.

“Yes, I’m alive.”

The guards lead him closer, till he’s just a few feet away. Stell adjusts her position the best she can, propping her shoulders against the wall. The peacekeepers don’t say a word, they simply stand there. Peeta glances around the room and from the corner, Gloss folds his arms across his chest, a judgmental look overtaking his features, “Something’s wrong with him.” 

Clearly, Stell thinks, because this version of Gloss can hear her thoughts as well. Peeta shocks them both when he spits out the accusation, “This is her fault.” His hands ball into fists at his sides as his nostrils flare, “Katniss did this to you!”

Stell draws back in shock, “No,” She tries to keep her words soft, “This isn’t Katniss’s fault.” He visibly flinches when Stell says her name.

“Yes, it is, she wants us all dead. That’s why she let the Capitol have us after the Quell.” A muscle in his jaw twitches, “She wanted us out of the way!”

“Peeta? What have they done to you?” Stell tries to move forward, flinching at the pain that runs through her side before continuing, “Katniss didn’t know, just like you didn’t know. She cares about-“

“Mutts don’t care about anything!” He roars, completely losing his temper. The guards each grab an arm as he lunges forwards.  Stell doesn’t move back, he won’t hurt her, she knows that. “She’s a mutt!” He screams again. And again as they drag him backwards.

Stell doesn’t argue, he won’t listen, that much is clear. There’s nothing she can say. “What have they done?” She whispers as the door slams shut once more.

Gloss steps out of the shadow, taking his usual spot beside her, just out of reach, “I don’t know.” They sit in silence for a while, Stell’s stomach filling the silence every few minutes as it rumbles, demanding food that she knows would make a reappearance the next morning. Gloss looks over at her at the thought, “You need to think about it,” He tells her again, having brought it up before.

“It’s impossible.” Stell mutters, her hands subconsciously moving towards her flat stomach. As though saying the words will make it so.

Gloss’s lips purse together, “You know it’s not.” He’s right, as always, he’s right. She’d stopped receiving the sterile injections after her relationship with Finnick was made public, not by choice, but still, they didn’t give them to her anymore. She hadn’t gotten her period since before the Quell…which she blamed on her current physical state of malnutrition and stress levels. How her body refused to keep food down, how quickly she was losing weight, as though what little nutrition she did have was being used for…. something else.

Her gut twists, “It’s impossible.” She mutters again, her lips pursing together, refusing to think the word itself.

“Fine.” Gloss’s tone turns short, he’s mad at her now, “But your stubbornness is going to get you killed.”

After twenty four hours of silence, Coin decides it’s safe for the population of Thirteen to return to what’s left of the underground District. But Boggs quickly grabs Katniss, Gale, and the Victors from Four, ushering all of them into a room that’s identical to Command. Coin, Plutarch, Haymitch, Cressida and everybody else around the table looks exhausted. Someone’s broken out coffee, which must be seen as an emergency stimulant, and Plutarch has both hands wrapped around his cup as though someone is going to take it away.

“We need all six of you suited up and aboveground,” says the President, “You have two hours to get footage showing the damage from the bombing, establish that Thirteen’s military unit remains not only functional, but dominant, and, most important, that the Mockingjay is still alive. Any questions?”

“Can we have a coffee?” Finnick asks, his own hands still trembling. He’d given Katniss his rope after their conversation about Stell, and without the lifeline, he could feel his sanity slipping.

Steaming cups are handed out. Finnick fixes his up quickly, adding cream and nothing else before glancing over at Katniss to see her just staring down at the dark liquid. He leans over, sloshing some cream into her own cup and reaches into the sugar bowl. “Want a sugar cube? He asks in his old seductive voice, his mind flashing back to their first meeting. The line gets a small smile out of Katniss and a glare from Gale across the table, “Here, it improves the taste,” Finnick uses his real voice again and plops three cubes into her cup.

He continues to ignore the hateful looks from Gale as Katniss is taken away to her remake room. In her absence, the team reviews just how much damage the District took. While it was a lot, they were smart enough to have everything essential built far enough underground that it wasn’t hit.

And after what feels like only minutes, they’re all ushered out and lead towards a ladder that will take them aboveground. “I’ll stay here,” Amos tells Boggs easily, a hand falling on Mags’s shoulder. There’s no way the old woman would be able to make it up, “It’ll be him our people want to see anyways.” He nods to Finnick, and Cressida voices her approval of the plan.

After climbing up a few more ladders, Bogg’s pushes open a trapdoor. Fresh air rushes in, filling Finnick’s lungs. He takes a deep breath, letting his senses adjust to the outside world for a moment once he’s free. “What day is it?” Katniss asks as she runs a hand through some leaves overhead. Boggs tells them September begins next week.

Snow has had Stell for six weeks now. Finnick swallows the lump in his throat. I hope she’s dead, there’s the thought again. His breathing picks up slightly and he forces it to slow down.

As they walk further, debris begins to litter the forest floor. They come to their first crater, thirty yards wide and no one knows how deep. Very. Boggs says anyone on the first ten levels would have been killed. They skirt the pit and continue on.

“Can you rebuild it?” Gale asks.

“Not anytime soon. That one didn’t get much, just a few backup generators and a poultry farm,” Boggs answers, “We’ll just seal it off.” Finnick didn’t know Thirteen had had a poultry farm. He never really questioned where all the food was coming from at all now that he thinks about it.

They move along another crater, pausing at the edge and peering down. White roses line the inside, dozens of them dropped perfectly in the center. The sweet, piercing smell, is one that Finnick only associates with President Snow. “Don’t touch them!” Katniss cries as Boggs motions for their party to climb down, “They’re for me!”

Finnick doesn’t say a word, instead focusing on not slipping as he follows a few paces behind everyone else. The only one who notices him hanging back in Haymitch, who raises his eyebrows at the younger man. Finnick just shrugs one shoulder in response then inclines his head towards Katniss, who, despite being told by Cressida what she’s supposed to say in the next few minutes, clearly isn’t holding it together very well.

They get their cameramen into place, Finnick staying off to the side beside Haymitch. “How’d you like lockdown?” Finnick asks the older man.

“It was cheery, I’m sure our miners felt right at home.”

Finnick chuckles, “Yeah, I could never do it, go into a mine that far underground. Even being here is enough for me.” He’s surprised how easy it is to talk to Haymitch. They exchange a few more sentences, mostly about how unfair it is that no one’s allowed to drink in this hellhole, before turning their attention to Katniss.

“Now remember, District Thirteen is alive and well, and so am I.” Cressida repeats the line for the tenth time. Katniss nods, standing tall as her hands shake by her sides.

They all for action, and nothing happens. Katniss stands there, the turmoil visible on her features. A moment passes, then another, she locks eyes with Finnick. He mouths the lines to her and in the back of his mind he can hear what Stell would be saying, ‘She’d never survive as a Victor, she can’t act.’

“District Thirteen is alive and well!” Katniss says the line with too much fake enthusiasm, Finnick and Haymitch cringe, “And so am…” her eyes go unfocused. “and so am…” her second attempt is futile.

The sob rips up her throat a moment later, spurring Haymitch into instant action. Finnick walks over slowly, ushering everyone else away from Haymitch and Katniss. “What’s wrong?” Someone wonders, Finnick can’t place the voice.

He’s the one to give the answer, “She figured out how Snow’s using Peeta against her.”

“Alright, Finnick, are you ready?” He’s seated on a small wooden stool, a production light shining down on his face and a single camera set up in front of him. It’s a small team who’s ventured back out in the dark.  Katniss just finished talking about how she met Peeta, a story about bread in the rain that Finnick had heard mentioned a time or two before. It was riveting, he’ll give her that, for the first time Katniss really opened up on camera. And her message to Snow at the end?

Calling to attention that the Capitol itself is fragile, relying on the Districts for survival? It’s dazzling. It’s what got Plutarch talking to Finnick and Haymitch.

“You don’t have to do this.” Haymitch tells him again, still angry at Plutarch for even suggesting this idea.

Finnick nods, “Yes I do, if it will help her.” They were going to get them, the Victors in the Capitol. A volunteer only team was on their way right now to infiltrate the tribute tower after the power had been knocked out throughout the Capitol just forty minutes before. Of course, Finnick had tried to go, but his request had been denied. His sequential arguments in favor of going had also been denied.

He guesses the small wristband that reads 'mentally unstable' didn't help his case. 

But he could provide a distraction, “You have enough to say?” Cressida still seems doubtful.

Finnick smiles tightly, “More than enough,” He tells her, then balls up the rope in his hand that Katniss returned, “I’m ready.”

She backs up a few paces so she’s behind the camera, nodding to Pollux once before beginning the countdown, “And in five, four,” She holds a hand up showing three fingers, pointing to Finnick when she reaches zero.

“Good evening, this is Finnick Odair, Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games, coming to you alive and well from District Thirteen,” he starts it the same as he did for District Four, but the confidence isn’t all there. He glances over to Haymitch, shrugs once, then dives right in, capturing everyone’s attention, “President Snow used to…sell me…my body, that is,” His tone is flat, removed from the rest of the world, “I wasn’t the only one. If a Victor is considered desirable, the President gives them as a reward or allows people to buy them for an exorbitant amount of money. If you refuse, he kills someone you love. So you do it.”

He thinks of his parents, of Stell’s parents and her brother.

“I wasn’t the only one, but District Four Victors were the most popular,” he says, “And perhaps the most defenseless, because the people we love were so defenseless. To make themselves feel better, my patrons would make presents of money or jewelry, but I found a much more valuable form of payment.”

He allows a small uptick of his lips, eyes flickering to the astonished faces of those around him, “Secrets,” He divulges, “and this is where you’re going to want to stay tuned, President Snow, because so very many of them were about you. But let’s begin with some of the others.”

Peeta’s been talking for an hour. Telling Stell about his childhood. About the bakery, about his brothers. He speaks about District Twelve in a way that makes her look at the dissolute District in a brand new way. She wants him to keep speaking, because whenever he stops, he starts ranting about how Katniss is a mutation, sent to kill them all.

She’d tried convincing him otherwise, telling him he was wrong, and they must be showing him tampered footage. “Did they tamper Finnick’s audio?” He’d shot back, which had made her go quiet rather quickly. They hadn’t, she knew that.

She’d been allowed back to her normal cell; she was happy to be away from that wall. Even happier to have her leg back. Seems as though answering a few questions would actually be rewarded.

He’s telling her about his fifth-grade math teacher when the lights suddenly go out, a loud alarm blaring in the distance, only reaching their ears as a faint echo. “What’s going on?” Stell mutters, sitting up on her bed.

In the cell adjacent, Peeta stands up, walking to the door and grasping the bars, “The hall light isn’t even on,” The little red light at the end of the hall never went out. She listens as he pulls on the door, “Still locked.”

Stell purses her lips together, then stands herself. She pulls on her own cell door, the lock firmly in place. For a moment, the alarm sound gets louder, then quiets again, almost as if, “Someone’s coming.” She whispers, backing away from the door, “Peeta?”

“I heard it.” He confirms, then the door to their room bursts open, a rattling noise following close behind.

Hissing sounds in her ears and Stell’s eyes make out the faint color change around her. A grey aerosol filling the room, reminding her distinctly of-

She screams, flying to the opposite end of her cell to get away from the poisonous fog that steadily comes towards her. “Run!” Her throat burns as she yells, “Peeta, run!” Her hands scramble against the far wall, as though she could climb higher to get away. Her efforts are futile. It surrounds her within seconds, claiming her consciousness.

Finnick and Katniss try and station themselves in Command, where surely any first word of the rescue will come, but they’re kicked out soon after because serious war business is being carried out. Next, they go to Special Defense and refuse to leave, ending up in the humming bird room.

Mags joins them, with Amos and Haymitch actually involved in said ‘war business’. Finnick ties knots, Mags showing Katniss difference knots as well on a newly acquired second piece of rope. He tries not to think about Stell. Tries to not worry if she’s already dead or if the entire rescue squad will be shot down trying to get out. They tie more knots. Mags tries to coax Finnick to eat, he refuses, she refuses to leave his side.

His fingers begin to bleed, rubbed raw from the rope. Katniss gets her little noose perfected as Finnick simply sits in front of the bench Mags sits on, his knees drawn up to his chest and Mags’s hand running through his hair.

“Did you meet Stell at her reaping?” Katniss finally asks, garnering his attention.

Finnick shakes his head, “No,” A long time passes, Mags whispers something in his ear, then Finnick adds on, “We met a few months after I won,” Another pause, “I don’t think she even remembers.”

Finnick remembers. Remembers every little detail. How her hair was braided, the grey blouse she was wearing, the hesitation in her eyes as she spoke to him. He had just turned fifteen and had wandered down to the docks early one morning, having woken up from one of his nightmares.

And there she was, all alone down on the beach, watching the seagulls swoops down into the sea over and over again.

She’d turned when he cleared his throat, eyes widening as she’d realized who he was. They hadn’t spoken long, just a few minutes, but even that day he’d thought she was stunning. He would find himself thinking about her often after that. He'd catch glimpses every now and again and some days he even debated going up and speaking to her. To try and get to know her, to be her friend. he wonders now if things would have been different, if they could have been something so much sooner.

He doesn’t tell Katniss any of this, doesn’t say another word at all.

It must be midnight, must be tomorrow when Haymitch pushes open the door. “They’re back. We’re wanted in the hospital.” The way his eyes stay on Finnick and Mags. It makes Finnick’s stomach drop. Katniss opens her mouth, but Haymitch cuts her off, “That’s all I know.” Finnick can tell Haymitch is lying.

Katniss is on her feet in the next instant, but Finnick remains sitting. Something’s wrong, something’s not right. A hand appears in front of him. It’s Katniss’s, he takes it, letting her lead him like a small child through Special Defense, into the elevator that goes this way and that, and on to the hospital wing. The place is chaos, doctors running this way and that, shouting orders as wounded as wheeled down the hallways to open beds. 

They’re sideswiped by a gurney bearing an unconscious, emaciated young woman with a shaven head. Her flesh shows bruises and oozing wounds.

Johanna. Finnick recognizes her right away. She knew half the secrets that Stell did, and this is what she looks like?

The pit in Finnick’s stomach gets deeper.

Through a doorway Katniss catches a glimpse of Gale, stripped to the waist. A nurse stands behind him, removing something from just below his shoulder blade. His lower jaw already has the beginnings of a bruise, “Gale!” Katniss calls out, but he can’t hear her over the commotion.  

Finnick tenses as he notices Boggs moving quickly towards their small group. Oddly enough, he heads for Finnick first, roughly grabbing the Victor’s forearm and tugging him aside, “Listen to me.” He demands, Finnick swallowing the lump in his throat, and Coin’s second in command is speaking again in a hushed tone, his mouth only inches from Finnick’s ear so no one can hear, “I didn’t know about that part of the plan, she gave special orders to only one individual.”

Finnick turns his head slightly. He can feel the blood draining from his face, his hands shaking, his world tipping on its axis once more, “What was the order?” He manages to get the question out.

Bogg’s shakes his head curtly, looking away from Finnick’s face as he tells him, “To leave Stell behind.”

Chapter Text

Blip.

Blip.

Blip.

It’s a steady sound that gently wakes her, calling her back to reality one sense at a time. There’s the sound, then there’s the beating of her own heart. She can feel it in her chest, pumping blood through her veins despite even her own thoughts wishing it to stop.

But she wasn’t dead. Not yet.

Don’t let them break you. She can practically hear Gloss saying it again and she opens her eyes to check if he’s there with her. Instead, she finds white walls and clean sheets around her. A heartrate monitor is connected to her body, emitting the monotonous sound she woke up too. Looking over a few more feet, she can see an empty fluid bag. Her gaze travels back to her arm, the inside of her elbow now bandaged. Someone put something into her veins.

Tentatively, she moves her fingers, making a fist with both hands once, then twice. Stell wiggles her five toes, she bends her arms at the elbow, studying the palms of her hands.

No bonds restrain her. The study of her own body continues, revealing that the scars on her arms and torso are still there. But the pain is gone. Not one part of her even aches.

Slowly, Stell pushes herself into a sitting position, her upper body supported by her elbows. When she catches sight of a mirror on the far wall, she swings her legs over the side of the bed. Her prosthetic rests within easy reach, and within a minute she’s attached it and is on two feet. The steady sound of the heart monitor ceases as she disconnects it from her finger.

The only sound in the room comes from the prosthetic foot hitting the floor as she walks.

She lets out an amused snort at her own appearance. The scar that runs through her eyebrow and down cheek is almost fully healed, and she can’t help but think Johanna was right. The outside really does reflect the inside now.

Slowly, she walks towards the door, a hand gingerly reaching out towards the handle. Before she touches it though, it turns sharply from the other side. Stell takes a step back her eyebrows coming together as the door opens.

“Oh, you’re awake.” President Snow smiles at her, stepping further into the room and for a split second, Stell thinks of just slipping by him, of running as fast as she can, then he speaks again, “I have some exciting news for you.” He’s still smiling, his teeth even showing now. Deterrent number one: curiosity.

Her eyes narrow at him, watching as peacekeepers appear behind him. Deterrent number two: guns. “Where’s Peeta?” She asks instead, her question making the President laugh.

“Why, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” Her voice doesn’t sound strangled anymore.

Snow shakes his head, “He was rescued.” Stell’s heart skips a beat, “Along with Johanna and-“

“Annie?”

Snow tuts his tongue, “Unfortunately, yes, Miss Cresta was among the retrieved. You, however dear, are still here.”

“I see that.”

“Please,” He motions back to the bed she woke up on, “Take a seat.”

“I’d rather-“ The peacekeeper closest to Snow releases the safety on his rifle, the move making Stell change her mind, “Sure.” She backs up, sitting down on the mattress gingerly.

“Mister Odair provided quite the distraction while their rescue team infiltrated the tower. Secrets as a form of payment?” Stell has to put conscious effort into lot letting her jaw go slack, “It’s ingenious, really. I’m sure you did the same.”

There’s a pause, and when he raises his eyebrows pointedly at her she realizes he wasn’t being rhetorical, “Yes,” She confirms, because she doesn’t know what else Finnick said. Did he say Stell used secrets too? That their relationship was fabricated in the beginning? And if he told the nation he’d been sold…did he say she was too? The latter is the least of her worries though.

“It puts me at ease then, that you were left behind. You probably know so much.” Stell nods her head, “But there’s one secret in particular I’d like to discuss.”

“Which would that be?”

Snow chuckles darkly, clasping his hands together behind his back, “Finnick’s.”

Finnick can barely think. He can’t feel anything as he sits in some random meeting room thirty minutes after the rescue crew’s arrival from the Capitol. Boggs dragged them here, but he still hasn’t said anything. Amos hasn’t said anything, and Mags hasn’t stopped sobbing. Her cries echo around them, breaking Finnick’s heart even further.

To leave Stell behind.

She isn’t in Thirteen. She’s in the Capitol.

Finnick just exposed President Snow on national television. He thinks of how they used Peeta against Katniss; it’s been the same for him with Stell. And now he’s signed her death certificate.

“Why?” The word croaks out of Finnick’s throat and he looks up from where his head was buried in his hands, elbows braced on his knees. Calloused hands tug at his hair, his eyes pleading with Boggs to give him an answer.

The man still has his jaw clenched, and when he speaks his words are hushed, “Stell’s become a symbol in Four, they rally behind her and I’m sure the rest of the country will too.” He swallows once, “My best guess? Coin’s thinking long term, once Panem needs a new leader, who will the people turn too?” Mags’s sobs have subsided slightly as she tries to listen, Amos is shaking his head, “Who do you think the Districts would trust more? A Victor they know? Who they’ve rallied behind before? Who started the revolution in District Four? Or the leader of a District that’s been hiding?"

“You couldn’t knock out one of your own?” It’s Amos who asks, his own voice strained.

Boggs shakes his head, “They knew we were coming; we were running out of time as it was.” He lets out another long sigh, “If we pushed it more, we could’ve lost everybody.”

“She’s going to die.” Finnick seethes, “Because of what I said.”

Haymitch bursts into the room, “Sorry to break up the pow wow, but we’ve got a problem.” They all look up at him, “And Annie’s asking for someone she knows, but really the other issue is more pressing.”

Finnick rolls his eyes, Amos sets his jaw, “What?”

“Peeta just strangled Katniss.”

Boggs lets out a string of curses before rushing out of the room and down the hall, leaving all the Victors alone. Haymitch rubs the back on his neck, “I’m sorry,” He tells the group from District Four, “about Stell.” Amos had updated Haymitch quickly right after finding out himself.

“What’re they telling everyone out there?” Amos asks.

Haymitch lets out a breath, “That she was kept elsewhere. They say they never found her.” 

Finnick scoffs, “Who’s going to believe that?”

“Everyone is.” Amos argues, “You’ve got a band on your arm that says mentally unstable, they won’t believe you. They don’t trust the rest of us.” He motions to himself and Haymitch, “They trust Coin, no matter what she says.”

Silence spreads around them, “One of you needs to come sit with Annie,” Haymitch’s voice breaks through it.

It’s Mags who climbs to her feet, using her cane to slowly exit the room and make her way down the hall. Finnick simply watches her go, “You should go see her.” Amos tells him.

“I don’t want to see Annie.”

“You have to watch out for her, you’re her-“

“Stell is her mentor!” Finnick snaps harshly, cutting Amos off mid-sentence.

A hand rests on Finnick’s shoulder as he buries his face in his hands again, “You mentored her together,” he’s reminded, in a surprisingly gentle tone, “She needs you right now.”

“No,” The word comes past Finnick’s lips as a sob. The weeks, the months after Annie’s crowning, it wasn’t Finnick who stayed with her, fed her, woke her up from her nightmares. He didn’t brush her hair and make sure she ate and drank every day. None of that was him, it was Stell. “She needs her.”  

I need her.

He rubs a fist against his eyes, taking a deep breath to try and abate the sobs that threaten to jump up his throat. He’s almost got it when he hears her voice, “Solider Odair?”

Finnick’s gaze raises slowly, his eyes narrowing at President Alma Coin as she stands in the doorway with her arm hanging loosely at her sides. She gave the order.

Sure, Finnick thought Bogg’s idea was sound, it made sense for Coin to feel threatened by Stell in the long term. But short term? He knew she never liked Stell, didn’t care for the Victors and everything they did. And Stell flaunted her fame more so than the rest of them, just because she could. And she was openly cruel to those she thought were beneath her. An unattractive trait, yes, but one she possessed none the less.

Perhaps Coin didn’t think Stell deserved to be saved.

Because of who Stell was after her Games. But Coin didn’t understand. District Thirteen didn’t understand. You lost who you were in the Games, lost a part of your soul and your humanity and then fought to gain it back in the aftermath. It was how you won, how you survived the horrors that both followed you out and came in as Snow kept you in line.

Stell inspired District Four to revolt, to unite as one to overthrow the Capitol. This entire rebellion wouldn’t be where it was today if it weren’t for her actions.

And Coin still wanted Stell left behind.

Finnick didn’t care. She gave the order, his mind whispers again and the fury replaces his despair with frightening speed. He stands slowly, Amos’s shoulders going rigid as he sees the switch flip within Finnick. It’s a minute change that Coin doesn’t notice.

“I wanted to thank you for-“ Her words die in her throat as Finnick wraps a hand around her windpipe.

They tell her Finnick’s secrets one at a time, each one worse than the last. It’s an odd anticipation as Snow delivers them as though they’re sponsor gifts, a small note inside a silver ball. They come with her meals over the next two days, which are brought to her in the room in which she awoke.

It’s a welcome difference from the cell, luxury compared to being chained against the wall.

Stell opens each one, making herself read them despite the strange anticipation that she’ll read one that’s unforgivable. But really, after what she’s heard him saying through recordings, can it get worse? Perhaps, that’s what her subconscious wants to find out.

So, she opens them all.

Finnick bragged about his kills during his Games, admitted to enjoying a few. Not like him, she knows, and she can’t tell if they’re true. He admitted to sponsors that he didn’t believe his tribute would survive. That’s not cruel, just honest, all the Victors were guilty of it. Then come ones that do bother her. Finnick’s kissed Annie before – it comes with a photo.

It shouldn’t bother her…Annie had told her about it the week after it happened. There was nothing between the two of them. But it does, it eats away at her.

Finnick telling others he wished his first Victor was more stable. Somehow it’s worse reading it than hearing it.

And then she’s being prepped for an interview. Televised of course, and her prep team is back, sweeping makeup on her face and painting her nails to perfection. Looking in the mirror, she has to admit it’s a gut-wrenching sight.

Her cheeks are still sunken in, the bruise on the right side of her jaw too dark to fully cover with makeup, and her hands still quiver at every moment. But they didn’t change her clothes. Her jumpsuit feels like a second skin, and while she’s concerned when shackles are put back around her wrists, she feels at ease.

She glances around the set constantly as soon as she’s seated. Only one person in the room acknowledges her: Cyrus.

He stands at attention beside her, his helmet in place, but she recognized his stance and his voice when he spoke lowly, asking her if she was alright. He hadn’t seen her since the others were rescued, two days prior.

“Never better,” She’d answered. Now, she was acutely aware of his presence, a hand on the top of the high-backed chair she sat in. Her feet rested on a metal rung, her fingers drumming along the arm rests.

As the far door opens, her head snaps towards it. Her shoulders relax slightly at the familiar sight of Ceasar Flickerman. At the sight of her, he offers just a smile, but then his hand is on her shoulder and he’s leaning close to her ear, “I’m so relieved to see you.”

“Thank you,” It’s genuine on her part as he takes his seat across from her. As Cyrus backs out of the frame and the crew turns on the lights, she asks him, “Do I not have lines?”

Ceasar waves a hand at her, “No, not this time,” He grins at her, “Just don’t get overwhelmed.” His answer makes her eyebrows furrow, but Ceasar shakes his minutely.

What was going on?

Another man comes forward quickly, a white lab coat hiding his body structure from her. He holds a syringe in his hand, Stell’s eyes widening at the sight of it. She glances to Ceasar, but he’s talking to someone to his left.

A peacekeeper comes forward, “What’s-“

“Hold still.” She’s cut off, her wrist held down against the armrest and the syringe is inserted into her vein. The light blue liquid inside is cold as it enters her bloodstream.

Its effects are immediate. She feels like she’s underwater, unable to fully focus her own thoughts.

Then the director starts counting them down, Stell putting in an effort to still her hands and sit up straighter while getting her brain to process what’s happening. All too soon, Ceasar’s greeting the nation. “Now, again, we have a very special guest with us.” He looks to her, reaching over and taking one of her hands. She lets her lips twitch upwards when he gives it a squeeze, “Stellar, you’re still here.”

What? She shakes her head once, blinking rapidly and a moment later she’s processed the question, “Yes, Ceasar, seems I didn’t have a ticket to leave.”

Ceasar looks to the camera, “Ah yes, as many may have already heard, all the other Victors were abducted by District Thirteen the other night.” Abducted, that’s the word they decided to use?

Because rescue would imply they were being tortured here. That was obvious enough but admitting it would be catastrophic.

“But what we’re here to discuss,” Stell looks to Ceasar in surprise, “are your treasonous acts against Panem.” Stell sits up a little straighter in her chair, the chains between her wrists rattling slightly, she opens her mouth to respond, to say what she’s not sure, but Ceasar cuts her off, “You encouraged rebellion within District Four in the months leading up to the Quarter Quell. Just as you did before your reaping for the Sixty-Ninth Hunger Games.”

Stell blinks at him, “I…” Did he say before her first Games as well? So they knew? She can feel her heart pounding, she tries to speak again, “I-“

“Do you deny it?” Her mouth snaps shut. Ceasar, for once, stays silent. He doesn’t help her; he simply waits for an answer.

“No.” Stell finally tells him, admits the truth to the country, “I don’t.”

“You met with rebellion leaders within the Capitol before the Quell,” He states next, and Stell wonders, is Ceasar still her ally? She lifts her chin higher, shakes her head again trying to clear her muddled mind, “You and other Victors plotted an escape from the Quell in hopes of being liberated to District Thirteen.” Liberated.  Her ears catch the word. “Do you deny it?”

It’s an odd choice for Ceasar, liberations meant freedom, “No.”

Stell’s world tilts slightly and she moves her hands over so she can grasp an arm of her chair, pushing her feet harder into the rungs to steady herself, “Now, you were kept in line by President Snow for six years following your victory in the Sixty-Ninth Games.” Ceasar looks to the camera, then back at Stell, “Did you participate in rebel plotting during that timeframe?” What timeframe? She was having trouble comprehending, “During your time in the Trade.”

He'd said it aloud. On national television. Part of her recognizes Finnick must’ve told them, but she manages to answer, “No,” Anything past a one-word answer feels impossible for her.

 “So, you’d agree that the Victor Trade successfully prevented high risk Victors from planning to overthrow the government that provided them with so much.” Stell stares at Ceasar with wide eyes, the man keeps going, “You see, once Stell began her relationship with Finnick Odair, President Snow graciously let the two of them leave the trade. Within months District Four was in contact with District Thirteen.”

“No, that’s wrong,” Stell shakes her head again, her jaw clenching and for a moment she feels her mind clear a little more, “There wasn’t-“

“Was there rebel activity before Thirteen’s direct involvement?” Ceasar asks her, the man clearly no longer her friend, “Did you orchestrate it?” Stell opens her mouth, “How else would you know I’m wrong?”

He’s trapped her. And not being able to think clearly she sees no way out…except for, “President Snow murdered my family, I refused-“

“Dear,” Ceasar cuts her off, “Your family committed suicide, we’ve all seen your Games, they couldn’t live around you any longer.” Who was going to believe that?

Her eyes were crazed, half focused as they rapidly moved from one spot in the room to another. She kept shaking her head, just to the left, over and over again.

Finnick could barely watch, but he also couldn’t look away. She was still alive, still in the Capitol, still being put on national television. Finnick was locked in his hospital room, a new ‘mentally unstable’ wristband dawned his right arm.

They’d bolded ‘mentally unstable’ on this one, so it couldn’t be missed. He’s told that’s what saved him from a court marital. Because attacking the leader of Thirteen hadn’t helped him win favor with anybody else around here.

“This is why the Victors had be kept in line,” Ceasar is saying, ignoring the way Stell glares at him from one seat over, “To protect our nation,” Ceasar motions off screen, and then President Snow himself is there.

“Good evening,” He greets everybody, “As you’ve just heard, Stellar Mere is a convicted traitor against the Capitol. We already had verbal confirmation of her leading the insurgent acts within District Four, but we wanted you, the people, to hear it from her yourselves.” Finnick’s heart is sinking, plummeting to his feet, “Under normal circumstances, the punishment for such revelations would be immediate execution.”

Behind Snow, Stell’s shoulders fall, her posture deflating. She’s shaking her head, not the jerky movements, but slowly, back and forth, “But while Miss Mere has been under our care, our doctors came across something in her bloodwork.” He turns then, facing Stell herself for the first time, “An act of mercy on my behalf is due, alongside a congratulations.”  

Finnick’s on his feet now, walking until he’s only a foot away from the small screen, “Stellar,” She looks up at Snow, her jaw set tightly, “You’re going to be a mother.”

Finnick roars, the animalistic sound penetrating through his hospital room door, hurtling down the hallways so far that almost every patient can hear him. No, no, no. His knees slam into the tile floor, the pain that accompanies it irrelevant.

On screen, Stell’s face goes white, her jaw goes slack. President Snow smiles, “Would you care to tell the country who the father is?”

He doesn’t need to hear it himself, of course he knows, and when she says it aloud, she’s got tears welling in her eyes, “Finnick.”

Chapter Text

Finnick’s curled up on his hospital bed when the door’s pushed open hours after the Capitol broadcast. His knees are against his chest, arms encircling them as though he can physically hold himself together.

His heart feels as though it’s still pounding a mile a minute, despite the sedative they’d hit him with immediately following President Snow’s shocking announcement. Maybe it was finally wearing off.

Someone clears their throat, which causes Finnick to look up just a little bit. Amos and Mags stand in the doorway, the latter smiling softly at Finnick. “You just couldn’t keep it in your pants, could you?” His words actually make Finnick chuckle, even a second time as Mags whacks Amos in the shoulder with her cane.

The old woman is glaring up at her Quell Victor for only another moment before moving to Finnick’s bedside. “They wouldn’t let us come sooner,” Amos explains, “thought you needed to calm down.”

“How nice of them.” Finnick mumbles, disentangling his own limbs and sitting back on the pillows. Silence settles around the trio for a few minutes. Mags simply holds one of Finnick’s hands, running her thumb over his knuckles again and again. “I don’t think she knew,” He says, his words soft, “Stell didn’t know till he said it then.”

“Didn’t look like it.”

More silence, then it’s Mags who manages to say, “The rescue.”

Finnick tenses, “What about it? The only people who believe she was left purposefully are those in Four.”

Mags shakes her head, “Her rescue.”

Finnick looks from Mags to Amos, “There’s been discussions about going back for her in Command.” Amos lets himself smile slightly, “No one likes a leader who leaves an unborn baby to suffer, Coin’s not that stupid.”

“There’s a but, isn’t there.”

Amos nods, “But, we don’t know where she’s held now, she was moved following the first rescue and now that Snow knows what information she holds and that she’s been publicly convicted...” His sentence trails off, Finnick filling in the blanks.

“She’ll be harder to reach,” Finnick mumbles, getting a nod from Mags and Amos in response. Silence settles again for just a moment, and Finnick fights back to urge to feel hopeful. “Any other news?” He asks, “How’s Katniss?”

Amos shrugs, “She can’t really speak right now, in a neck brace for a week at least I think.” The older man grins, “Unfortunately Coin isn’t in a neck brace, she’s just got your handprint around her neck.” Amos rolls his eyes, then levels Finnick with the look he knows to say ‘you could’ve done better’.

Once again, Finnick laughs, “I wasn’t trying to kill her.”

“You should’ve.”

“Mags!” Finnick looks at the old woman in shock, she just shrugs a shoulder.

From the doorway, Amos clears his throat, “You are wanted in Command this afternoon. They need you to issue a statement, make a broadcast, the Districts are demanding a response from you. Mags and I issued one, but they’ll still be expecting yours. We’d said you needed time.” Finnick nods in thanks, “And District Four,” Amos smiles, “They sent in a request for aircraft this morning, if Thirteen doesn’t go back for Stell soon, they’re threatening too themselves.”

“Has Coin addressed it yet? Publicly?”

Amos scowls, “Yes,” Mags lips purse into a thin line, “Just as Boggs said, she claimed Stell was being kept separate from the other Victors during the first rescue. Now that we know Stell’s pregnant,” The word sends a jolt through Finnick, “she’s told Thirteen going back for her is a priority.” Amos leans back, letting his shoulders rest against the wall, “I made her say it to the whole district, like Katniss did.”

Finnick’s eyebrows draw together, “With what leverage?” Amos was in no position to make demands.

“You.”

Another day, another room.

This wasn’t a prison either. No, Stell knew where she was, had been in this building dozens of times in her life. Not in this exact room, no, because this floor was always roped off. And while it wasn’t a prison, the doors were still locked from the outside, keeping her trapped.

But she could look out the windows and watch the Capitol bustle about its day. And from this third story room in President Snow’s mansion, she couldn’t even tell there was a war going on. Her life since the interview, since Snow told the world she was pregnant, had been…better.

She had a room with a real bed, carpeted floors, even a fireplace and small loveseat. Above all that, she had a bathroom, with a toilet and a shower.

Clean clothes adorned her body and three times a day Syrus unlocked the door and brought her a plate of food. Stell never felt like eating, she never felt like saying anything and she never felt like getting out of bed.

But Gloss’s words echoed through her mind, don’t let them break you.

So, she didn’t. For the majority of her day, she just lay there atop the comforter, the mattress feeling entirely too soft. She explored her quarters.  She ate the food she was brought. But not once did she use the shower. She didn’t trust it, whenever she turned the handle all she could think about was the pain of when it’d changed to antiseptic before.

It’s not like she smelt bad anyways, it’d only been three days.

She tenses now as the lock to her room turns, the sound echoing around her. It’s pushed open a second later, Syrus walking in with his heavy footsteps and a dish held in either hand. Her lips turn downwards at the two plates, sapphire eyes following his movements as he walks over to the small table and puts a plate at either end.

When he sits in front of one himself, she scowls, “You should come eat,” He tells her, his black hair falling slightly into his face. He rarely wears his peacekeeper helmet in the mansion, though the rest of the uniform remains the same.

Stell rolls her eyes at the sound of silverware hitting against porcelain plates. Her hands rest gently over her belly, her nerves always feeling for a small confirmation of the tiny life that was growing inside her.

“Finnick appeared in a broadcast this morning,” Stell’s eyes flicker towards Syrus at his words, away from the giant oak door that kept her here, “He voiced his continued support for the rebellion in light of recent events. His faith firmly remains in the leadership of Alma Coin.”

They left me, Stell thinks bitterly. She closes her eyes, finding peace in the darkness. A chair is pushed back from the table, her mind keeping track of every footfall that gets closer and closer to her.

The situation reminds her of the feral dogs in District Four, cowardly, scared creatures that lived on scraps and the goodwill of others. Ebb would often try and befriend them when they were younger, cautiously approaching the animals, watching them carefully for any minute sign that they were going to snap and attack. She’d watched him get bitten twice, both times he required stitches.

She pictures Syrus doing the same to her, watching carefully, wondering if she’ll try and bite him. She stays still though, only stiffening when she feels the bed dip beside her as he sits.

It gets her to open her eyes. Syrus glances down at her belly, “Are you going to keep it?”

“It?!” Stell snarls, Syrus leaning back, “My baby isn’t an it.” She rolls her eyes, her tone less volatile. Did he even realize how easy it would be for her to kill him right now? He should be more careful.

Her guard shrugs, “Then do you want me to say he or she?”

Stell’s next words are quiet, “He,” She admits, “He’s a boy.” She could feel it in her bones. Could see it in her mind’s eye. A beautiful baby boy with wild auburn hair and sea green eyes.

Syrus’s lips tick upwards as he watches Stell’s expression. “Do you know why they moved you?” She looks at him with just her eyes, not lifting her chin at all, “Because Snow’s expecting another rescue, and-“

“This is the hardest place to get to.” Stell finishes, turning her head now to glance out the window. In the very center of the Capitol, in the most secure building. Syrus nods.

But Stell knew this mansion, the ground floor at least, almost as well as she knew her own home. If she could get down there then she could slip out into the streets, disappear into the crowd, find…find what? Someone who hated Snow? The rebels?

She didn’t even know if the rebels were closing in on the Capitol, didn’t know if all the Districts had rebelled. Syrus would know, but she didn’t trust him. Sure, he told her he didn’t think she deserved this, but he was a peacekeeper. He’d made an oath to the Capitol, no matter his history, no matter how many times he looked at her with pity in his eyes.

And as long as she had no where to run to, escape was a suicide mission. Because that’s what they’d do: shoot her on sight. “What else did Finnick say?”

Syrus can’t hold her gaze as he informs her, “That President Snow did murder your family, after you refused to join the Trade. And that suggesting otherwise dishonored their memory.” He’s not wrong, she thinks, choosing to just nod instead of reply verbally. And she can practically see them again, her brother hanging from the ceiling, her parents butchered on the floor.

The blood that seeped into her hardwood floors and stained her walls. So much of it, how it clung to her hands for weeks after. How- she jolts when she feels a hand take her own, looking down to see that Syrus has taken hers in his own, giving it a gentle squeeze.

The touch feels foreign to her. The callouses on his hands are in different places than other men who’ve touched her so innocently. And yet, she lets him do it.

She doesn’t pull away as he stands up, gently pulling her with him, “Come on,” his words are soft, “You need to eat.” And they eat dinner in each other’s company that night. And the next night. And the next.

Stell wonders if he knows how easily she could kill him, especially after she feels her energy returning after having three meals a day for the past week. She plans it out in her mind, murdering this guard who treated her nicely, who asked how she was doing and if there was anything else she needed. A knife would be easiest, the quickest way no doubt, but he never brought any with their food. Spoons and forks. Anything that may require cutting was already taken care of before he brought it in the room.

It makes her feel like a child.

But a fork could do the trick. She plans for how she’d do it with a knife first. It was just a matter of getting him close to her, once that was accomplished…no one ever survived once they were within three inches of Stell with a knife in her hand and murder on her mind. It was a simple matter of hand to hand combat, taking out his left knee, which he favored slightly at the end of the day.

A week after her pregnancy announcement, she’s put in shackles again. Heavy iron incircles her wrists and a dark cloth is wrapped around her head, covering her eyes. Syrus has a hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the twists and turns of this floor of the mansion.

Seems someone’s covering their bases, making sure she doesn’t learn the layout of this floor. Not that it’d be hard to find a staircase.

She counts the turns, left, twenty paces, left again, they turn her around, right, five paces, left. And then a door is opening, she’s urged forward, and it closes behind her.

As the blindfold is removed, she spies President Snow first. He’s leaning against the far wall, hands clasped in front of himself, wordlessly, he motions to the medical bed.

A nurse stands near a machine, gesturing the peacekeepers to move Stell forwards. She obliges, sitting gently atop the thin mattress, “We need your vitals, then I’m going to check for a heartbeat from the baby.” Stell’s eyes slide over to Snow’s.

He’s grinning at her, and she doesn’t need him to say anything aloud to know that, should her baby die, she’ll be next. Her son was the only thing keeping President Snow from killing her.

“It’s okay,” Finnick places a steady hand on Annie’s lower back, the younger girl having paused halfway to their regular table with her breakfast tray trembling between her hands. This was her first meal out of the hospital wing, “That’s Prim, Rory, and Gale,” Finnick can’t help it the way his lips turn downwards at Gale, but he tries to sound reassuring for Annie’s sake, “Katniss’s sister and her friends.”

As if feeling their eyes on them, Prim turns in her seat, a smile overtaking her features at the sight of Finnick. The girl waves enthusiastically, making Finnick chuckle and Annie’s shoulders relax, “See?”

“And they,” Annie swallows, “They don’t mind me sitting with them?”

He presses his hand into her back a bit more, “Not at all.” They start making their way over again, Prim already patting the empty seat beside her and insisting Annie sit there. Finnick sends the thirteen-year-old a grateful look, at which the girl just winks.

“Annie, this is Prim, Rory, and Gale.” Finnick nods to each as he says their name, taking a seat across from her, “Everyone, this is Annie.”

“It’s so great to finally meet you! I wanted to come say hello while you were still in the hospital, I’m training to be a nurse there, but Finnick said I should let you rest.” The blonde girl shoots a look Finnick’s way, the latter simply smirking before shoving a bite of eggs into his mouth.

“Oh,” Annie’s lips twitch upwards, her eyes still scanning the room even though she’s talking to Prim, “You should come down anytime, it’s nice to have visitors.”

“Careful,” Katniss warns from a few feet away, her own food tray in hand, “She may never leave you alone.” She sets her tray down before ruffling the top of her sister’s head. “How’s it going, Finnick?”

Katniss has bags under her eyes, and there’s still faint hand-shaped bruises around her throat, but she can speak again, which is an improvement. Finnick shrugs, “Good, I guess,”

Their breakfast is uneventful and Finnick’s even more grateful for the group from Twelve for making Annie feel welcome. Effie Trinket trills on about how wonderful Annie looks, and even makes a comment about how she’s much nicer than her other mentor. And while the mindless joke is at Stell’s expense, Finnick’s cracks a small smile.

Amos and Haymitch take seats at the other end of the table, the two older men simply observing, much like Finnick does, and it hits him at how similar everyone here is. It didn’t matter that some of them were Victors, others children, others stylists or part of a prep team. Nor that they all came from different Districts.

And for that half hour time slot he can see it: a better Panem.

“Come with me.” Stell remains seated on her bed, her eyes narrowing at the unfamiliar man who stands in the doorway to her room. He puts a hand on the pistol strapped to his side, “Now.”

“Where’re we going?” Stell asks, still not moving to get up. Her morning had started off normal, Syrus had brought her breakfast, waiting till she was finished so he could take away the plate, fork, and spoon. He hadn’t said as much though, and when she pressed him on it, he’d simply shaken his head.

She felt as though this moment was why. “The President would like to show you something.” A muscle in the man’s jaw twitched, “Now, let’s go.” She makes a show of getting up, pausing to stretch her hands over her head, her eyes flickering down at her still-visible ribcage and to the flat belly just below.

No signs of the baby she now knew for certain was inside her. She’d heard his heartbeat, stronger than she’d expected it to be, two days prior.

Her footsteps are near silent as she moves across the room, her eyes flickering up and down the guard as she passes by. He doesn’t blindfold her, he just gives directions to the small room down the hall, which to her surprise, is a theater.

The large screen takes up the entire back wall, plush leather seats before it. And in the middle sits Snow, a cruel grin on his lips and his hands folded in his lap. “Welcome, my dear.” Stell purses her lips together, “Please, sit.” She does so, sliding easily into the chair two down from him, “I wanted to show you this old clip I found.” An old, wrinkled hand picks up the remote control, the lights dimming down as the screen lights up before them.

She recognizes the room on screen instantly. She’d been there dozens of times herself. One of the sponsor rooms for the Games…but not just one, no, she knew by it’s deep red walls, it was the sponsor room. The room was the only sponsor room used once the Games were down to eight tributes.

Every deal was video recorded, for documentation they’d always been told. The deals made once they reached the final eight were not just written, but verbal, for these recordings purposes. So that the sponsors couldn’t back out afterwards. But that wasn’t what peaked Stell’s interest. No, she was more thrown by who the sponsor was, already in the room, awaiting the mentor’s arrival.

President Snow himself.

“You’re not allowed to sponsor.” Stell says, her words cutting the silence of the room.

Snow chuckles beside her, “Gamemakers, stylists, other Victors,” he lists, “they aren’t allowed to sponsor. I’m just a spectator to the Games,” A lie, she thinks, a blatant lie, “I’m allowed to sponsor whoever I please.”

Stell’s attention turns back to the screen as the door opens. She lets out a long breath at who steps in: a very young Finnick Odair.

Chapter Text

She’d forgotten how stunning Finnick had already been back then. Really, there was no other word for it, looking at him on the screen, his features practically took her breath away. His usual charm is subdued though, as he extends a hand to President Snow, “Ah Finnick, good to see you.” President Snow, while he looks younger there, sounds exactly the same as he does now. “I’m glad you agreed to meet with me,”

They shake hands, Finnick’s accent thick as he replies, “Please, President Snow, I was excited to learn you’re interested in sponsoring.” White teeth flash as Snow smiles, both men sitting on either end of a small oak desk that takes up the center of the room.

Stell knows the paper that sits in the center – a sponsorship contract. A simple form that only requires a few sentences and two signatures.

“Your tribute this year has really made an impression, despite her more violent tendencies.”

Stell feels her heart stutter in her chest at the President’s words, she can feel Snow look over at her now from where he sits beside her. There were only so many tributes Finnick had mentored in the past that he could be referring too, and the ones she was present for…she’d know if Snow had gotten involved. Finnick would’ve told her that much…but…they didn’t really speak to one another then.

She quickly tries to figure out how old Finnick is in this tape, but there’s no date in the bottom corner, no hints given in the room. Absolutely nothing, until Finnick says clearly, “Yes, Stell’s been quite…dedicated…to coming home.”

Her mind shoots back to that night in the Quarter Quell, when Katniss asked them all what mentoring was like. How Finnick had gotten quiet as Beetee explained the sponsorships, how he wouldn’t look at her. A pit begins to form in her stomach.

Across from Finnick, Snow folds his hands together atop the desk, “I’m curious, what do you think of her killing her partner?”  

Stell eyes the dark circles under Finnick’s as he takes a deep breath before responding through a tightened jaw, “The Games make people do despicable things.”

“Unforgivable things?” Snow quips back, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes.”

Snow tilts his head, the action barely visible on the screen, “Do you want her to come home?” He asks frankly, then leans forwards, “If you say no, I’ll walk out of this room. And we can let her die.”

He doesn’t reply right away. He doesn’t say anything, long enough that Stell realizes she’s been holding her breath. The inhale comes in a rush, and she has to look away from the screen.

The knuckles of her right hand have small tendrils of blood running down them, she clenches both hands into fists to fight the urge to scratch more. She wipes them on the velvet cushion that she sits on, ignoring the way President Snow is spending more time watching her reactions than he is the screen before them.

“I’m her mentor,” Finnick finally replies, “it’s my job to bring her home.” He shrugs, an attempt to appear nonchalant, “District Four always needs more Victors.”

President Snow tells him, “You need a Victor.” Finnick nods and Stell understands. The pressure for a mentor in the career districts to have their own Victor was immense. Not just from those around them at home, but from the Capitolites as well. Especially in the Trade, you were worth more if you mentored winners, and if you were worth more, you worked less.

An endless cycle to keep everyone motivated.

Finnick motions to the paper, “If we could get to it, my tribute’s in the process of bleeding out.”

The sentence lets Stell place the exact time of her Games that this occurred. She can almost feel the pain again in her leg. Can see the mutt’s bloodthirsty eyes as it clamped its jaws around her leg. It had been the most painful thing of her life, the second most terrifying moment. To this day, she’s not exactly sure how or why the beast had let go instead of dragging her away and finishing the job.

The younger President Snow clicks his tongue, “Yes, I’ll provide a bandage for her, to staunch the bleeding.”

“Isn’t there an ointment? A medicine you can send her to heal the leg?”

“We’re down to the final days, Mr. Odair, I’m afraid anything like that is far too expensive,” That was true, Stell had tried getting one of her own tributes a bottle of water when there were four tributes remaining. It’d been hundreds of thousands of dollars. The bandage would’ve been about the same price bracket. “And it’s not money I have in mind for payment anyways.”

 Her back straightens, her head tilting slightly to the side. Nonmonetary payments were uncommon, but not unheard of in sponsorship deals. Small favors were often done: public appearances, autographs, photo shoots for brands. Stell herself had done one only once, to try and save Maxx.

Finnick leans back in his chair, motioning towards the President with both hands, “What’s your price?”

Snow smiles, “The most beautiful girl in the world,” Snow quotes Ceasar, the phrase sounding like a curse off his lips, then doesn’t sugarcoat anything, “Promise her to the Trade, should she win.”

The color drains from Stell’s face as soon as her brain comprehends what’s been said. Her jaw goes slack and her heart? It feels as though it’s going to burst. “You and I both know she’d end up in it anyways.” Finnick replies quietly.

“Then there shouldn’t be a delay in agreeing on your end.” No denial from Snow. Finnick just stares at him, his expression unreadable for several moments, “I’d hurry, Finnick, that leg sure looked bad right before we started our negotiation.”

Stell lets out a strangled sound as Finnick slides the paper towards the President. The former smiling as he grabs a pen and begins writing on the sheet in front of him.

And she can feel their hands on her again. Dozens of men, hordes of men. She can hear their words, feel them force their way inside her. Absently, she realizes she’s fallen forwards out of the chair and is on her knees before the screen, her hands clutching her hair as Snow slides the paper back to Finnick. Her mentor’s eyes snap up to Snow’s, “What is this?” He demands.

“The second condition.” Snow informs Finnick, his words slow, “You will personally manage the schedule for the first year of her services.”

She feels them hitting her that first year, enjoying it because they wanted to make the Victor flinch. It made them feel strong. She remembers Finnick seeing some of the bruises, watching her prep team applying extra makeup before their photoshoots together.

And then the same men would buy her again. Finnick sold her to them. And he knew. He sold her body to married men, to men old enough to be her grandfather, to Gamemakers.

Stell watches Finnick sign the paper without a word. She feels her soul shatter as she crumbles to the floor, Finnick shaking President Snow's hand once more on screen, sealing Stell's fate. A strangled cry shoves its way past her lips.

How could he agree to such a thing? How could he do that to her? How could he never tell her? It was inhumane. It was despicable. It was unforgiveable.

Chapter Text

Stell felt as though she were trapped underwater, waves crashing down on her again and again each time she tries to come up for air, pummeling her further down to where she could barely form a coherent thought through the panic that coated her entire being. Her vision was unfocused, barely seeing the now paused film before her. A weight had seemed to settle on her, making her limbs feel impossible to move as someone’s voice carried towards her from further back.

She should look, turn and assess who was there and what they were going to do to her. But she couldn’t bring herself too, couldn’t find the will to care at the moment.

He’d sold her. The small, rational shred she could muster told her that wasn’t a big deal, Finnick had said it himself, she was going to be sold either way. But the management? The lining up of clients and never telling her about it all?

Her family was dead. Because of her refusal to something she was already apart of.

More voices, further she slipped away from reality, not hearing, not feeling. But falling, plummeting down into herself to a place where no one could touch her, no words could reach her. Her feet move on their own accord, slow, uneven steps back up the shallow stairs to the exit, back into the hallway, and down the long corridor to her room.

She lets herself sit for hours or so, maybe a day, she can’t tell, with the weight of the world pressing down on her chest. Then the mantra begins, because she’s Stell, and giving up is not an option.

Keep moving. Physically. Mentally.

Keep moving. She moves her hands, a fingernail on each beginning to scrap into her knuckles. And she feels it, lets the pain of scraping away layers of skin bring her world into focus.

Her knuckles sting as she scraps through old scar tissue. She’s alive, she’s still alive. Despite the Games, despite the Trade, despite the Quell. Stellar Mere is still living. Her fingers splay apart as she unclenches her fists, pressing down on the comforter to push herself onto her feet.

She had to do something. She had to get out of here.

“This is a stupid plan.” Ebb murmurs for probably the tenth time in the last fifteen minutes. He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly, and grits his teeth together as his companion and lifelong friend lets out an amused breath through his nose.

Around them were buildings taller than either man had ever seen before, rising so high into the sky that they’d had to crane their heads back to see the rooftops. People buzzed in the streets around them, wearing vibrant colors and squawking about this and that. But still, they didn’t hear one word about the revolution that raged around them in the Districts, a revolution that would be knocking on the Capitol’s door in a matter of weeks.

Riptide graces his friend with a reply this time, “That’s what makes it so good.” His shoulders shake slightly as they continue down the sidewalk, dodging Capitolites with every other step, “No one will expect it.”

Ebb presses closer to Rip again, “How’re we getting in the mansion?” The peacekeeper uniforms they wore were slightly older, dirt stains on the chest and a few rips in the legs. It was the best they could find in District Four before coming here.

“Well,” Riptide smooths a hand over his side, subtly checking for the extra weapons hidden there, “I imagine it’ll be through the front door.” Ebb’s face goes white, not that Riptide can tell with their helmets on, but he claps his friend on the back all the same, then jerks his head to the left, “Come on, we’re supposed to meet our contact down here.”

It’s a darker alley, the city suddenly quieter as the building walls surround them. There’s a young man leaning against the cement siding near an old clothing store, one ankle crossed over the other. Riptide studies his attire as they near him, simple not gaudy like everyone else they’ve passed since getting out of the undercover rebel transport two hours ago.

Black, well-kept hair falls slightly over the man’s eyebrows, and he only slightly glances up when Riptide and Ebb slow their paces, “Excuse me, officers.” The man raises a hand towards them in indication as he speaks, “Do either one of you know what time the President’s next broadcast is?”

Ebb stops, staying closer to Riptide as his friend replies casually, “The important ones are always at midnight.” The tension between Rip’s shoulder blades is almost evident beneath the uniform.

But only till the man replies, “Sometimes they start at four.” Every man relaxes, letting out a breath. Riptide and Ebb remove their helmets as the other man motions them into the store. “I’m glad you made it, I was beginning to worry.”

“Well, it’s a big city.” Ebb says distractedly as he takes in the plethora of fabrics hanging on a far wall.

He’s so distracted, especially when a woman who looks more like a feline appears behind the counter, that Riptide has to elbow him to garner his attention, “Sorry?”

“I was introducing myself,” Says the stranger, holding out a hand, “I’m Syrus.”  

Ebb shakes his hand slowly, “You’re going to get us into Snow’s mansion?” He questions, “No offense, but you’re like…our age.”

“You two helped spearhead the revolution in District Four, didn’t you?” It’s rhetorical but both men from Four nod all the same, Syrus smirks, “I’m Stell’s personal guard.” His lips twitch up higher at Ebb’s raised eyebrows, “I’m on my leave right now, I only get two hours a day away from the mansion. They even have me sleep there, down the hall from Stell’s room should she need to be subdued.”

“So, you’ve hurt her?”

“No, not personally, the men under my command have never harmed her, I can truthfully say that.” Riptide nods, “And I can get you inside and to her room,” He walks over to the main counter of the store, nodding and thanking the woman, whose name is Tigris, as she flips her store sign to closed. “This is a rough map of the third floor of the mansion,” He pulls a paper out from his pocket, smoothing it out a few times before it’s legible. “We’ll go right in the front doors and up the stairs.”

“You weren’t joking?” Ebb sighs, tossing Riptide a look. His friend grins.

Syrus taps the map, drawing their attention to a specific point, “This is where you’ll come up the stairs. Stell’s room is here,” He points at a room that’s in the far corner, “This hallway is the only corridor leading to the room, and there’s only one door in and out. Getting you in will be the easy part,” The man runs a hand through his black hair, “Getting out? That’ll be hard.”

“How many peacekeepers are stationed throughout the mansion?” Riptide asks, leaning on his elbows as he studies the map.

“Twenty-five. Ten on the first and second floor, then five on the third. All of them are armed.”

“Do they patrol or just keep watch?”

“Patrol guards, mostly up and down a hallway, the third-floor guards watch over multiple rooms so there are gaps there, that’s how we’ll slip you into her room. Once you’re in, I’ll get you out of the third floor but from there you’re on your own to make it to the back garden. There’s an emergency exit door in the southern wing, it’ll trigger an alarm, but you should be able to disappear into the afternoon crowd.”

“Easy as that?” Ebb questions.

“There’s a government meeting tomorrow night, so security will be more focused on that.” Syrus grins, taking out two more pieces of paper, “You’ll need to study these tonight, Tigris,” He nods towards the woman who has whiskers coming out of her cheeks, “has agreed to let you spend it here. I have one idea for a cover for getting her out, but it may not work.”

“This whole thing may not work, let’s hear it.” Riptide replies, leaning his back against the front counter now.

“Her hands,” Syrus starts, a frown on his lips, “Some of the cuts on them seem infected, we could act as though we’re bringing her to the infirmary to get them looked at.”

Ebb and Riptide share a look, then Rip nods, “Sounds good enough for us, but tell us more about the mansion.”

Tigris intervenes then, motioning for the men to move further into her store, where she pulls back a rug to reveal a trap door. They remain in the hidden room beneath the floorboards for an hour, discussing patrol motions, exit points, and general training of peacekeepers. All too soon, it’s time for Syrus to return back to the mansion.

As he turns to head back up the small ladder onto the main floor of the store, his words are a near whisper, “Be careful with her, she’s not very stable right now.”

Ebb chuckles, “She’s never been stable.”

“No,” Syrus’s voice is harsh, unquestionable, “The girl you knew before the Quell, in the Quell even, she’s gone. Even I don’t know everything they’ve done to her. But I’ve seen her mind slip away, watched her scratch herself till her hands were a bloody mess, tried to get her to stop screaming and it’s like she can’t even see the real world.” He can’t help the shudder that runs through his body, “I hope your doctors know what they’re doing.”

“Well,” Riptide shrugs, letting out a breath, “We better not fuck this up then.”

Stell felt as though she had four layers of skin as sweat dripped down every inch of her body. The air clung to her, refusing to give her any room to breathe as she made her way through the dense jungle. The small hatchet in her hand only did so much against the vines as she swung it downwards again, creating a path for herself as she made her way downhill.

She just had to get to the cornucopia, to meet up with the rest of her allies who were no doubt waiting for her there. Johanna, Peeta, Katniss, Beetee and Finnick. They were all waiting for her.

Her muscles ache as she swings downwards again, the sharpened blade cutting easily through the vegetation. Stell pauses for a second, just long enough to wipe her brow with the back of her left hand, and then is moving again.

It only takes a few minutes for her to reach a small clearing in the jungle, her eyebrows drawing together as she tries to place exactly where she could be. Each sector was near identical, and a clearing? She didn’t remember there being any in this arena.

Pausing once again, she scans the area, the jungle floor as well as the tree canopy, for any signs of immediate danger. She’s just made it to the middle of the clearing when she hears footfalls to her left. The hatchet is instantly raised, poised to be thrown as her eyes dart in the sound’s direction.

Finnick appears, ducking under a low hanging vine, “There you are,” He smirks, the left side of his mouth curving upwards. Sweat runs down the side of his face from his hairline to the hollow of his neck and she relaxes at the sight of him, lowering her weapon.

“I thought you were going to wait on the beach.”

He shrugs, “I was, but I then our allies got annoying.” Stell walks towards him easily, her heart full at the sight of him in front of her.

She chuckles in response, tucking her weapon into her belt and continues moving closer to her district partner, “Is Johanna mad at Kat-“ Her words halt as Finnick wraps a hand around her throat, his fingers instantly cutting off her airways. She gags, the sound echoing around them in the clearing.

No, no, no

She tries to kick at him, but his moves too fast, transitioning from holding her at arm’s length to having her back pinned against his chest, her whole arm around her throat. She kicks back frantically, trying to land a blow to his feet or legs or groin.

His breath is hot against the shell of her ear, “I made a deal, told Enobaria she could kill you slowly.” He disarms her as he whispers to her, panic rising in her chest.

More footsteps, running now and getting closer with each moment, “Finnick, Fin-“

He flexes his muscles, stopping her words, “Ah, ah. None of that.” His head tilts, she can feel it behind her, “Oh look, she’s here.” Stell’s hands claw at Finnick’s arm, desperately trying to pry him off her.

Enobaria breaks through the tree line into the clearing, her sharpened teeth gleaming in the afternoon sun.

You killed her, a voice whispers in the back of Stell’s mind, she’s dead.

But she can see her, the Victor from Two, stalking closer, a manic gleam in her eyes. She’s dead. Another reminder.

A beat of silence. “This isn’t real.” Stell manages to force the words out. And despite the pressure around her throat, the panic in her chest, she tries to take a breath.

“You’re going to die.” Finnick whispers in her ear, his voice taking on that disgusted tone she’s all too familiar with, “And I’m going to enjoy watching.”

And in her room within President Snow’s mansion, she’s screaming. Screaming so loud that the guards down the hall can’t fall back asleep.

But no one’s there to wake her up. And just like every nightmare for the past two weeks, Stell finds herself trapped, relief only finding her when she’s killed in her subconscious.

Chapter Text

“You seem tense today,” Stell mutters the words nonchalantly as she continues to saw away at a piece of ham with the side of her fork. Across from her Syrus looks up, his eyes glancing first at her minute struggle with improper cutlery, then to her face. She knows he can see the exhaustion there, the bags under her eyes, one of which mixes with the still prominent scar tissue that slashes down her face. But he never brings it up, how awful she looks. She wonders if he knows why the bags are there. She doesn’t even know if he stays in the mansion at night, if he can hear her screaming at the figments her brain conjures.

He frowns at her, “Busy day planned.”

“Does that mean you won’t be stationed outside my door all day long?” She uses her fork to fold her half-cut slice of ham into a smaller bite before sticking it in her mouth.

He answers as she chews, “That’s classified information.” His lips twitch upwards slightly as he speaks, then he looks down at her hands, “We should get your hands looked at.”

Stell swallows, “Why?” She asks, starting to saw at another piece of ham.

Syrus purses his lips together, then slides his knife across the table, “Here, use that, my arm’s exhausted just watching you try to cut it with a fork.”

“Not worried I’ll turn on you?”

He levels her with a stare, “No.” He deadpans, “Besides, you could kill me with your bare hands. Speaking of, they look infected.” He points to the red ring around one of her scratch marks, “See?”

Stell takes the knife slowly, glancing between it and Syrus mulitple times as she tells him, “I know what an infection looks like.” She’s never been offered medical care before, not for something so minor at least.

The knife is immensely more effective in cutting her food than the fork, and she uses the rare opportunity to cut the few remaining things on her plate before setting it back on the table. “Do you want to lose a hand?” Stell opens her mouth to retort, a comment about not needing all her limbs anyways, but Syrus keeps going, “Your immune system needs to stay healthy so it can focus on the baby.”

She places her forearms on the table, her head tilting slightly to the side as she gives him a puzzled look. He mentions him a lot…her baby. Syrus just stares back at her, unflinching, undeterred by her sapphire eyes with a small amount of fire still blazing inside them. Stell leans forward, “Do you still support the Capitol?” Her voice is low, almost inaudible, as she asks the dangerous question, “Or have you realized, after getting to know me, how cruel and pathetic this entire system really is?”

“You’re talking more today.”

“Because I’m curious,” She supplies, “answer the question.”

“Did you know that one of the tells of someone about to commit suicide is they’re suddenly in a much better mood? They’ve come to peace with their decision, it rejuvenates them.” Syrus’s voice is low as well, his own meal now forgotten.

Stell brings up her hands, clasping her right hand over the fist she makes with her left, and rests her chin on the bridge of her fingers, “I seem rejuvenated to you?” She watches as he leans over the table slightly to grab the knife, she frowns.

Syrus huffs, then stands, pushing his chair back from the table to do so, “Just don’t do anything stupid.” He hisses as he makes his way towards the door. “And we’ll go to the infirmary this afternoon,” He throws his next words over his shoulder, “try and shower beforehand.”

She scowls from where she still sits with her chin still atop her hands. She hadn’t touched the shower since she was moved here four days ago. Every time she turned it on, her body began to shake just at the sound of the water. The sound of the door closing seems to echo through the room.

The timeframe of it all baffles her. Was Peeta really only rescued a week ago? She closes her eyes, trying to piece together any sort of timeframe and comes to the conclusion that she’s been imprisoned for almost twenty days.

Her head shakes back and forth slightly as she lets out a huff, her eyes scanning the room, pausing on the corners of the ceiling to see if the cameras are visible. There had to be some here, she wasn’t naïve enough to think she was unsupervised.

She’s about to stand from her chair when the door to her room opens yet again, her mouth opens to taunt Syrus for returning so soon, but it shuts quickly as another guard enters. Her back stiffens, hands curling into fists as she approaches Stell, a manila envelope in one hand.

“A gift,” She says, a grin spreading across her face as she places it down on the table within arm’s reach, “from President Snow. He wanted you updated on the eradication effort.”

Confidential.

The word is printed in bold red writing on the front. Stell stares at it as the other guard leaves, her gait tugging at a memory Stell quickly shuts down. For a few moments, she just stares at it, her lips pursing together as her heart beats faster. She takes a breath, then another before reaching over and sliding the folder closer to herself and flips the folder open before she can lose the nerve to do so.

The Fallen. The font is the same that is always was in the arena, projected into the night sky at the end of every nightmare filled day. They’re the only two words on the page. Stell turns the page over, the air leaving her lungs at the first portrait.

Gloss.

The same portrait they used for the Quell, the same one that she saw projected into the sky twenty-something days ago. She sucks in a breath through her teeth, slamming her eyes shut to try and stop the tears, but she just sees Katniss’s arrow piercing his heart again. His body falling backwards into the water. Her lower lip trembles and she bites it so hard that blood trickles into her mouth.

Her eyes reopen, sapphire orbs meetings the black and white photo of a man who knew her better than anyone else for years, and she makes herself turn the page over.

Tywin. The older Victor from District One had rarely shown her any kindness, but Gloss had always spoken highly of his and Cashmere’s mentor. Fleetingly, Stell wonders when they took his photo, then turns the page over. And over. And over.

Six male Victors from District One, and then Cashmere’s face is there and Stell watches her die again in her own mind.

Part of her wants to stop, knows she should stop. There’s no need for her to know how many Victors were killed during and after the Quell. But then…these people…they were just like her. They understood her struggle more so than anyone else. They were linked, connected by a cruel common experience. And just like she told her tributes every year, they wouldn’t be forgotten.

And so, she flips the page again, gets through the rest of District One and then Two isn’t as hard. She notes who isn’t there. Lyme from Two isn’t among The Fallen and Stell wonders if she’s helping the rebel cause in that very moment.

Beetee’s face doesn’t look back at her. Good, Stell thinks, he deserves to live for getting them out of the arena.

But then there’s Favian. And she’s shoving her chair backwards so violently that it crashes into the ground behind her.

Her now pale hands vanish into her hair as she pulls at it. ‘They were going to hurt her’ she can hear Favian’s pained whisper again, see how he looked at Annie from across Finnick’s kitchen table all those nights they got together. She can hear his laugh again, ringing out over the Victor’s Village courtyard. ‘I should’ve died in my Games’

A wordless cry rips past the lump in her throat. Stell tries to take a breath, tells herself she must but it’s all too hard. Too much. Her fingernails dig into her knuckles, the joints a bright white as she strains to dig them in further. To feel something else, to anchor herself to the present.

Favian’s face pulses again in her mind, threatening to block out the room that she’s currently in and her hands go to her hair again, then scrap down her face, leaving long, angry red marks in their wake.

And it helps. The slight burning, the pain, the instant regret of maiming herself makes it possible for her to return to the table and flip the page.

Klaus. Her jaw sets, the muscles around it twitching once, then twice. She flips the page again.

Tears well in her eyes as she stares back at her stylist of the past seven years. ‘This isn’t right’, she hears his whisper again. On the bottom of the page reads a simple line. It informs her that her prep team has been executed as well. Just a sentence. As though they aren’t even worth a page.

To Stell, they each deserved a novel. Every single person in this folder did. Wiping the tears from her eyes, she flips the page over roughly, her hands shaking as anger begins to fill every part of her.

A man from District Five looks up at her.

No Annie. No Mags. No you. Her mind whispers the last one, reminding herself that this is all real. She’s not stuck in a nightmare, unable to wake up. It’s the real world.

Face after face after face she reminds herself that Mags is alive. Annie is alive. She is alive. But so many. Too many. Are not.

And she knows them all. Every Victor. Every stylist.  

She can only imagine the horrors they had to endure; being rounded up, hunted down, executed for winning a game they were forced to play years ago, for even being a part of it. The Capitol probably didn’t even interrogate them all, not when they already had her and Peeta.

Her mind takes her back to all the parties, all the ceremonies, all the holidays in which all the Victors were present. They’d filled rooms, packed hallways, sold out restaurants with their numbers alone. And now?

President Snow has eliminated almost all of them. She’s able to do a quick count. Eleven. That’s all that was left. She lets a tear slide down her face for the rest of them and wonders how much lower that number will be by the end of the war.

So do something.

The voice in her head sounds an awful lot like Gloss. Stell straightens up, hands balled into fists at her side and scans the room. And there, on the bottom of her bed, the fabric skirt meant for decoration.

She moves quickly, she moves loudly, shoving the mattress, grabbing the skirt. She holds two points of it firmly in either hand, giving the fabric a firm tug. A grin spreads across her lips when it feels firm.

A chair is her next tool, she lets it scrape against the hardwood floor as she pushes it towards the bathroom door, which she opens.

The sound of murmuring outside her door makes her move faster, she had to be quick, had to be sure of this impromptu plan.

One end of the bed skirt over the top of door, the chair backed close by. She stands with one foot on the seat, the other on the top of the chair back. Then she grabs the other end and loops it around her neck.

The meeting scheduled to take place in President Snow’s mansion had been altered. Changed to include even more high-profile officials, which had led to an increase in security. Which helped Syrus’s plan in that Riptide and Ebb would blend in more easily, but hurt it in that…well, they had to lead Stellar Mere past increased patrols.

The inciting incident: Katniss Everdeen had been shot on live television. In District Two. And there was no word on her current condition.

The rag tag rescue team was in the process of entering the mansion, “I was told I’d have increased manpower today, same as everyone else.” Syrus clenches his jaw at the man standing across from him who had just questioned the two, helmeted, peacekeepers that flanked him.

“For watch duty?” The man scoffs, “Come on, Syrus, let me send them to stand outside the drawing room.”

“How about you ping Knox and ask him?” Syrus’s words make his colleague purse his lips together. Peacekeeper Knox was in charge of Stell’s torture, mental and physical. He’d transferred over from the Training Tower to the Mansion when Stell was moved, same as Syrus. Given his occupation, others tended to avoid him, “He mentioned delivering something to the prisoner that could make her more volatile this morning, so,” he motions to his comrades, “increase.”

“Why give it to her today? With everything else going on?”

“I’m not sure, you want to ask him?”

The two men stare at each other for a long moment, neither looking away from the other, then, finally, the other man sighs, “Fine, go.”

Syrus flashes a grin, then motions to the men at his side, “Follow me.”  Riptide and Ebb just nod, keeping their gazes up and ahead like instructed as they follow Syrus under the doorway and towards the grand staircase.

As they climb them, Riptide leans closer, “Was that a lie?”

“No.” He didn’t particularly want to know what Stell was being given this time around. And that made him feel like a coward. So, he swallows the feeling, and keeps leading the men from District Four up the second set of stairs.

The third floor of Snow’s mansion was always quieter, with all the meetings and banquets and balls being held on the first floor and Snow’s personal quarters being on the second.

And so, as they hit the third-floor landing, they all hear the chaos that breaks out down the hall.

“The Vic-ah!!“ The blade of a knife disappears into the guard’s side. His pained cry echoes down the hall as Stell tightens her hold on the bed skirt that fills her left hand. The other peacekeeper, who struggles to breathe with the fabric held fast around his neck, gurgles slightly, his feet still kicking out.

“Shhhh,” Stell whispers into the shell of his ear, twisting her hand to close his airways even more. Her right hand now free, she closes her fingers down on two points of his neck that make his whole body go limp. He hits the floor with a thud.

The second guard screams again, alerting the entire floor, but then a gunshot sounds, and he falls. Stell’s eyes widen for only a moment.

Don’t stop moving

Stell grabs the gun of the guard at her feet, holding it in two hands as she approaches the door. Her eyes dart only fleetingly to the second guard. Making sure the barrel of the gun appears to whoever stands at the end of the hall first, Stell emerges.

And there, not fifteen feet away, Syrus stands, two peacekeepers flanking him, and his gun still held up. He lowers it at the sight of her, then glances towards the sound of more guards headed their way. “You better flip the safety off,” He tells her, jerking his head towards the coming guards, “you’re gunna need it.”

Chapter Text

“Your timing is impeccable.” Syrus mutters the words as Stell walks towards him, her eyes drifting towards the two helmeted guards on either side of him, wordlessly, the two reach up and remove their helmets.

Stell’s lips quirk upwards at the sight of her childhood friends, “It took you long enough.” She tells them, shaking her head.

“Yeah,” Riptide shrugs, a slightly haunted look in his eyes that she’s never seen before, “thank us later,” his words die out as more peacekeepers rush around the corner, shots ring out from Riptide’s gun and Syrus begins to lead them forwards, headed towards the stairs. Stell’s bare foot is cold against the tile floor, but she barely feels it as she focuses on what’s ahead of her.

And even though the outcome is the same as in the Games, fighting these peacekeepers feels different. Knives and swords she can dodge and deflect, arrows too. But bullets?

Those thoughts would be what stand out most to her in the weeks that would follow. The rest of it: the pandemonium in the hallways, of getting from the third to the second floor, the feeling of warm blood on her bare foot as they fought off more guards, it would become a blur. Following the three men who thought her worthy of rescue, she makes a silent vow to protect them all. Even as her head throbbed, as her muscles protested after weeks of zero activity.

She’d vaguely recall the panic of getting pushed back up the final stairway, watching Riptide and Ebb fight their way down them, Syrus as the bottom with a look of defeat on his face as she was grabbed from behind.

And when asked about her next actions, Stell would always say there was no other option. Going back to the torture, to the films, to not knowing what would be next. She wouldn’t do it, ever again.

Don’t stop moving

A swift movement would have her metal prosthetic smashing the guard’s foot, his pain making him release her. And the decision to jump over the railing? To skip the stairs altogether so she could get away?

Survival.

She’d made jumps like that before, when she’d trained after her Games. But this time someone shoves her on takeoff, and the two seconds of freefall weren’t spent analyzing the ground and seeing when to duck into a roll, but in a panic. And then pain as she collided with the floor below. Through her wrist as the gun went sprawling across the wood floor she’d danced on so many times. Through her head as it bounced off the same surface. And through her torso, as her ribs bent inwards then sprung back into place.

No, Stell’s rescue was not the same as being in the Games. This was a real war, just like President Snow had promised.

“Finnick.”

The man in question lets out a groan, rolling over in his bed to face away from the doorway in which Amos stands. His muscles scream in protest, sore after military training for most of the morning. They’d filmed him, as they almost always did now, and would use it in an upcoming propo video to show he was getting ready to do his part in the war effort.

He was still mad they wouldn’t let him go with Katniss to District Two.

“Finnick, get up.” Heavy footsteps approach him and then Amos is grabbing his shoulder and rolling him back over, Finnick swats at his hand, a scowl on his lips, “We’re needed in Command.”

“Right now?” He pushes himself up onto his elbows, glancing over at the clock. It was just after midnight. There’s a tapping from the doorway and he looks up to see Mags there now, cane in hand as she impatiently waits. “I’m coming.” Amos moves back towards Mags, the two waiting only a moment for Finnick to get up and toss a shirt over his head before the trio is making their way through empty corridors.

Amos’s voice is on edge as he informs Finnick, “There was no message saying what this is about.”

“Can that thing do that?” Finnick nods towards the communicuff on Amos’s wrist, “Screen seems pretty small.”

Amos lifts one shoulder, then lets it drop, “It scrolls.” Finnick just hums back a noise of indifference.

Five minutes later and they’re surprised to find Haymitch seated at the Command table, Plutarch, and Boggs accompanying him, “How’d it go in Two?” Finnick asks.

“Good.” Haymitch smiles, “Katniss got shot.”

“Was it on camera?” Amos mumbles, throwing a disapproving glance to the old Head Gamemaker.

Plutarch beams back at him, not picking up on his tone at all, “Thankfully yes, she’s rallied the District together against the Capital forces.”

Mags pulls on Finnick’s shirt sleeve, garnering his attention and giving an inquisitive look. “She’s still alive though, right?”

“What?” Finnick rolls his eyes, “Yes, oh, yes, recovering in the hospital wing,” Finnick glances to Boggs as Plutarch answers again, his eyes narrowing at the solider who sits with his boots propped up on the table and his eyes close. He’s about to ask how it happened when the far door slides open and President Coin walks in.

“Good, you’re all here.” She takes a seat at the head of the table, the Victors from Four following suit in their usual seats, “I’ll get straight to it.” She takes a breath, looking from Amos, to Mags, to Finnick, “Stellar Mere has been extracted from the Capital.”

Mags lets out a sob, her shoulders curling forwards as she covers her mouth with a hand and tears begin to stream down her face. Amos places an arm around her shoulders, his own eyes welling with tears at the news.

And Finnick stares at President Coin, his mouth agape. He feels as though a weight has been lifted from his shoulders and after a moment, he finds his voice, “Is she here?” The sentence comes out as one breath. Mags grasps Finnick’s hand in one of her own and he turns to give the old woman a brilliant smile before looking back to Coin, “Is she on her way?”

The woman shakes her head, “It was a rescue party headed by two individuals of District Four. They’re on route to arrive there within the hour.” Coin doesn’t smile, she simply folds her hands atop the table, “She’s in critical condition but conscious. Aware of her surroundings and communicating with the extraction team.”

“What’s wrong?” It’s Haymitch who asks, his lips pursing together after the question passes his lips.

Coin’s voice remains impassive as she answers, “Her wrist is broken, trauma to the head,” She pauses for a second, eyes flickering towards Finnick, “and to her torso, they mentioned she’s worried about damage to the baby.”

The air in the room seems to go still, Finnick and Mags both tightening their grips on one another’s hands simultaneously. Finnick’s voice is much graver as he asks, “How soon can I be there?”

“You’re not going.”

“What the hell do you mean by he’s not going?” Amos grinds out between clenched teeth, “You should already have a chopper waiting, you should-“

“May I remind you,” Coin interrupts him, her shoulders pulling back more, “That Peeta was programed to kill Katniss Everdeen. Finnick’s increased involvement in our propos has proved beneficial to the effort we cannot risk him-“

Finnick stands suddenly, hands flat on the table, “I’m going.” Across from him, Boggs has opened his eyes.

“No. Solider Odair, you are not.” Coin’s eyes find Amos, then Mags, “We will wait for an updated report. Then we can reassess.”

“I’m going!” Finnick raises his voice, “I expect to be on a chopper within the hour! That is my fiancé and my child who you left behind.” His voice rebounds off the walls, a finger pointed directly at Coin as he seethes at her.

The woman simply raises her eyebrows at him, “No aircraft leave this District without my direct approval.”

Finnick scoffs, then smirks back at her, “Then you can find someone else to do your propos for you.”

Plutarch glances worriedly between the opposing parties, “Madame President.” His direction is a warning, his nerves by the threat given away as he swallows twice. “The success of Finnick’s appearances-“

“I could pilot the chopper myself,” Boggs offers, “Drop off the Victors from Four and be back by this evening.” Finnick gives Boggs a nod of thanks before looking back at Coin.

She shakes her head, “You will remain here, all of you, until we receive an update.” Finnick closes his eyes, his arms visibly shaking, “That’s an order.”

Riptide couldn’t stop watching the steady rise and fall of her chest as she slept. He kept counting her breaths, the act reassuring him that she was alive, and she was here. That she was safe, no longer in the Capital’s clutches.

If he closed his eyes, even for a moment, he knows he’ll relive seeing her for the first time in that hallway again. It was shocking, seeing how thin she was…it looked worse in person than it had on screen. The way her clothes dwarfed her, having seen her before, how strong she was and full of life.

Her bare feet, one metal and one flesh, had carried her through blood and broken glass during their escape. Her hands now carried even more cuts. His eyes go to her wrists, the right covered in medical wrapping, where he knows that underneath are gashes from where she’d been recently chained. The left secured in a brace.

And her face, the scar that ran down half of it…he’d hated her for years after her Games. Right up until he saw what she was planning to do in the Quell. But seeing her like this now? It brought tears to his eyes.

She’d always thought of everyone else, even when they called her a traitor and a liar and a whore.

Riptide lets out a sigh, running his hands through his hair as he leans back in his chair and wonders when she’ll wake, and if she’ll remember any of it at all.

Syrus, the guard, claimed that she probably won’t. Her memory had grown worse with torture, he informed them all, after they’d had had to sedate her. The fall she’d taken had rattled her but she’d been able to make it out of the mansion, sprinted alongside them through the streets for three whole blocks before her knees gave out.

Her arms had encircled her stomach and she moaned out words about cramps and pains. She’d grown more hysterical once they’d reached the safehouse, near screaming at them about her baby, and to avoid detection, Ebb had been the one to administer the drugs they’d brought as a strict precaution.

She’s safe now, he reminds himself, that’s all that matters.

She can smell the ocean.

It was mixed with the familiar scents of blood, wreckage, and disinfectant, but it was still there. And while there’s no beeping of machines, she can feel an IV stuck in her right arm. She can feel the pain in her left wrist and when she opens her eyes slowly, she sees a brace surrounding the joint.

“You’re awake.” Sapphire eyes dart to the side, where Riptide sits slumped in a plush chair. He’s got a bruise across his left cheekbone and a black eye but he’s in one piece. “How do you feel?” He doesn’t move to sit up at all as he speaks. He doesn’t move to go get anyone else either, which makes Stell wonder if there’s any medical personnel nearby at all.

“Shitty,” She croaks, taking a moment to look around the room. She can see out the far window, which looks out over what’s left of District Four’s Square. “The mayor’s house?” She asks.

“Yeah, figured we’d bring you somewhere nice instead of the old supply warehouses.”

Stell snorts, “Is that where everyone else goes?”  

“Converted them into our main defenses, though some people have moved back into their homes in town.” Stell hums, mentally taking stock of other injuries. Her head aches, her sides burn, her stomach…she slowly moves her right hand to rest on her belly. “Stell…”

She feels empty, her mind blank as the memory surges back. “Have they checked?” Her words sound empty too.

“Not yet, they’ve been waiting for you to wake up. Can you…can you tell?”

Yes, “No.” She lies, because maybe she’s wrong. Stell looks to the door, “How’s Ebb?”

Riptide nods his head, “He’s good, he was here but went to go debrief the rest of leadership on how the rescue went. Syrus went with him.” Riptide sits up now, the movement giving away the pain that runs through his limbs, and runs a hand through his cropped black hair, “District Thirteen is waiting for an update and leadership wants to see you as well and we need to get the doctor to see you.” He leans forwards, resting his forearms on the bedside and looks up at her, “Do you want anyone else here?” He asks carefully, “To come to Four?”

Stell’s eyes study Riptides for a long minute, searching for an answer that she knows only rests with her. She’s shocked, to say the least, that he’s here, waiting for her to wake up and asking her how she’s feeling. Shocked that he’s changed and appears to now care about her again.

Though, she knows she’s earned it too. And perhaps anyone else, anyone other than her childhood friends, would’ve been telling her that they’d already called for Finnick to be on his way. But Rip’s known her since before her Games. So, he left that up to her. “No,” Stell pushes the word past a closing throat, “No one.” She takes a breath, then scoots backwards. Riptide stands, holding out a hand to help Stell to her feet, her next words she forces to be lighter, “Who came up with calling it leadership anyways? We should go there first, I want to tell them how stupid it sounds.” She keeps her voice light, forces it to not sound overwhelmed by the thoughts that plague her mind.

He chuckles, “Let’s get some clothes first and I’ll find someone to take that IV-“ Stell rips it from her arm, the end of Riptide’s sentence falling away, “…that works too.”

“I can go in this.” She motions down to her current attire, an off gray gown that would’ve once fit her well, but now hangs off protruding shoulders and swallows her withered frame. Every muscle left screams at her not to move, but she grits her teeth, taking careful, wobbly steps towards the door. Her ribs scream in protest, but she ignores them, gritting her teeth together. She glances at her wrists, one now covered in bandages, ones that mirror the singular one on her right ankle where she’d been bound to that godforsaken wall.

She’s scared to stop moving, to sit and let her thoughts wander to anything other than what’s before her. She doesn’t want to think of her baby or her body or her time as a prisoner. She doesn’t want to see the doctors because for now, without them, she can pretend everything is fine, that she’s going to be alright.

Though her body has other plans, and after the third time that Riptide has to catch her from falling, he fixes her with a stern look, “Wait here, I’ll be right back.” He returns with a wheelchair, which she grumbles about but sits in nonetheless, already out a breath, letting her old friend wheel her down the hall and into an elevator that carries them to the ground floor.

And Stellar Mere is used to having people stop and stare at her. She’s embraced it from the day she was born, owned it and lavished in the attention. They do so again while Riptide carts her through the bottom floor of the mayor’s mansion and out the front doors. He pushes her past small groups of former civilians who now have weapons strapped to their backs, real weapons, guns. And they turn and they point.

And instead of ignoring it all, she feels like hiding, she wants to scrape away at her knuckles that are now covered in bandages so thick she can barely move her fingers, she wants to go back to that room, she wants to cave in on herself. Because whatever they say is never nice, her mind remembers the insults, the gestures they threw at her for years.

But then she notices the smiles on their faces, how they light up at the sight of her. They don’t throw insults her way, but exclamations of joy and greetings.

“Stell!”

“She’s here! She’s safe!”

“There she is!”

Riptide pats her on the shoulder, garnering her attention, “Welcome home.” And for the first time in weeks, Stell smiles.

Chapter Text

District Four’s rebel leadership headquarters was situated in the center of one of the boat warehouses, in the old head foreman’s offices. It was a large warehouse, where production had been near nonstop for as long as Stell could remember. With rough waters around the whole District for three months out of the year, shipwrecks weren’t as rare as outsiders thought and ship parts often had to be replaced as they wore down.

In her whole life Stell had only been in this building once before, because of a dare when she was fourteen. Now, Riptide pushes the wheelchair she occupies right through the front doors. It’s a welcome relief to her eyes, which hadn’t been in direct sunlight for over a month till her rescue. The number of people they’ve fit inside is impressive, with cots lining the walls and men, women, and children all milling about. A few nod towards her in greeting, but don’t bother interrupting as Rip explains to her what’s been happening.

“We’ve begun letting some people return to their homes, but that’s a slow process. We only select the areas that haven’t been hit since the beginning of the war and the ones closest to us or other outposts, so that we can defend them more easily in case of an attack.”

“When was the last one?” She asks.

Riptide tilts his head to one side, then the other as he thinks, “Two weeks ago? It’s been quiet since we gained total control, but we don’t want to slip up. There’s still a camp of Capitol forces a few miles from the east fence.” If her head wasn’t constantly aching, she’d correlate that timeframe with the rest of the Victors recovery from the Capitol,  “And now that we have you. Well…”

“You’re expecting them to pick back up again?” She guesses.

He nods, agreeing with her. “Here we are,” There isn’t even a door anymore on the office, which makes Stell scowl as she’s pushed into the room through a curtain that’s stapled to the top of the doorframe.

The murmurings of conversation that had been happening on their approach ends abruptly. Most faces she recognizes: Ebb and Syrus stand against the far wall, the latter visibly relaxing at the sight of Stell there, Geillis Cresta sits beside a young woman that Stell recognizes but doesn’t remember the name of, and then there are two other individuals she’s never seen before.

Her eyes are drawn to one in particular as Riptide pushes the wheelchair closer to the table then moves away. A broad-shouldered man with short, near white, blonde hair, he’s leaned back in a chair, his boot clad feet on the table, one ankle crossed over the other. Her eyes narrow at his strange attire, while Stell’s seen suspenders before, no one in Four wears them casually. “Stell,” It’s Geillis that speaks up, pointing first to the lady she recognizes, “You remember Daphne, the mayor’s eldest daughter.”

“Yes,” Stell half lies, because she only recognized her face and nothing more, “good to see you alive.”

Daphne chuckles, her auburn hair shifting to the side as she inclines her head, “Likewise.”

“And-“

The woman Stell doesn’t know interrupts, her accent rough, “I can introduce myself,” She stands, walking over and holding out an ebony-colored hand, “Alexis Finch, District Eleven.” Her grip is strong as Stell shakes her hand, “I arrived shortly after the Quell fiasco. Nice work, by the way.”

Stell snorts, quite an unladylike noise, “Thanks.” There’re a few beats of silence, and she looks to the blonde man who at present is cleaning dirt from underneath his fingernails with a knife blade, “Are you going to take your feet off the table? Or are you waiting for an order?”

Emerald eyes drift upwards to meet hers, and for a second she’s impressed by how attractive he is, “Me?” He asks her, lips quirking upwards as Riptide, who now sits in the chair adjacent to his own, rolls his eyes. Stell fixes him with a look and he slowly picks up each foot and brings them to rest of the floor before speaking again, “Rowan,” He supplies his name, his hands clasped together now, “Rowan Porter, District Seven.”

“Rowan and Alexis helped start the revolution in their respective Districts then were brought in to help organize more covert operations here. They’ve been instrumental in our success,” Riptide informs Stell. Both rebels he speaks of smile.

Movement catches her eye, and Stell quickly turns, jostling her entire chair, nearly tipping over to one side. She grips the handrails to save herself, then hisses through her teeth at the pain that goes through her left wrist.

No one speaks for a moment, and Stell is thankful for the sharp pain that helps her stay in the present. It’s just Syrus, moving closer to her, and he continues closer once they make eye contact, one of his hands coming to squeeze her shoulder, “Do you really just call this leadership?” Stell asks to no one in particular, forcing a grin onto her face, “That’s sad.”

Ebb barks out a forced laugh, “We didn’t spend much time on the title.”

“Well, someone should’ve put thought into it, what do they call it in Thirteen?”

“Command,” Riptide answers, “Which, by the way, did you all hear back from them?” He asks, steering the conversation back on track to where it should be.

Geillis nods, “They want an update on Stell as soon as possible, the Victors there have been ordered to stay put, no aircraft are on their way here at this time.”

“Tell them to continue to hold off,” Stell answers, the authority already coating her words surprising the new faces in the room who haven’t met her before. She sits up straight in her chair, despite the brace and the bandages, and for a moment they wonder why she doesn’t want her comrades to join her until she provides a passable explanation, “if we’re expecting more attacks due to my presence then we shouldn’t risk bringing anyone else in, they’ll be targeted in the air.”

“Solid point.” Rowan agrees, “What we haven’t discussed is him,” He nods towards Syrus, “I think he should be guarded at all times.”

“Because I’m a former peacekeeper?” Syrus doesn’t sound as confident as he should.

“Exactly.” Emerald eyes narrow just a little, “You could report back to the Capitol, tell them how to get troops in, good times for aerial strikes,”

Riptide waves a hand, “He was thoroughly searched before our arrival and was essential in Stell’s rescue, not to mention the maps he was able to provide of the Capitol. Those have already been sent to Thirteen, they’re preparing troops to be sent there in the coming weeks.”

Stell remains as attentive as possible as they speak about upcoming operations, which mostly include getting people back into their homes, defenses in case of another attack, and how to rebuild the parts of the District that were decimated. She gives her thoughts wherever it seems appropriate, asking questions on how things have been running and where supplies have been coming from. It seems, since her capture, the rebels have been able to take control of the railways to send supplies amongst Districts.

It's a relief to hear that the divide between rich and poor in Four has practically disappeared since the fighting began, proof enough since Daphne sits among their company. She’s informed a few others from the upper class tend to attend these meetings as well, but today they’re taking a turn on sea patrol, watching in case the Capitol decides to come at them via boat.

Near the end of the meeting, as chatter dies down, Stell feels as though someone is inside her head, pounding away with a hammer. The light fixtures now make her squint, the small movement exacerbating her headache.

There are many questions she wants to ask, needs to know the answers too, but speaking for more than a few seconds now seems daunting. No one around her seems to notice, they pack up papers, slide files back into drawers, and clasp one another on the shoulder. Stell lets her eyelids slide closed, the darkness bringing near instant relief to her mind.  

“Peeta?”

The blonde boy in question looks up slowly from where he’d been staring at his lap, just waiting for the far door to open as he stays strapped down to the bed. His eyebrows furrow together at who stands there, they said it’d be someone from Twelve, but he wasn’t expecting, “Delly.” She throws a dazzling smile his way, practically skipping over to his bedside.

“How’re you?” She asks, sitting on the edge, careful not to sit on his immobilized hand.

He shakes his head a little, drawing her attention to the restraints, “Great.” He deadpans, making her laugh nervously. He seems to remember his manners a moment later, “How’re you?”

“Good!” She chips, grinning again as she tugs on her grey jumpsuit, “The clothes here aren’t my favorite but we’re all getting used to it. It’s so nice that Thirteen has welcomed us all with open arms.”

Peeta nods, thinking back on the bright clothes Delly always wore to school, then grumbles, “They left Stell.” An older Victor told him so last week, Amos, Peeta recalls his name. They’d sent him in to speak with Peeta, to see if he could handle it. It’d gone well till Peeta asked about Stell’s whereabouts.

His hands clench into fists, but Delly reaches forward, Peeta jumping slightly when she rests a hand atop his, “That’s what I’ve come to tell you about,” She smiles wide again, “She’s been rescued.”

Relief washes over his features, “Really? Is she here?” He tries to sit up more, as though he’ll be able to see her through the wall that he knows is really a one-way window, “Is she alright?”

Delly grins, “She’s in District Four and she’s alive.” In a small gesture, she turns her hand, gripping Peeta’s and giving it a squeeze, “There’s talk of trying to do a video call, so you two can see each other.”

“Yes,” His answer is instant, “I’d like that.”

“She’s got some injuries though, the doctor said it’ll take a while for her to heal.”

Peeta’s tone becomes disjointed, “They beat her.” He tells Delly, “Out of all of us, they beat her the most.” Delly’s lips press together, “What about the baby?”

She shakes her head, “They haven’t checked yet, but I’m sure you can ask her about it.” Peeta nods. “How’re you feeling?” She tries asking again, hoping for a better answer this time.

He still throws a look her way, then it falls slightly at his admission, “I’m bored.”

Delly grins, “I can find a way to fix that.”

It only takes a few hours before a guard enters Peeta’s room, wordlessly setting down a sketchpad and a pencil, then leaves. He picks them up easily, feeling more like himself again as he begins to draw Stell’s battered face.

Two soft knocks on the side of her doorframe make Stell’s eyes fly open. She’s immediately reaching for a weapon that isn’t available and the man in the doorway narrows his eyes just a little at her, “Good evening, I’m Dr. Harper.” He carries a small medical bag in one hand with a red cross on it, but other than that, he’s dressed just like everyone else. “I met with Caspian earlier today, he told me about your gunshot and concussion last year.”

Stell scoffs, those should be the least of his concerns, “And you saw the injuries during the Games?” She guesses.

“Yes.” He nods, entering the room, “Is it alright if I examine you?” Ebb enters the room, flashing a grin at Stell.

She shrugs, “Go ahead.” She’s lying on the bed she woke up on, having been returned here after the leadership meeting and given a plate of broiled fish and green beans.

“I’ll check your head first, then legs, arms and finally your torso.” She appreciates being told the plan, it helps her take a breath and relax. The doctor holds up a single finger in front of Stell’s face, “Now follow the tip of my finger with just your eyes, don’t move your head.” She does so, flinching slightly, “Does that hurt?”

“A little.” He raises his eyebrows, “My eyes feel sore.” He nods once, reaching into his pocket for a small light.

“I’ll shine this in your eyes, just stay still for me.” He brings one up to her left eye, bringing it up so it’s inches away, “Do you remember escaping from the Capitol?” He asks her, pulling the light further away then bringing it back closer.

“Somewhat.” She offers no more explanation.

“Can you tell me about it?” He switches eyes, then purses his lips together before moving down to her legs. Stell begins talking about strangling one guard with the bed skirt, then throwing her knife at the second as he went to yell. “Can I remove your leg?” Stell nods, then keeps talking about fighting down the hall and leaping over the banister. She stops speaking after that, sucking in a sharp breath as the doctor takes off her prosthetic. “When’s the last time this was removed?”

Her teeth grind together, the pain as air contacts her irritated stump coming in swells, “Over a month ago,” She grinds out, “I didn’t want to be without it.”

The doctor glances over at Ebb, “Take that basin there and go fill it with water, I’ll need a clean cloth as well and alcohol.”

“No!” Stell’s eyes widen as she barks out the word, her mind taking her back to the shower. The overwhelming smell of alcohol in her nostrils, the pain through her entire body as she was soaked in it.

Her hands shake, “I have to clean it, there’s skin abrasions, I’m no expert in these,” He glances towards the prosthetic, then shoos Ebb off to gather the supplies, “But my guess is when you lost muscle and weight it stopped fitting as well as it should. The skin is infected. The fact that you couldn’t feel it until I took it off is concerning as well.”

Stell takes another breath as the pain subsides for a moment, “It hurt a bit more, but it was bearable.” He just hums at her.

Ebb returns a minute later, arms barren with what he was sent to find. Stell closes her eyes as Dr. Harper dips the cloth into the water. She bites the inside of her cheek as he wipes her irritated skin, doing her best to keep the tears from leaking out the corner of her eyes. “Say something.” She barks, “Ebb.”

“What?”

“Speak, talk about anything.”

“Do you remember primary school?” And then he drones on, talking about the teachers they’d had and the fights they’d gotten in to. He talks about Reed, smiling as he recounts the time he came to school with his clothes soaking wet, sea water puddling on the floor of their seventh grade classroom.

Stell still swears under her breath when the alcohol stings her skin, but Ebb’s voice keeps her grounded in the present and within minutes, her stump is clean again. The doctor goes to explain what he’s doing next, but Stell just  waves him off, not caring to know, “Tell me when you’re done,” She says, then chimes in to the current story of when her brother tried to go a whole month without eating fish.

He unbandages her wrist and takes the brace off the other, looking over each gently. Stell fights the urge to shove him away when the pain sharpens. Telling herself it’ll all be over soon. He looks at cuts as Ebb recalls the times he’s spoken to Mags, which surprises Stell because she doesn’t think that ever happened. The doctor examines the bruises, tests her mobility. Then, as the very last thing, brings out the equipment Stell’s been dreading.

“Now this is-“

“I know what an ultrasound is.” Stell snaps at the doctor, refusing to look down at her now exposed stomach. “Just, get on with it.” She grinds her teeth together, ignoring the look that the doctor gives Ebb, who has since taken a seat in the chair by the doorway. The gel he spreads on her stomach is cold, but she doesn’t make a sound at all, instead she vaguely recalls the cramping, the pain, the fluid leaking from between her legs.

When she feels him press the transductor to her skin, she closes her eyes once more. Stell remembers the sounds of her own body from the last ultrasound in the Capital. The gurgling of her stomach, the movement of her own internal fluids. She hears them all again now, echoing through the silent room. Another set of footsteps approach the room, and her eyes fly open, not trusting anyone to come near without knowing who it is.

Syrus stands beside Ebb, arms crossed over his chest. He nods at her but doesn’t say a word as the doctor moves the transductor to a different spot on her stomach.

No new sounds join the ones already filling the room.

Doomed from the start. That’s what Stell tells herself hours later, when she wishes she was alone, but unfortunately isn’t. Riptide snores away from the chair in the corner, his head tipped back against the wall, jaw hung open. They didn’t want to leave her alone, not after finding out that she had lost the baby.

Her heart clenches just a little, tears pricking at the back of her eyes that she’s refused to let fall. She knew when she hit that floor what she’d done, she knew the risks. It was a miracle that he’d survived the Games in her womb, a miracle she’d survived her imprisonment. Stell had stopped expecting happy endings for herself a long time ago, part of her always expected to lose him, one way or another.

Fingertips running gently up and down her belly, she tells herself that she wouldn’t have been a good mother anyways. She was ruthless and cruel and unstable. Her own mind played tricks on her during simple tasks and she didn’t even know what she was supposed to do with her life if the revolution was successful.

And yet…

The lump in her throat threatens to overwhelm her. She pictures a little boy running through the sand dunes and down the docks, skipping down the sidewalk with Mags’s hand in his, wading into the shallows to look for fish. She thinks of the boy standing beside Finnick, knee deep in water with a spear in hand, learning the art of patience and precision.

He would’ve been a great father. She knows that doesn’t even need to think about it. What he’s done to her in the past wouldn’t matter, she wouldn’t keep a child from him. Perhaps, it would’ve been their way to reconciliation.

None of that mattered now. Her child was dead, another human lost to the Capitol. Stell looks up, staring at the far wall of the room. She wants to get up and wander the halls, but her prosthetic couldn’t be reattached. So instead, she’s left with her thoughts, and she decides that for one night, just this one, she’ll let herself mourn.

Besides, she has a revolution to lead in the morning.

Chapter Text

It took three days to come up with a device for Stell to be able to walk on her own, two more days for her to be cleared to walk unsupervised, and three additional days after that until they let her leave the confines of the Square. She’d attended multiple meetings, been given more food than socially acceptable, and given not one but two speeches on her undying thanks to the people of her District for fighting against the Capital and believing in their cause for a better Panem. Being in the spotlight again had come naturally for her, as always, even with her battered body and a tremor in her hands that never quite seemed to go away completely.

Her childhood friends were nearly always at her side, though she always noticed those select few who were missing. At the present moment, none of them had been available and despite her protests that she was perfectly capable of making this journey alone, leadership disagreed.

“Doesn’t that thing hurt?” Rowan asks, nodding down to what’s essentially a wooden stick attached to her left thigh. He’s slowed his steps down in order to walk beside her, each step bringing them closer and closer to Victor’s Village.

Stell glances over at the man, suspenders on as always, and shrugs her shoulders as she awkwardly walks along, “It doesn’t hurt in the typical sense, but my hip gets sore since I have to move my whole leg from there. The normal prosthetic gives me a knee and ankle joint, this,” She picks her leg up higher on the next step forward for emphasis, “doesn’t.” He hums back at her, and she makes a shooing motion with her right hand, “Feel free to leave at any time. I’ll tell Rip you accompanied me.”

One side of Rowan’s mouth lifts, “Oh no, I’m not getting in trouble today. I fell for that last week.”

Stell snorts, “It was fine.”

“It was fine?” Rowan parrots, eyebrows rising, “No, no.” He waves a hand at her, “I got scolded like I was a child for about twenty minutes about how you could’ve fallen out of bed and injured yourself.” Stell rolls her eyes, she’d convinced Rowan last week that she didn’t need someone to watch over her as she slept. Of course, she’d woken up the entire place screaming, trapped in a nightmare around three o’clock in the morning.

It wasn’t the first time it’d happened either. Her first night back she’d relived her days chained to that wall, though in her nightmare Klaus was there too, cursing her for leaving him to die. The next night Marcus had made an appearance, laughing at her as peacekeepers beat her beyond recognition. After that she’d been back in the Quell, not running fast enough to get away from the beast.

So, in short, they were worse than before. And it didn’t always get better when she was awake. Anytime the door to a room opened she was hyperaware. Anytime someone moved quickly, anytime someone was within three feet of her.

Going to sleep wasn’t something she looked forward to either, and neither was taking a shower. She’d only taken two in the past eight days, both of which she had to force herself to stand under the water long enough to wash the shampoo and conditioner from her hair. Every fiber of her being screaming at her to move, to run, that the spray was about to make her feel as though her skin was being burnt off.  And being left without her prosthetic on? She could feel the panic bashing at the edges of her brain when she tried to do so, even when she just took it off for a little while. The days without anything had been near unbearable.

“I was fine.” Stell thinks back to how she’d shoved the nurse away as she tried to reassure Stell she was alright after she’d woken up that night Rowan left her alone. Even with only one good arm, the woman had still slammed into the wall behind her

“I had to pick up three extra watch shifts on the eastern border.”

Stell shakes her head, her pace picking up slightly as the arch to Victor’s Village comes into view, “Well, once I move back home no one’s staying over at night. I’ve had nightmares for years, I manage.”

Rowan rolls his eyes, “Clearly.” They walk a few steps in silence, “I want to see a Victor’s house though.”

Sweat starts to form on Stell’s brow, her body not used to this much physical exertion, “You’ve never been in one?”

“Nope,” Rowan replies, his head tilting back as they come to the entrance of the village. She can’t quite read the expression on his face as he reads the sign, then tilts his head back down to look at the fountain and large homes that line the brick laden row. Other than taller weeds and overgrown lawns, the Village looks unaffected by the war, “They’ve left every Victor’s Village untouched,” he tells the Victor at his side, her head turning to look at him as he smiles sadly, “Even the one in Twelve.”

The two of them were…near cordial now. Without the threat of another Hunger Games looming over her head and the presence of kind-hearted people, Stell was gradually letting go of her Capital persona once more. And she’d found that Rowan, while snarky and quick-witted, wasn’t actually the worst person to be around. Due to those facts, she was beginning to speak more freely when around him.

Stell clenches her teeth together for a second, then takes a deep breath through her nose, “Well, they tried to kill us all off, so they didn’t leave them for our sake.” Rowan follows dutifully as she begins the long walk down the single street.

They pass Mags’s house first, longing shooting through the young woman’s chest at the sight of Mags’s garden overgrown with weeds. She’d need to fix it before she returned, dig up the roots of the weeds before winter set in. It was already getting colder at night and soon what plants that did manage to emerge without any human coaxing would perish. She just needed to get the brace off her left hand before that could happen.

Amos’s is next, Stell’s wooden pegleg echoing a dull thud amongst the tall buildings as the two keep walking. She points out who lives where, her throat tightening as she points to Klaus’s house, and then Favian’s. “I’ll need to…” Collect his things. Go through his closets, clean out his belongings. The task is daunting.

“You don’t have to do it alone.” She looks over at Rowan at his words, the older boy still looking at the house as well.

“He used to have everyone over once a week for cards,” She can still remember seeing their shapes through the windows, all seated around Favian’s kitchen table. She thinks back to Finnick’s birthday, hearing them all singing loudly, the offkey tones filling the Village.

They keep moving, and Finnick’s house is next and wordlessly she turns to it, making her way towards his front steps. She’s aware of Rowan stopping, staying at the bottom of them to give her some privacy as she pushes on the front door, it swings open, still unlocked from when he left for the Reaping.

Stell’s steps stagger for a moment at the alien feeling that overcomes her. It’s just as he left it, the same as when she came down the stairs from his bedroom that morning months ago. The blanket she’d folded the night before Reaping Day still lays along the back of his living room couch; wine glasses that she’d asked him to put away before coming to bed still sit on the coffee table. The pictures still line the walls.

She approaches them slowly, her thud of a footfall flat throughout the empty mansion. Her throat grows tighter as she gazes upon a photo of Finnick, Klaus and Favian. The men all have their arms around one another’s shoulders as they smile at whoever holds the camera. She looks past the photo for a moment, focusing on the bit of her reflection that shows in the glass portion of the frame. The long scar that runs down the side of her face, the bags under her eyes, the slightness of her frame.

Stell swallows past the lump in her throat, looking at another picture then another. Annie and Favian, then Mags and Finnick, Amos and Haymitch and Chaff. A tear leaks out the corner of her right eye and she turns away from the wall, longing filling her entire being as she heads towards the kitchen.

Her heart hits the floor as she leans against the doorframe, her eyes trained on the spot by the counter where she always worked when cooking dinner. She can practically see herself there, Finnick’s arms wrapped around her body, holding her from behind as she deftly chopped up carrots and celery.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” He’d teased her, his breath warm against the shell of her ear, “please be careful.” Stell remembers chuckling at that before spinning the blade around her wrist. Finnick had shaken his head before kissing her cheek swiftly and adding, “That knife is so big.” He’d squeezed her hips where his hands had lay as well, getting a smile to spread across her face.

She was so naïve then, not being able to see how in love they were. Not knowing what he’d done. Nothing else had mattered, not in the little moments at home. There was no one to show off too, no one to convince, no revolution to plan. It was just them.

And now she was alone. Stell bites her bottom lip, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand as they sting with tears she refuses to let fall. She looks at the table where Finnick had stayed by her side after she’d been shot, back to the living room where he’d spun her around, dancing to no music at all just to make her laugh.

“You are everything to me, do you understand that?” She hears his words again, “I love you”

Stell misses him. In that moment she doesn’t think about the deal he made with Snow, or the insults they hurled at one another for years, or the remarks he made about her behind closed doors. No, in that moment, standing in the middle of Finnick’s house, she just misses him. His smiles, his laughter, his hand holding hers.

She swallows past the lump in her throat before making her way forwards, headed straight for the pantry closet. Stell looks past the canned vegetables and long expired breads and reaches into the top left corner, grabbing the ‘emergency’ bottle of liquor that Finnick started keeping tucked away after running out of alcohol last spring.

It dawns on her that maybe they should’ve cleaned out their perishables in their last days here before the Games. It wasn’t something they ever thought about before, not even when they’d leave to go mentor. They could’ve given it away to someone else who’d need it.

Her lips turn down in a frown at a particularly moldy loaf of bread before she exits the pantry, dutifully ignoring her space by the kitchen counter and tucking the bottle under her left elbow. Coming into his house was a bad idea, a terrible one. Stell closes her eyes, shaking her head once as though she can toss the feelings away with the physical motion. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, to calm her heart down, but it’s just the lingering scent of him that her brain picks up on. Her grip on the liquor bottle tightens.

He sold you. He sold you. He sold you. It’s her mantra that makes the tears disappear and it possible for her to turn back to the front door. Rowan stands there now, his eyes drifting over the photographs, “You know,” he starts, his voice gentle and sincere, “I’ve had a lot of friends killed in this war. But being rounded up and executed like they’ve done to yours?” The Victors. He shakes his head, “I can’t even imagine,” his gaze finds hers, “I’m so sorry that’s happened.”

The Purge. She’s heard what the rebels have been calling it. Over twenty Victors had been executed during it. When Stell was asked what she thought of it…she didn’t know what to say. She’d been pinned against her friends, watched those closest to her die at the hands of others she had sworn to protect. And just to have those that had escaped the Reaping executed. Even now, her brain just went numb. Maybe in a few months, or a few years, she’d know what to say, but for now the whole scenario was catastrophic, heartbreaking, and filled her with a sorrow Stell hadn’t felt in a very long time.

Stell nods now, not trusting her voice in that moment, and slowly walks towards him. After a few beats of silence, she inclines her head towards the doorway, “Come on,” She coughs once, clearing her throat, “I’ll give you a tour of my house.” She grabs the bottle by its neck with her right hand once they’re out the front door. Rowan keeps a hand close by as she makes her way awkwardly down the front steps and continues down the row. She waves the heel of the wine bottle towards the next homes on either side of them, “Those one’s are empty.”

He nods, glancing inside the darkened homes to just see bare walls, and then she goes up another set of steps in front of the last house on the right. They can hear the waves of the nearby beach, and Stell isn’t surprised that her own home is still unlocked as well.

“Home sweet home,” Stell mumbles as they cross the threshold, flipping on the living and entry room lights with her index finger as they pass a set of switches on the wall. “All the homes in Victor’s Village have the same layout, no matter what District.” She explains, glancing down at the tile floor, thinking back to when she found her parents butchered. Her lips tick downwards, her fingers itching to find the corkscrew for her newly claimed alcohol.

Finnick could’ve warned you, her mind whispers, you were already sold when you refused Snow. Her parents. Would they have lived longer if she’d agreed right away? Did it even matter now?

“Are you allowed to paint the walls?” Stell throws Rowan a puzzled look as his question snaps her out of her reverie, “So it’s different.” He explains, misreading her expression.

“I,” Stell opens and closes her mouth once as she thinks, “I think so? Never asked.” She keeps going, into her own kitchen.

Rowan, it seems, has made another astute observation, “How come you’re the only one all the way down here?”

She opens the drawer on the far left, just past the sink, “Because,” She grabs the corkscrew and sets the bottle on the countertop, holding it in place between the crook of her left elbow and her torso, and begins turning the screw down into the cork, “I don’t play well with others.” Her sentence is enunciated by loud pop of the cork coming free from the bottle. She turns on her heel and leans back against the counter, taking a swig straight from the bottle. Her eyes close as she lets out a low hum of appreciation.

Rowan snorts, “So I’ve heard.” His footsteps aren’t light against her floor and, dare she say it, she thinks she may walk quieter than him with a proper prosthetic. Her mind tracks him, knowing where he is at all times. He walks beside her counters slowly, on top of which she keeps the larger wooden bowls that don’t fit in any of her cupboards. She listens to him open the pantry door, inspecting the insides before closing it once more. Slow steps take him to her kitchen table, on top of which still sits the papers on which Amos wrote down strategies for the Quell, highlighting key Victors he thought were likely to be reaped or volunteer.

Pros and cons of alliances, angles in which to play to sponsors, names of Capital citizens they knew would jump to support District Four once more. The papers crinkle as he looks through them all. Stell opens her eyes, taking another sip as she watches Rowan shake his head, “You were always going back,” he sounds horrified by it.

The papers have a mix of names for the boys. Amos, Favian, Finnick, Klaus, all four men are hypothesized on going into the Quell based on the rough plans. But the one alongside them is always the same. It’s always Stell.

Stell just shrugs, using her lower back to push off the counter before walking towards the blonde man, “So was Katniss.” She pulls out one of her chairs, lowering herself into it, “Finnick always was too,” One shoulder lifts, then falls, “we pretended like he wasn’t, but Snow wasn’t just punishing Katniss.”

Rowan’s eyes still scan their pre-Reaping workout plan as he speaks, “You think the Reaping was fixed?”

“I know it was. Fuck, my first Reaping was fixed.”

That makes him look up, his emerald eyes clashing with sapphire, “How do you know that?” Stell just raises her eyebrows at him, the scarred portion of her face stretching slightly at the movement, “Oh.” She can tell he’s thinking about what Finnick told the entire country by the way he no longer meets her gaze. “Someone admitted that to you?” Stell narrows her eyes at him. She may be warming up to him, but she definitely wasn’t going to discuss anything that personal with him.

He still looks down at the table, "Look at me.” There’s a bite to her words, a command behind them that the man from Seven follows like the good solider he’s become in the past three months, “You don’t get to pity us, do you understand?” His mouth opens but she cuts him off, sitting up straighter in her chair, “It’s a simple question.”

“Yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I understand.”

Rowan’s staring out the window, watching the sun start its descent in the sky, listening to Stell talk about all the ways she wants President Snow to suffer once he’s captured. Rowan himself threw in a few ideas over the past several minutes, and he believes he’s gained some favor with the Victor because of it. Though now, he’s just focused on getting her back before Riptide or Ebb come looking for them, “We should probably head back soon.”

Stell frowns but swings her legs back over her couch from where she had them before, “I’ll put this away.” She says, snatching up the liquor bottle before standing and heading towards the kitchen. Her body sways slightly, head swimming from the alcohol, but she stays on her feet, Rowan’s eyes watching her carefully as she disappears into the kitchen.

He stands as well, heading towards the bathroom that he’s used twice now since their arrival earlier today. Stell already called him out earlier on being nervous alone with her, claiming she’s never seen anyone drink so much water before. He wanted to call her out in turn on the new red streaks on her fingers, but he bit his tongue.

 He only closes the door halfway as he does his business quickly, jumping slightly at a loud crashing sound, “Stellar?” he calls out, his voice traveling through the house. Rowan zips up his pants and pulls his suspenders back over his shoulders, calling out for her again a little louder as he flushes the toilet and closes the lid, “Everything okay?”

“Get away from me!” He breaks into a run, his shoulder slamming into a corner of the wall as he races to the kitchen, reaching for the dagger that’s kept in the side of his boot. “No!”

“Stell!” Rowan palms the dagger in his hand, prepared to throw it at the intruder as he bursts into the kitchen.

But no one’s there.

He looks to Stell, who stands, visibly horrified, staring at the far corner of the room. Her whole-body shakes, her eyes unfocused and he flinches as she suddenly throws up her arms, as though to bloke someone from striking her head and she lets out a piercing scream.

The dagger clatters to the floor and he glances over at one of the kitchen chairs that’s fallen onto its side. Stell’s head suddenly snaps to the side, “We couldn’t tell them anything!” She cries, “You know that! We couldn’t!”

Rowan takes a few steps towards her, but she doesn’t look over, she keeps staring at nothing, tears now streaming down her face. “Stell!” He shouts her name, and she flinches as though he’s struck her. A few more steps, he sees blood on the right side of her face. A quick glance to the floor shows a skid mark. She lets out another cry, falling to her knees on the tile floor.

Did she trip on the chair?

“Stell?” He tries again, soft this time, reaching a hand out slowly. “Stell, it’s Rowan, can you look at me?”

“I didn’t want you to die.” Her voice breaks on the last word, her hands buried in her hair.

“Look at me, Stell, it’s Rowan.” Her eyes snap to his. They’re unfocused, but at least on him now. “That’s it, I need you to calm down.”

“They shot him!” She cries, dragging a hand from her head and pointing to the right, to the far corner of her kitchen, “Can’t you see!?”

Rowan shakes his head, glancing between Stell and the empty corner of the kitchen, “No, Stellar, I-“

“SHUT UP!” She screams towards the corner, “I’m sorry! Okay? Just-“ She starts to scramble to get up, the end of her wooden prosthetic sliding again and again.

“Stell, come on, don’t.” She gets her other foot planted, then goes too quickly again to rise. Rowan rushes two steps forwards, catching her before her body can slam into the ground again. She claws at him, and he wraps his arms around her, locking her limbs to her sides as she struggles against his hold. “Shhhh,” He shushes her, tightening his grip as she tries harder to free herself, “Just give up.” He can feel his own heart beating against his chest. The sounds of her cries still ringing in his ears.

Rowan had seen Blight have a few moments around District Seven. Times when the Victor would just stand, his hands shaking. But Blight just closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths, then continued on his way. It wasn’t anything like…this. He rubs a hand up and down her arm, humming gently in her ear.

And gradually, she slows down, her body relaxes against his own. Rowan lets out a breath, taking a step back and untangles his arms from around her. He helps her into a chair, her eyes clearer but still jumping from one spot to the next. “Hey?” He asks her, “Can you say something?” She just blinks back at him.

He makes himself useful, picking up the chair that had fallen then checking in on her again, still he doesn’t get any acknowledgement. Boot clad feet make their way to the refrigerator, where he opens the freezer and thanks any higher power that there’re ice cubes there. He wraps a few in a towel and returns to Stell’s side, holding the ice up to where the blood flows lightly from her hairline.

He lets his eyes close, his own heartrate still slightly accelerated, as he holds the ice there. Her expression, her screams, they replay in his own mind again and again. The feeling that he handled it all so poorly sits heavy on his chest, until Stell’s voice breaks the silence, “Rowan?” His eyes open, eyebrows raising in question, “What happened?”

Chapter Text

The sound of rapid gunfire is now familiar in Finnick’s ears. He holds his weapon steady, aimed straight ahead at a target that sits thirty yards away at the end of the firing range. He takes a steadying breath, struggling to clear his own mind of any thoughts other than the target before him.

The gun jolts back into his shoulder as he presses down on the trigger, Finnick keeping his own body firm to counteract the movement. His eyebrows furrow as holes appear just above the bullseye, the sight clear thanks to the small monitor that sits by his right foot, showing him his accuracy in live time. Close, but not good enough.

He glances down the range, his eyes easily finding Johanna and Katniss, both women practicing reassembling their weapons. Even though Katniss had already been sent into unofficial combat, this training was required of her as well.

They were going to the Capital.

Two long, hard weeks of work had already been put in. Sunup to sundown Finnick trained, his body easily remembering how to be pushed to its limits. His mind, however, was usually just fixated on one thing: Stell.

She was safe, he always reminded himself, she was in Four. She’d spoken to Peeta twice since being rescued as well…but not him. Not Mags, not Amos. And no one else from District Four was giving them direct reasons either, Boggs just always shook his head. ‘She’s busy’. Always the same answer.

Of course, he’d demanded mulitple times to be moved that first week but once it became clear he’d be continuously denied for reasons he wasn’t made privy too, he started asking for something different.

He wanted to fight. Really fight. He needed to distract himself, a goal to pull himself back together after the devastating news that Stell had lost the baby. So now here he was, only days away from his turn on The Block. The training was really the only thing holding him together these days. He’d thrown himself into it, just like he had before the Quell. This near manic drive, he supposed, was better than the shell he’d slipped into being just following their escape from the arena.

Sea green eyes flicker over the other soldiers currently using the firing range. Finnick’s aware of their eyes on him as well from time to time. It was common though, for the Victors to receive more attention. He’d noticed a difference in the general population of Thirteen towards him and the other Victors since they started training like everyone else. More smiles and nods directed his way. As if people were surprised that they had a work ethic.

They had no idea what the Victors were capable of.

He lets out a sigh, running a now near-pale hand through his hair, tousling it further. All Thirteen soldiers had regulations they had to follow for their hair; except for the Victors. Command wanted them recognizable to the public. Finnick thought they just wanted them to be an easier target for the Capital once they arrived.

It was something he’d talked about with Amos. Now that all the Victors were rescued, the best way for them to bolster the war effort further would be to die. Make a martyr out of them. His eyes slide over to Katniss at the thought, he was especially worried for her.

The brunette looks over, as though feeling his gaze on her, and sends a quick smile Finnick’s way. He nods once, one end of his mouth quirking upwards. He’d been so wrong about her.

So wrong in fact, that he’d taken to trying to talk to Peeta about her. He liked the boy anyways and was glad to be a friend to him. They ate their meals together, Peeta now allowed to be amongst Thirteen’s general population during meal times, and Finnick often visited him during reflection hour when he was supposed to be in his own unit. Peeta had begun to open up to Finnick about his time in the Capital, recently admitting that some memories were different than others, shiny almost.

“I can’t tell what’s real from what’s not.” He’d admitted, staring down at his clenched hands.

Finnick had shrugged, “Why don’t you just ask?” He’d suggested, following up with an encouraging, “That’s what Stell and Annie do.”

Peeta had smiled at that, admitting that he missed Finnick’s District partner very much.

“Soldier Odair!” Finnick looks over at the older soldier standing behind him, raising his eyebrows in question. The man tilts his head towards the doorway on the far wall, his arms staying crossed over his chest, “You’re wanted in Command.”

District Four – Seventeen Hours Earlier

Riptide’s eyes narrow at the doorway as Alexis enters the room alone, her expression carefully guarded, “Where’s Stell?” He points up to the clock on the wall, “You did tell her there was a meeting now? Didn’t you?”

Alexis and Stell had become quick friends, spending a lot of their free time together. And since Alexis had the afternoon off following her morning shift, Riptide knew the two would’ve just been together. The other woman slides into her usual seat beside Rowan, avoiding his curious gaze, and rests her ebony hands atop the table, “She’s resting.” Alexis’s jaw clenches for a moment, a flash of sorrow coursing through her eyes, “She had another episode. About an hour ago.”

“Fuck,” Riptide’s hand comes up to his face, the heels of his palms pressing into his eyes momentarily. “does she know it happened?”

Alexis nods, “Her unrest afterwards was clear, as was her exhaustion.”

“We have to help her.” Riptide’s worry is mirrored in his friend’s face, “That’s the third one in a week and a half.”

Riptide snaps back at him, “I know!” and then he takes a breath, “Sorry.” His hands fall flat on the table with a thud, “I’m sorry,” he looks up at Ebb, “Yes. We do, but no one knows what else to do beyond sedating her to keep it from happening and…” his sentence trails off. No one wants to do that to her, Stell would never allow it anyways. He’d spoken to a doctor in Thirteen over a week ago, after Rowan had quietly told him about the incident in her kitchen. The man had said there were drugs to help with these types of matters, but they were all in the Capital. He’d also explained how each person was different, some could be helped by talking about their past traumas, others would refuse. He told Riptide that they should figure out her triggers, what caused them.

But no one in District Four had been with Stell during the Games, they didn’t recognize the little things that could set her off. And stubbornly, Stell refused to speak about it. Not that he could blame her for that, what she’d been through? He didn’t even want to consider the possibilities.

The Victor in their care was struggling. And while Riptide had approved of removing the constant guard from her room, he still hadn’t allowed her to move back into her house in Victor’s Village. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to her while she was alone there, miles from everyone else. He also made someone sleep in the room directly beside hers here each night, so she could be woken up quickly once the nightmares came.

And they always came.

The room is silent for an entire minute before Geillis suddenly perks up, “I’ve got it!” The older woman is smiling, her teeth gleaming, “It’s simple, really.”

Riptide raises his eyebrows at Annie’s mother, “Care to share?”

The woman narrows her eyes at him, and Riptide raises his hands in defense, “We bring back the others.” Her smile grows, “Stell’s used to being around all of them, they’ve been with her for years.”  Riptide’s hand comes up to rest on his mouth as he thinks the idea over, “The girl needs normalcy, didn’t the doctor mention that would help her?” She states it more so the whole room can hear. She and Riptide had spoken about Stell in depth the other night, when they decided they couldn’t move her back into her home yet.

It's Ebb who brings up one flaw in her idea, “Finnick’s scheduled to be sent to the Capital next week.” All eyes snap to the young man, who shrugs, “pending he passes evaluation.”

“He is?” Riptide questions, “Is that what Thirteen said this morning?” District Thirteen had taken to sending out messages to each District every morning, giving updated plans that concerned each of them in turn. Ebb was in charge of recording them.

He nods, “He can’t go.” Annie’s mother’s voice is stern, “I don’t care how much he wants to, he can’t. Stell can’t lose anyone else – especially Finnick.”

“She doesn’t-“

“It doesn’t matter if she doesn’t want to see him,” Geillis protests, swallowing once, “he knows how to care for her.” There’s a pregnant pause throughout the room, “Our District has sacrificed enough as well.”

“Will Thirteen even consider that?” Rowan asks, “They don’t exactly take orders from us.” He tilts his head to one side, “Or suggestions.”  

Riptide leans back in his chair, hooking an elbow over the back of it, “They will. If we promise an appearance of all the District Four Victors together again, then they will.”

“You think you can get them to do that?”

“I think if we give them a false promise and they call us out, we just bring up how they left Stell behind.”  No one argues with Riptide’s thinking.

The meeting moves on to other topics after that. Discussing more actions to be taken after the war is officially over. The invasion of the Capital is due to commence in mere days, and the Capital forces outside of District Four were slowly being pulled out to go protect President Snow. At least, that’s where they assume they’re going.

Talk on how to structure government and elect officials are key topics. They discuss what jobs will need to be created in order to make the District self-sufficient, not having to rely on other Districts for food or technology.

Ebb turns to Rowan and Alexis as the conversations begin to wrap up, “Will you both stay?” He questions, “I’ve been thinking about what we’ll do with the other houses in Victor’s Village.”

Alexis inclines her head towards Ebb and then Riptide, “I’ve very much enjoyed my time here, I would like to stay. But I don’t think I have any need for a home that large.”

They look to Rowan, “Yeah,” He shrugs, “I was planning on staying,” He points a finger at Alexis, “I think we see who ends up in charge or who needs the homes the most though. If one’s open after that, I wouldn’t turn it down.”

Geillis looks slightly nervous as she asks, “The Victors will stay in their current homes?”

A deep chuckle emits from Riptide’s throat, “Yes, Geillis, you’ll still have your home.”

District Four - Thirty-Six Hours Later

The ocean was raging. Large swells curling and then crashing violently into the shore, white foam racing forwards to destroy everything in its path. Daring anything to get close enough so that it could be dragged out to sea. The sound was all encompassing, echoing through Stell’s bones and providing the perfect backdrop to her downtrodden disposition.

She sat near the dunes, just out of the ocean’s reach, icy tendrils passing over her bare toes on the particularly large waves and leaving gooseflesh in their wake. With each pass, her toes sink deeper into the wet sand. Her hands rested atop her stomach, her mind once again picturing auburn curls and sea-green eyes. She’d let the depression sweep over her this morning, like a heavy blanket being thrown over her head, making each move harder and harder as the day wore on.

It hadn’t been difficult to sneak away from her never-ending supply of guards during lunch hour. If she had to guess, they probably thought she was just going to the bathroom. They didn’t seem to know what to do with her anymore, certainly not how to handle her ever slipping mind.

Stell couldn’t feel it anymore. The beginning of it escaping from her mental grasp. One moment she was here, and the next she wasn’t. There was no hope in stopping herself from being transported back in time, from keeping the dead out of her reality.

And her baby was dead.

Another monstrous wave crashes into the shore, the sound rumbling through her thoughts, saltwater coating the top of her foot a minute later. She watches it recede quickly, the air around her nipping at her skin, even through the coat she dawns. The skies around her are filled with darkening clouds and though she knows rain is imminent, she can’t bring herself to care about heading back to her not-so-temporary home.

The beach felt like the right place to be, with the ocean mirroring what she felt on the inside. The anger at the injustice of it all, the helplessness, the need to drag someone out to sea, to make them pay for everything that’s happened to her these last three months.

Leaning forwards, Stell draws up her good leg, hugging it to her chest. The makeshift prosthetic sits unattached in the sand beside her, her mood too dampened for her to care about making a quick getaway. She rests her scarred cheek atop her knee and lets the tears silently roll down her face as she stares blankly down the beach.

“Isn’t she gorgeous?!” She can still recall Gloss’s voice, can still see his smiling face. And Cashmere’s. And Klaus. And Blight.

“They knew,” Stell whispers into the wind, moving so her chin is on her knee as she wipes at her tears. They knew the potential cost of what they were doing. The thought sobers her slightly, her tears slowing by a fraction.

Cold rain begins to fall from the sky above her, prompting Stell to let out a sigh, she knows she’ll get sick if she stays out in the rain too long. She reattaches her leg slowly, not bothering to wipe the tears off her cheeks as they mix with the raindrops from above.

It’s harder to walk in the sand with this prosthetic than her normal one, the balance not the same. But it’s only a short walk up the dunes, and then she’s back on flat stone walkways, her steps echoing around her.

Her teeth grit together as the heavens open above her minutes later, the rain falling in large droplets, quickly soaking through her jacket. Annie’s mother is going to be so mad at her when she finds out that Stell was out in the storm.

Stell quickens her pace, the wind now picking up as well, as though the whole world wants to blow her over. Shoulders hunched over and arms crossed over her chest in a futile effort to warm herself, Stell hurries along.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she thinks to herself, she knows better than to stay out long when the ocean waves get so big. Her teeth begin chattering as the town comes into view, the streets blissfully empty thanks to the weather. If I survive two Hunger Games just to die from a cold, Stell huffs out a chuckle at the thought. Her entire body is soaked, the brace on her left wrist holding in even more rainwater than her jacket.

Soon she’s surrounded by the familiar confines of the Square, her gaze fleeting as she glances at where the whipping post used to be, then back to the spot where she was shot less than a year ago. Her fingers trace the bullet scar through her soaked shirt.

Thud, thud, thud. Stell stops moving, eyebrows drawing together at the dim noise that penetrates the rain. Thud, thud.

Movement catches her eye, a familiar shape walking underneath the perimeter overhang towards the front door of the justice building.

“Mags.” The old woman’s name ghosts past Stell’s lips. And then she’s running, stumbling through the rain across the Square, her soaked jacket clinging to her body. “Mags!” Long grey hair whips around Mags’s head as her gaze snaps towards Stell, the old woman hobbling out into the rain instantly.

Stell doesn’t try and be careful, she engulfs the old woman into her arms, Mag’s frail arms wrapping around Stell in earnest. “You’re home, you’re home.” Stell buries her face into Mag’s shoulder, warm tears once again streaking down her cheeks, but for an entirely different reason.

They stay glued together for almost a minute before Stell pulls away, Mags’s hands finding the sides of Stell’s face as she holds her only a few feet away. Her thumbs stroke Stell’s cheekbones, a deep frown forming on Mags’s face as she takes in the scars, “It’s alright,” Stell assures her, “They don’t hurt anymore.”

Her old mentor shakes her head, “You’re alive.” Her words are strained and heavily accented, but Stell just nods, understanding perfectly.

“And so are you.” Her teeth chatter through the words.

Then there’s a strong voice from a few feet away, “Hey ladies!” Stell looks up, smiling wide at Amos, who now holds open the front door of the justice building, “You two better get out of the rain before you both get sick.”

Stell wraps her arm around Mags’s shoulders, smiling still as they move to stand under the overhang. A moment later Mags is pushing her towards Amos, the first Quell Victor wrapping her into his arms easily, “God I’m glad you didn’t die.” His words are low in her ear, making her snort.

“That makes two of us.”

Amos chuckles lowly, “I’m pretty sure there’s a lot more than two of us on that front.”

Stell shrugs, both of them pulling out of their embrace at the same time, and she can feel the depression that had held her so tightly all day slowly waning as she looks to the two of them, “When did you get here?” Stell’s arm wraps around Mags’s shoulders again as the old woman moves closer, Stell’s cheek resting atop her head easily, ignoring the chill that’s settling into her bones.

“About an hour ago,” Amos supplies, “finally let us all come home.” And by the way he says all, she knows Finnick’s back too.

Stell shoves the rearing feeling in her gut down, instead asking, “Where’s Annie?”

“Let’s get you inside,” Amos opens the door, holding it open as the girls duck under his arm to get inside, “And she’s with her mother.” His voice drops lower, “He’s getting debriefed.” Stell doesn’t acknowledge the information, instead asking if they’d eaten already.

“Where have you been!?” All three heads snap up at the accented voice that echoes down the hallway. Stell’s eyes widen, a look of outrage on Alexis’s face as she stalks closer, “And you’re soaked!” Alexis’s lips pull down into a frown.

“Mags, Amos, this is Alexis Finch. She’s from District Eleven.” Stell’s lips quirk upwards as she introduces them to her new friend, “Alexis, Mags and Amos. Victors of the Eleventh and Twenty-Fifth Hunger Games.”

No one shakes hands, instead Alexis lets out a huff as she looks at the other Victors, “Do you all not care about getting sick here?” She asks incredulously, “Gods you’re all wet. Come on.” She spins on her heel, waving a hand for them to follow and snipping at Stell over her shoulder, “We were going to have a leadership meeting upon their arrival, but we couldn’t find you.”

Stell holds an arm out to Mags, the old woman instantly looping her own arm through it before the three of them start down the hallway, Mags’s cane and Stell’s peg leg thumping in sync with one another. “Then let’s have it now.” Stell quips back at the woman in front of her, her spirits raised with the return of her fellow Victors.

“Riptide’s debriefing Finnick.”

“Isn’t the whole point to have us all speak together about what’s happening?” Stell questions, teeth still chattering as she turns to lead Mags and Amos down another portion of the hall, one that leads to the large drying room where she knows warm clothes will be waiting. Alexis nods, throwing Stell a look of obviously, over her shoulder. “Then let’s do it now, everyone’s nearby.”

Alexis pushes open the door to the drying room, warm air rushing out to meet all of them. She slips inside, grabbing a pair of linen trousers and a lavender sweater, “They are now.” Stell unloops her arm from Mags and holds her hands up defensively, then flips them over quickly to catch the clothes thrown her way in her right hand.

“Don’t you want more privacy with Finn-“

Stell snarls through Amos’s sentence, “No.” All eyes dart to her, the temporary flash of anger in her eyes clear for only a moment before she masks it, “I don’t.” She says, the calm forced. Mags places a hand on Stell’s soaking forearm, smiling sadly up at the girl.

“Well,” Alexis says, her own anger now gone in the light of Stell’s outburst, “Then I’ll go gather them all. Get changed,” She nods at Amos and Mags, “Meet us there with them in fifteen minutes.” Her features soften as she smiles, “I’m glad you’re both here.”

“Alexis,” Stell raises her eyebrows, “Have them come here, Mags doesn’t need to walk that far it’s already been a long day. We can meet in the dining room.” Alexis nods, her lips twitching upwards at the commanding aura in Stell’s voice.

“Good to meet you as well,” Amos answers Alexis, then claps Stell on the shoulder, the younger Victor flinching at the gesture, “I’ve got a present for you.”

Minutes later Stell’s smile is all teeth as she rocks upwards onto her toes, then back onto her heels. She goes down into a squat, holding it for a moment as Mags beams at her from across the room, “Better?” Amos asks, Stell’s wood prosthetic now lying atop the bed of the guest room they’ve all gathered in.

She feels as though a weight’s been lifted off her shoulders as she jogs a few steps across the room, “Much.”

“Beetee spent a few hours looking over Peeta’s once he heard you were down a leg. Said this is his thank you gift for keeping him alive in the arena.”

Stell lets out a breathy laugh, “It’s been…” she searches for the right word, “taxing, not having a proper one. I felt like I could never protect myself.” It’s the most vulnerable sentence she’s said since her rescue from the Capital.

Amos gives her a knowing look, “We’re here now,” He smirks, inclining his head towards Mags, “I don’t think she’s ever letting you out of her sight again.” Mags gives a stiff nod, warmth spreading through Stell’s chest at the gesture.

“We should go,” Stell tells them then, still rocking back and forth slightly, acutely aware of how the sweater hangs off her frame. She’d gained some weight back in the last couple weeks, but it would take months, maybe even a year, for her form to return to what it was. She starts towards the door, aware that they’re already late.

“Wait,” Mags’s soft voice catches Stell’s attention easily, “we heard,” she garbles the words past her lips then takes a breath, concentrating hard so her next words are clearer, “about the baby.”

A pang of grief shoots through Stell’s chest, fierce and strong. Her throat closes slightly, and she presses her lips together to hide their trembling. Once more, the flash of a little boy’s face fills her mind. A life of what could’ve been echoing in her heart.

She shoves it all down, burying it away and keeping the emotions from flashing through her eyes. She swallows, then bites down on her bottom lip as she nods, the urge to shut them both out rearing its head, “I’m fine.” Her tone suggests she’s anything but that. “We should go.” She repeats, inclining her head towards the hallway as she internally pulls herself together as much as she can.

Mags raises one of her hands and places it on the side of Stell’s cheek. Stell covers it with one of her own, gently pulling it away from her skin, “Stellar.”

“I’m fine.” She gives what she hopes is a reassuring squeeze with her fingers before letting go.

Her gaze looks at Amos as she walks past him, “We’ll talk later.” He informs her, smirking at the frown she throws him over her shoulder.

Their trio is near silent as they make their way through the mayor’s mansion, Stell’s fingertips scraping ceaselessly across her knuckles. She’s acutely aware of the brace still on her left wrist, desperately wishing she could move the joint freely the closer she gets to the dining room.

A pair of large, oak doors separate Stell from the room in which she’s only dined on two occasions. The first being her own Victory Tour, and the second on Annie’s. She pauses, pulling her shoulders back as she takes a deep breath. She can hear the voices muted on the other side, her heartbeat picking up erratically when she hears a deep, familiar chuckle. Amos moves ahead of her, grabbing the handle and opening one side for her.

The large oval-shaped table is surrounded by high backed chairs on all sides, and at present only half of them are occupied. Stell can practically feel her heartbeat against her chest as she enters, the conversation falling away.

Rowan sits in the chair closest to her, the tall man looking over his shoulder slightly as her party enters the room, she meets his eyes for a split second before his attention is drawn to the other side of the room by the high pitch screeching of a chair being promptly pushed back.

Stell’s breath catches in her throat as her eyes snap upwards towards the sound, every muscle taunt, every nerve primed and ready to fight at a moment’s notice.

Finnick stands at the other end of the table, his mouth agape as he stares at her, tears brimming in his sea-green eyes. His skin is a little paler, she notices that right away. But everything else is the same, she takes it all in in a matter of seconds.

His bronze hair tailored upwards in the front as always, the panes of his face, the curve of his jawline. The muscles along his shoulders, seen clearly through the button up shirt he wears. The lack of bags under his eyes, the absence of scars on his face, the steadiness of his hands. He’s unmoving, staring at her with an emotion flooding his eyes that she refuses to name, the intensity of it making her look away as emotions of opposing fields flood her veins.

Relief. Pain. Longing. Betrayal.

“Stell,” She hears him take a step away from his chair, the motion prompting her to move, but her limbs don’t cooperate with her brain’s demands, her knee buckling slightly. Her hand lands promptly on Rowan’s shoulder, his own coming up easily to cover hers, a surprisingly steady gesture.

She keeps it on him for a moment, hiding her blunder as she squeezes his shoulder once then moves quickly to the chair beside him, noticing that Finnick now stands frozen a few feet from his previously occupied spot at the table. Stell doesn’t say a word, she doesn’t even look at her District partner as he moves back to his seat, awkward tension coursing through the room as he sits back down, gaze fiercely on the woman who refuses to acknowledge him. Instead, she looks to Mags and Amos, who have both taken seats at the table, then to Ebb and Alexis, then Riptide, “Sorry we’re late.” She apologizes, her voice coming out far steadier than she was expecting, “What were you discussing?”

But she doesn’t really hear his answer, or what anyone else says as the now tension filled meeting continues. Stell looks at anyone but Finnick, and he never once looks away from her. The recordings President Snow played for her on repeat in the back of her mind, all his hostile words, his distasteful looks thrown her way. And the contract he signed.

Her fingers drum along the tabletop, her foot tapping an irregular rhythm out onto the floor. And after an agonizing thirty minutes Ebb finally announces, “I think that’s everything.”

Stell and Finnick stand up in near unison, Stell turning abruptly, striding out of the room. No one else moves as Finnick marches after her, not even saying goodbye to the rest of the group. “Stell!” Her name coming off his tongue echoes through the room and chases after her down the long hallway.

His voice slides over her, tingling up and down her spine as she places one foot in front of the other, “Stell, stop!” She huffs, tensing when she hears him move into a jog.

She spins around just as he reaches out for her, her teeth bared as she snarls at him, “Don’t touch me!” Her eyes sting as she narrows them at him, Finnick clenching his jaw so tight that the muscle twitches.

“You need to talk to me, love-“ He stops talking at the fury that’s evident on her face when he calls her love. And for a moment, she can’t mask it from him. The anger, the hurt, the betrayal. It ices his veins, “What happened?” His words come out in a whispered plea.

And then the emotions are gone, her wall thrown back up in front of him, “Stay away from me.” Stell takes a step back, thrashing when Finnick’s hand strikes forwards and grabs her wrist.

“You need to talk to me.” He demands it, stepping further into her space and holding her there.

She tries to yank backwards out of his grip, but he holds tight, “Let go!” she cries at him.

“No, Stell,” Finnick dodges her braced left fist as she throws a punch at his head, then catches the hand in his own, pulling her forwards so her face is only a few feet from his own. He takes in the now healed scar that Enobaria gave her, and a new one that’s barely visible on her forehead, “You’re my fiancé.”

She goes deathly still in his grasp. Fire rages in her eyes at his words. His fiancé. How could he possibly think that they were still engaged after all these weeks. How could he bring that up when she’d just been tortured and abused in the Capital for weeks while protecting their revolution.

Stell debates driving her knee up into his crotch, or stomping on his foot, or even headbutting him. But those pains won’t last as long as she’d like them too, and she’s too short to headbutt him. So instead, Stell draws her head back and spits right in Finnick Odair’s face.

The shock that crosses his features is truly satisfying as he sputters, letting go of her hands and wiping the substance off with the back of his hand, “We are not engaged.” She hurls the words at him, then turns and leaves him standing in the hall.

Chapter Text

He was home. Finnick still quite couldn’t believe in it the whirlwind of activity that had occurred over the past thirty-something hours. But being asked by President Coin if he wanted to forgo his trip to the Capital and return to District Four, his answer had been easy and instant: of course.

He’d packed his bags quickly, being sure to say his goodbyes to Katniss, Peeta, and Prim, promising the little girl for the third time that he’d teach her to swim after the revolution was won. She’d beamed up at him, throwing her skinny arms around his neck with infectious joy. Annie had been equally excited at the news of going home, eager to return to her parents. They’d had one last dinner with their newfound allies of District Twelve.

Haymitch and Amos scheming together in the corner on where to meet up for drinks in the coming months. Peeta giving Finnick an entire folder of letters and hand-drawn pictures to give to Stell. Boggs had even joined them, smiling as he clapped Finnick on the shoulder before they all took their leave to go to bed. “This never would’ve started without you,” the commander had said firmly when Finnick admitted he felt some guilt on leaving, “you all deserve long, happy lives.”

He'd barely slept that night, but when it finally claimed him, he’d dreamt of seeing Stell again. Of her smile, her laugh, the feeling of her tucked safely into his arms. He’d have her back in mere minutes.

Riptide’s currently filling Finnick in about how the District is trying to decide how to attract those of varying skillsets to District Four after the war’s over. Telling him the importance of starting new cattle farms and grain mills; things that had always been provided to them from other Districts in the past. The man had really found his footing in the war, a clear leader among the people as always, but he was more refined now, more diplomatic.

Rowan Porter, an immigrant from District Seven, cracks a joke about how the outlying Districts will be revolted to learn they eat some of their fish raw. Finnick chuckles, the sound coming from deep in his throat.

The main door to the grand room opens an instant later, the room falling silent as Amos’s head appears through the doorway, his hand holding it open.

Stell saunters into the room, just as she always did, her aura a commanding presence that demands everyone’s attention. She takes his breath away, and Finnick barely registers that he’s shooting up from his seat until his chair is almost toppling backwards behind him. He catches it with one hand, righting it quickly as his gaze meets hers for the first time since eleven o’clock on the third night of the Quarter Quell.

The long, gaping wound that’d run down the side of her face is now a dark scar. Her cheekbones stand out more than before, her sweater hanging off her too thin frame. Nearly-healed bruises line the left side of her face and he’s not sure he wants to know the extent of the rest beneath her clothing. There’s a darkened patch on the front of her sweater, where her still wet hair clings to the fabric. Tears well in Finnick’s eyes.

But she’s breathing, he tells himself, see her chest moving up and down. Her heart is beating. He closes his mouth, swallows once, then smiles, taking a step to make his way towards her. The sudden need to touch her near overpowering. “Stell,” Her name is sweet coming off his lips.

But she looks away as he takes a step, her hand coming to rest on Rowan’s shoulder. Finnick’s eyes narrow as the man places a gentle hand atop Stell’s, glancing up to give her a reassuring look. But it’s the softening of Rowan’s eyes that makes Finnick’s hackles rise. He watches as Stell keeps her hand there, squeezing once, a move that Rowan reciprocates before Stell slides it off him and takes the empty seat to his left.

Finnick stands there, stunned, as Stell looks at everyone but him. Mags and Amos quietly take their seats, shooting Finnick questioning looks as he keeps staring at Stell, keeps standing a few feet from his chair.

“Sorry we’re late,” Stell’s voice taunts him, so close yet feeling further away than ever, “What were you discussing?”

He wants to demand that she look at him. To storm over there and pull her from the room. Finnick’s eyes swing to Amos, who gives Finnick a minute shake of his head, then inclines it towards the still empty chair. His tongue darts out of his mouth, wetting his lips quickly before he swallows and retakes his seat.

Ebb has already filled Stell in on what they’d been discussing and has moved on to telling Amos and Mags about the rehousing process they’ve recently begun for the District’s citizens.

Finnick stares at Stell, look at me, he thinks at her, trying to will her to do so. But she never does. She glances at Rowan several times, Finnick notes, the man from District Seven always quick to offer an uptick of his mouth whenever she meets his gaze.

Finnick doesn’t look away from her. He notes every move and every shift. She keeps all emotion locked out of her eyes, and when she starts drumming her fingers on the table surface, he doesn’t have to strain his eyes to see the fresh red marks along her knuckles. But no one else shows open concern for her physical state. No one else stares at the bruising, or the red marks down her knuckles, or her pronounced cheekbones. And it’s a sickening thought to Finnick that she must look much better than when she arrived weeks ago.

Once the meeting’s announced over and she bolts up from her seat, he follows right on her heels. No one else in the room so much as breathes as Finnick rounds the table, “Stell!” His voice carries thorough the room and after her down the hall. He watches her retreating back, her long auburn hair, half dried, barely moving with each step.

Finnick lengthens his stride, closing the distance as he calls out again, “Stell, stop!” She picks up her pace, forcing him to jog.

He stretches out his arm once she’s close enough, about to touch her when she whirls around, her voice menacing as she snarls, “Don’t touch me!” He clenches his jaw so hard a muscle twitches as his eyes bore into hers, his heart lurching slightly when he sees the tears there.

What the hell was going on? “You need to talk to me, love –“ He stops, fury overtaking her facial features so strikingly fast at the endearment he’s been using for over a year. And then it’s all there. Anger. Hurt. Betrayal. Finnick’s expression falls, the hairs on the back of his neck standing up and a gaping hole opening in his chest.

He searches for any shred of the Stell he knew before the Quell, or even in the arena. But she’s blocking him out, he barely recognizes her, “What happened?” It comes out in a whisper as his mind reels.

His words seem to trigger her defensives, and the wall is back, all those open emotions snatched right back, “Stay away from me.” She takes a step back and he grabs her, not knowing what will happen if she leaves right now.

Finnick’s voice goes hard, demanding, “You need to talk to me.” He steps closer to her, she has to see that it’s just him, nothing’s changed.

His lips quiver downwards as she feebly tries to yank out of his grasp. He only has to tighten it a little to keep her there, whereas a couple months ago she would’ve been able to get away. He’s ready for her fist when it comes for his head, catching it easily, “No, Stell,” He pulls her closer, forcing her to look up at him, trying to get her to see him. With her face closer, he can see she has more scars on her now.

He doesn’t want to ask how she got them.

He needs her to calm down…but what if she’s forgotten? What if Snow’s done something similar to her as he did to Peeta? Maybe this is all a misunderstanding that no one saw coming. He holds her hands tighter; she just needs a reminder, he takes one second, coaxing as much love into his voice as he can before he tells her, “You’re my fiancé.”

She goes rigid in his hands, her whole-body taunt as blue fire rages in her eyes. Nope, Finnick thinks frantically, not the right thing to say. He stands his ground, not giving an inch as he waits for her to say something.

Finnick’s eyes widen as a wet glob hits him just beside his nose, his features morphing into open-mouthed shock as it begins to drip down, and he realizes she’s just spit on him. His mouth opens to say something, but he just sputters for a moment, releasing her so he can wipe his face with the back of his hand. “We are not engaged.” She hurls the words at him, then turns and promptly leaves him in the hallway.

It takes all of three seconds for him to decide to run after her for a second time, when Amos’s calm words cut through, “I can count the number of times you two screaming at each other has ended well on one hand.” Finnick’s shoulders tense at his words, there’s amusement in Amos’s tone as he eyes Finnick’s still wet face, but it disappears in his next command, “Leave her be, Finnick.”

For a moment, the only sound around them in the rain pelting the windows from outside, then heavy footsteps are making their way down the hall.

They both turn as Rowan Porter strides past them, the older man raising his eyebrows when Finnick catches his forearm, “Where’re you going?” He snaps, mind still reeling.

Rowan points a finger down the hall, “To eat,”  he pauses, thinking for a moment before giving an inviting smile, “If you’d all like to join me, I can fill you in on what’s been going on with her. I doubt any of the food you all left at home is still good.”

Finnick’s hand falls away from his arm, gratitude building in his eyes as he glances at Mags and Amos before answering, “That would be great.”

Stell doesn’t try and lighten her steps the entire way back to her room. Anger and rising panic practically radiate off her in waves by the time she’s back, the door slamming open as she shoves an open palm into it before twisting her fingers into her hair. The room is darker than usual, with the dark clouds commanding the sky outside. She lets out a strangled sound, visibly flinching when she lowers her hands and sees Syrus seated on her bed, his dark eyebrows raised at her, “Fucking hell.” She swears, pursing her lips together before standing straighter, “You weren’t at the meeting.”

A boyish grin drawls across his lips and her eyes flicker to his hands as he answers, “No,” His response comes off flippant as he shrugs, “I figured it’d be tense enough without your former prison guard there.” He tosses up the small ball in his hands once more, his eyes tracking its ascent and descent before he catches it easily.

“That’s mine,” Stell points out. One of the doctors had given it to her after figuring out where the marks on her fingers were coming from. It was supposed to give her something else to do with her hands. She was supposed to carry it around with her.

Syrus ignores her and tosses it up again, “How was it?” He asks, the question making her tense up. He notices, even without fully looking at her, “That good, huh?” She bares her teeth at him, the move making him chuckle.

“Why are you here?”  He throws the ball up again, a smile playing on his lips.

“To see how you’re doing,” He answers, watching as her head turns towards the plate of food that sits on the table across the room, “and I brought that, since I figured you wouldn’t want to eat with Finnick there.”

Stell walks over to it, picking up the fork and pushing around the food that covers the plate, she stays standing as she pops a piece of fish into her mouth. “Were you nice to him?” She looks over at Syrus with just her eyes, wondering if he knew what Finnick had done.

He’d heard the recordings, she knew that much, they’d been played loud enough to be heard through the solid door to her prison room. Even with just that, she wondered if Syrus thought she was being harsh, refusing to see Finnick, not asking for him since her rescue, not even once. She puts another bite of food into her mouth, swallowing before telling him, “No,” He pauses his little game, brows rising, “I spit in his face.”

Syrus’s knees come off her bed as his whole body tilts when his head tilts back, he howls with laughter, Stell’s tension in her shoulders easing just a little at the sight of bringing happiness to someone else. “Shit,” Syrus manages to get the word past his lips, still catching his breath as he adds, “now I really wish I had gone.”

“Asshole.” Stell’s lips are still quirked upwards as she tosses the insult at him. Outside, the rain picks up, the sound of it on the roof above them now audible.

They both fall into companionable silence, Stell finishing her food quickly, her eyes darting towards the doorway each time someone walks past. His presence is…soothing. Having someone else to share the space with, to not be alone with her thoughts. With her feelings of…something…over seeing Finnick again. Of having him so close by. Syrus lets out a sigh as she leans against the wall, “This feels like the end,” He says, “with the rest of you back.”

She’s wondering where they all are now, “The end?” She parrots.

Syrus smiles as he clarifies, “Of the war.” He was right, she realized. Even though they’d discussed it for a few weeks now, the war really was ending. Soon, so soon, the Capital would fall, President Snow would be captured and put on trial. Panem would be free.

The Hunger Games would cease.

The thought stuns her, and Stell barely hears Syrus ask, “What will you do?” What would she do? At first, Stell can’t think of an answer. It’s always been about the Games, the last six years of her life. Surviving them, mentoring them, enduring them. She would be free: no more prostitution, no more deals.

Stell knows it won’t end right away though, “I’ll make some calls,” She decides on, thinking about all the information she’s kept locked up for years, all the things she’s been forced to do. She thinks about her dead friends, her family, her tributes, “and make sure everyone knows what they did to us.”

Syrus nods his head, “What about after?”

“I’m not sure,” Stell tells him, “I’ve never thought about it.” It was true. She didn’t know what she’d enjoy doing. Maybe she’d buy a boat, go out to that little island they’d pass on the old fishing route when she was a child. She’d always wondered what was on it, what kinds of fish lived in the shallows there. She tilts her head to the side, “What will you do?”

He smiles, “I’ll go home…to Two,” his eyes garner a faraway look, hope sparking there, “I want to fix the peacekeepers,” he explains, “make them honorable, once new laws are established. I think it’s time they live up to their title.”

Stell lets out a chuckle, “That would be nice.” They both sit in silence for a few minutes, thinking it all over. Stell imagines simple days, the freedom to travel wherever she’d like to, untapped phone lines and no more fearing for those she loves.

A new world. A new future to hold onto. Finally, Syrus speaks up again, “How’re Mags and Amos?”

“Amos is Amos,” she says, as though Syrus will know what that means, “Mags looks tired,” Stell pushes off the wall, her hands flexing once into fists as she looks off into space, softly admitting, “she looks old.”

“She is old.”

Syrus’s eyebrows jump as Stell cuts a glare his way, “You know what I mean.” She looks frail, she looks like she’s starting to wither away. “I don’t know if I just never saw it before, if I was too preoccupied with everything else.”

Stell looks to her friend as though he’ll hold the answer, but he simply says, “At least she’s home now.” He lets out a sigh before she can reply, and Stell watches as he swings his legs over the bedside and stands, “We need to get you a towel before you fall asleep with wet hair and wake up with a cold.”

His familiarity with her space shows as he strides for a closet and opens the third panel, as he’s grabbing one of the towels within, the main door opening more with a slight squeak. Stell’s already looking, a small smile forming on her face as Amos leans in the doorway. “You know that haircut really doesn’t suit you.” Stell teases as she accepts the towel from Syrus’s hand, eyes narrowed at the slightly grown out buzz-cut the older Victor now sports. “It makes the grey stand out more along the sides.”

“You know,” Amos teases back, “I almost forgot how nice you are.” Stell barks out a laugh and Amos jerks his chin to Syrus, “Who’s he?”

Syrus holds out a hand, and Stell and Amos exchange a look when they notice it’s shaking ever so slightly, “Syrus Bridges, sir.”

“Amos.” The older Victor grips the boy’s hand, tightening when Stell informs him of Syrus’s previous occupation as her guard.

Stell ruffles the towel through her wet hair as she adds, “He helped me get out.”

“I was going to ask why your head wasn’t on a spike.” Syrus can’t tell if Amos is joking or not, he lets out a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, I don’t support the Capital anymore.”

“Good.” Amos lets himself in the room, going to shut the door before Stell snaps at him to leave it open. He doesn’t miss a beat as he asks, “Why’d you join the peacekeepers?”

“Family tradition,” Syrus supplies, “A chance to see the other Districts too.”

“And what did you learn? By seeing other Districts?” Stell watches Syrus think about his answer as she dries the ends of her hair.

It takes a moment for Syrus to say, “That people everywhere aren’t that different, and the only ones really hurting others were from the Capital.” He eyes the two of them, Stell and Amos, “You’re different,” he motions between them, “the Victors,” Amos and Stell both grin, “that’s why Snow’s so afraid of you.”

“He should be,” Stell quips as she finishes with the towel, tossing it into the far corner, “we’re going to kill him.”

A few minutes later Syrus excuses himself for the night, leaving Amos and Stell alone together for the first time in months. Stell takes a seat on her bed as Amos looks over her room wordlessly. She knows what’s coming, the questions, the comments. And it’s odd, staring at someone she thought she’d never see again, but eventually, he does ask, “Have you seen Annie?”

“Not yet,” Stell says with a shake of her head, “I thought I’d give her the night to grieve for her father.” Thirteen had never been informed of the murder of Mr. Cresta. It was an unfortunate reveal to the party upon their arrival.

Amos hums his approval, “And give yourself some time?” He guesses.

“Yes.” To Annie, Stell was strong, Stell was unshakable. And after seeing Finnick? Seeing that look on his face as he stared at her?  She knew she couldn’t put up that front tonight for her own Victor and she didn’t want to disappoint her. “I never got to see her there,” she doesn’t look up as she asks, “how is she?”

Amos’s lips tighten, “She’s alright,” he supplies, “she didn’t lose much weight, but she told us about Favian.” Stell’s throat closes up, her eyes welling with tears so quickly that her head tilting downwards makes them roll down her cheeks even as she tries to stop them. Softly, Amos asks her, “Did you see him?”

The word comes out choked, “Yes.” She can still hear the gun going off, see his body slump to the floor. I should’ve died in my Games.

Amos sits gently on the side of her bed, placing a hand close to her own, close enough that she could take it, if she wished. He doesn’t shy away like everyone else, doesn’t run at the sight of her splintering, “What happened?” Stell swallows, “Take a breath,” Amos instructs her, his voice gentler than she’s ever heard it before. In the back of her mind, she does suppose she’s finally earned his kindness, “You saw him? In the prison?”

Is that what they’re calling it? She wonders. Their little cells. “Yes,” She answers, “Just…once.”

Amos stiffens, “You couldn’t see him where you were kept?” Stell shakes her head, reliving that small, closed space, the walls that allowed barely any sight at all, “Who could you see?”

“Peeta,” She answers, “But…” Her hand clenches to scratch at her knuckle, but Amos grabs it, threading their fingers together, it helps Stell continue, “just his hands or,” she struggles for words, “the wall allowed a few inches of space.”

The older Victor doesn’t know what to say, so he just squeezes her hand at that. He watches Stell’s eyes, looking for any signs of her slipping away from him, away from now. She continues on her own accord, knowing Amos deserves to know what happened to his own Victor, “They wanted information, so they brought Favian in and…beat him, in front of me. The man said he knew it would break me.” She tilts her head downwards, the lighting illuminating the extent of the bruising that still covers her face, “Then they shot him, in the head…it was,” She can hear Amos’s teeth grind together, “It was quick.”

Amos nods and Stell doesn’t look up to see the tears brimming in his eyes. There’s nothing else to say, she knows that and so does he. He’s about to ask her another question when thunder rumbles outside.

Stell tenses, every muscle locking her in place. “Stell?” Amos’s voice is low, his hand squeezing hers once more.

She swallows, her throat now dry as she listens to the rain. It’s just thunder, she tells herself, just thunder. Her mind remembers the blood rain she was caught in, how heavy and hot it felt landing on her skin.

“It’s a storm, Stell.” Amos lets go of her hand, grasping her forearm instead. The change causes her to look down at it, her eyes blinking rapidly. “You’re here.” He uses the same words that Finnick used to use, but they sound so different. Finnick’s was a gentle reminder, Amos’s are a command, “You’re here.”

Their darkened room is suddenly illuminated more with a flash of lightening outside, and Stell’s attention is briefly occupied by the sound of a male shout from far away in the house.

Finnick, she recognizes it as her own hands tremble. Amos stands from her bedside, striding over to the window before pulling down the shade, darkening the room even more. He fixes that easily as well, flipping the light switch by the door on his way back to her, “You still with me?” He asks Stell, though he glances out into the hall, “You’re not the only one who doesn’t like lightning storms anymore.” He explains. “Talk to me.”

Who had the wire? Stell couldn’t remember, Johanna had passed it to Katniss, but “Where’s Katniss?” she demands of the figure sitting beside her.

Confusion blooms on their face, “In Thirteen, she stayed behind to-“ He stops mid-sentence, his hands coming down on Stell’s shoulders as she goes to get up, “Stay here.”

“I need to find Katniss.” She had to get her tracker out.

There’s more pressure on her shoulders, “Look at me, Stell, it’s Amos.” Her eyes dart around the figure looming before her, a knee jerking upwards into his gut, but he barely flinches on impact. “Stellar, we’re home, we’re in Four.” His words make no sense, she wasn’t in Four, she was….Stell turns her head slowly.

A wall. A doorway. She was on a bed. It was, “It’s raining outside.” Amos tells her, putting words to what she was hearing, thunder rumbled around them, “Storming outside, in District Four.”

“Oh.” Stell swallows again, still looking to the door. Amos squeezing her arm, drawing her eyes to him, from down the hall, Finnick lets out another yell, the noise making Stell stiffen.

Amos just smiles sadly, an expression she’s never seen on his face before. Before she wasn’t even sure if he cared about them, he’d kept to himself most of the time. But as he tells her, “We’ll get through this,” and taps a finger on her forearm, “all of us.” She realizes he’s cared very much for a very long time. “I’ll get you back into your own house tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Riptide kept his head down as he made the trek home that night. Holding up the collar of his jacket to try and keep the driving rain from soaking down his neck, it wasn’t much help though. Really, he should’ve just slept on the sitting room couch, like he’d done countless times before in the past several months after having been too exhausted after meetings or battles to go back home. Either there or in the room beside Stell.

But tonight, he wanted to see his family. Hold his wife, kiss his niece and nephew. Desperately so.

They moved into a bigger house a month ago, after their old one near the docks had been burned down by peacekeepers during the outbreak of the revolution. He still felt odd wandering into this part of the District, the wealthy portion. But he was glad for it, knew it was the start of good change around here. He’d worked hard, fought harder. His family deserved the home the mayor had gifted him after learning its previous residents had been killed.

Riptide hoped they wouldn’t be offended that his family moved in.

Thunder rumbles around him, urging him faster, his boots holding a steady rhythm across the cobblestone streets. Within minutes the home is in view, the lights shining through the windows bring a smile to Rip’s face. He can see Ophelia’s silhouette on the couch, she’s holding a mug between her hands, eyes turned away from the window. Another light shines through one of the second-floor windows: Sideon’s room.

His house, where the children each had their own room. He couldn’t quite believe that either.

The front door is locked when he reaches it, and Riptide raps his knuckles against the weathered wood three times before shoving both hands deep into his jacket pockets. The sound of the lock turning is drowned out by another roll of thunder, “Rip!” Ophelia exclaims when she sees him there, “Gosh, come on, get inside!” She ushers him in quickly, closing the door behind him.

Riptide chuckles, turning and kissing her softly, “Sorry I’m back late.”

“You’re always back late these days,” She quips, then kisses him sweetly again, simply happy that he is home. She pulls away slowly, the two taking a moment to simply take the other in. Riptide will never tire of her soft features and chocolate colored hair. And certainly never tire of seeing the love that shines in her eyes when she looks at him.

Riptide takes off his coat, hanging it on one of the hooks mounted into the wall by their front door, and slips off his soaked boots, “It’s raining pretty hard out there.”

“Yes, I think the whole District’s noticed. Come on, are you hungry?”

He glances around the ground floor of their home, taking in the two couches in their sitting room. The pillows on them are askew, not unordinary in a place with young children, “No, no, I ate at the mayor’s.” He tells her, “Where’re the kids?”

As if on cue, a set of footsteps begin barreling down the stairs, “Uncle Rip!” A brunette haired boy launches himself at Riptide, the latter catching him easily.

“Hey, Sid.” He ruffles the boy’s hair, “How was your day?”

“Good! Naomi said that they may be starting school again soon!”

Ophelia lets out a breathy laugh, “Gods, I never thought I’d see a day where he’d be excited to go to school.”

“I miss my friends!” Sideon argues, “Some live on the other side of the District!” And Riptide hadn’t approved of open travel throughout yet. The guilt tugs at him a little bit. Soon, he reminds himself, he’d lift it soon.

“Speaking of that, I think it’d be a good time for a family meeting.” Riptide smiles slightly as Ophelia raises her eyebrows and Sideon goes still, “Go get your sister.” He tells the eleven-year-old.

Sideon nods, oddly quiet now. Riptide knows why though: their last meeting he’d told them of the war that was about to start. The war that he started here. After he’s gone back upstairs, Ophelia leans in and whispers, “Good or bad?”

“Good.” Rip smiles at her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders before moving into the sitting room. They’ve just taken a seat on the couch when Sideon appears again, his eight-year-old sister, Brianna, right behind him.

She smiles wide at her uncle, choosing to climb into his lap rather than sit on the couch opposite him beside her brother. “Some people came back to the District today.” Riptide tells them all, balancing the little girl on his knee. “And we had a big meeting at work with them all.”

“Finnick?” Ophelia says softly, something akin to wonder in her eyes. She’d been friends with him when she was a girl, before he’d gotten reaped into the Games. Riptide nods, and his wife smiles, “And Mags and Annie and Amos.”

“The scary old man?” Sideon asks quietly, his lips pursing together after.

Ophelia huffs, “Now, Sideon he’s not scary, he’s just…” She trails off.

“He’s a little scary.” Rip mock whispers, “Just don’t tell him that, okay?” Sideon nods. “But yes. All of our District’s Victors are back. And they told us that in this very moment,” He points down to floor to emphasize, “right now, there’re soldiers preparing to invade the Capital.”

“Really?!” Sideon beams, bouncing in place, “And you think we’ll win?”

Riptide looks to his wife, then back at each child before saying, hope in his voice, “I think we already have.”

Ophelia lets out a cry that’s part laugh and part sob, throwing her arms around Rip’s neck, “Oh, this is wonderful!”

Tears are welling in Riptide’s eyes as well, and they fall as Sideon asks gently, “So I won’t be in the Reaping next year?”

“No,” Riptide tells him, his smile widening so much his face hurts, “No more Reapings. No more Hunger Games.”

“Never again?” Brianna’s voice is small as well. The Quarter Quell will probably be the only Games she ever remembers as she grows up, and even then, she only saw bits and pieces of them.

Rip kisses the top of her head, “Never again.” He promises her. And as Sideon bounds over to embrace them all, he lets himself think about the future. One where he doesn’t have to wonder if one of the children will get reaped, where they won’t have to buy candles to light their small shack, where there won’t be whipping posts in the Square.

And every fight he’s gotten in, every hurtful word thrown at him, every innocent death…they all mean something now. They all made a difference, just like he always dreamed about.

His little family disengages from their embrace, and Riptide fills them in on other plans they discussed today. Finding teachers, checking the school’s condition, starting the year soon. He tells them about opening more shops, reopening the market once more, rebuilding, cleaning up.

He tells them about a better place, a better home.

The storm’s passed by the next morning and Stell, with a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, walks slowly next to Mags as they make their way towards Victor’s Village. Mags leans heavily on her cane but has a small smile on her face as she looks around at the District.

People are coming out in full force to help clean up the streets. Riptide had returned early this morning, with what looked like a renewed sense of purpose, sending out word for those who’ve survived to come check in at the Justice Building. He’d explained to her as she’d packed her meager belongings that he wanted to see what occupations would still be filled.

“We’ll need more teachers,” He told her, light dancing in his eyes, “And shopkeepers and farmers.” Stell had simply clapped him on the shoulder and promised to come help with cleanup in the next few days.

An older man straightens up from where he’s bent over, moving rubble to the side, as Mags and Stell pass by. He grins through the sweat beading on his face and offers them a friendly wave, “Welcome back!” He calls over.

Mags waves with her free hand, giving her own toothy smile, as Stell inclines her head, still not used to being greeted so warmly. Such a stark contrast from two years ago, when all she’d gotten were hateful whispers and cold glares.

Amos and Finnick had gone back to Victor’s Village earlier that morning, Amos had left word with Rowan, who had passed it on to Stell in the hallway as she made her way to breakfast. The man from District Seven would be by the Village later that day, he’d told her, to scout out the vacant homes.

It seemed he was fully intending to stay in District Four following the war.

For now, Stell simply enjoyed Mags’s presence, the steady thud, thud of her cane against the stone. “Are you sure you’ll be okay living by yourself?” Stell asks her now, glancing down at the older woman. She lets out a sharp yelp as Mags knocks the end of her cane into Stell’s shin, “Hey!”

Mags puts a hand on her own chest, “I’ll be just fine.” She insists, accent heavy as always. “You and Finn…” She shakes her head, “Worry too much.”

Stell huffs, “I’m not going to apologize for caring.” They walk a few steps in silence, “It’s a very rare thing for me to do,” she adds on, “You should feel honored.” Mags’s is laughing as she hits Stell in the shin again with her cane.

A weight settles onto her chest as she thinks of moving back home. On one hand, she was excited, it would be a relief. On the other hand, Finnick would be close by. He’d seek her out again, sooner rather than later, she wasn’t naïve about that. She could feel the anger in her heart simmering at just the thought of seeing him.

But Stell shoves it down as the archway comes into view, the massive fountain behind it peeking over the hill. Their homes had remained unscathed in the revolution, not one bullet even graced the exterior of any of the large homes. Stell glances down at Mags as they approach, “Welcome home, Mags.”

It’s a surreal moment, walking under the archway with Mags once more. Reading “Victor’s Village” and knowing that there will never be another one of them. Looking to Klause’s and Favian’s homes and knowing they’ll never shove open their windows again to shout at her as she walks by. Klause will never be hanging out at the bottom of her steps, a bottle hanging between two fingers. Favian’s singing would never echo off these walls again. She doesn’t realize she’s stopped walking till Mags is looking back at her.

The weeds are overgrown, most having shriveled and turned brown due to the sporadic cold nights, and the leaves that feel from the trees have all gone brown. Soon, very soon, the days would grow colder, and the nights would turn frigid. Fleetingly, Stell wonders if the people who used to come to clean their homes and keep the common areas of the Village weeded and raked of fallen leaves will resume their duties someday. Perhaps they perished as well.

And for a heartbeat, she regrets never learning any of their names.

“Stellar.”

Stell shakes her head, as though she can clear away the ghosts, “Coming.” She jogs the several feet that now separate her and Mags. “Sorry.” She apologizes, but Mags just takes her hand and gives it a squeeze. The old woman doesn’t let go, in fact, she near drags Stell to her house. Stell apologizes for not weeding her garden before her arrival, and the old woman just smiles.

Her silent cleaning question is half answered when Mags shoves a cloth into Stell’s hands only minutes after they cross the threshold, “Dust.” Mags tells her.

“What?” Mags makes a wiping motion with her hand, “I know what dusting is.” Stell retorts sharply, “Why do I have to do it?” She motions to the general house, “It’s your house.”

“Because,” Mags informs her as she hobbles over to her kitchen, “you care.” Stell snorts, muttering under her breath about old women taking advantage of her words, but she begins wiping down the surfaces of Mags’s living room.

It’s satisfying work, if only because there’s months’ worth of dust accumulated on every surface. And Stell tells herself she’s doing it because of Mags’s health and there’s no way breathing in this much dust would be good for her. She studies each photo that she wipes over or must lift up to dust beneath.

Photos of friends who’re now gone, who gave everything they could. Of ones who’ve worked so hard to see their world changed for the better. And thinking of it that way, Stell’s lips quirk upwards just a little bit as she looks at a much younger Klause. She runs the dust rag gently over the glass pane, then places the picture back down on the side table it occupied previously.

As is her nature, Stell doesn’t half-ass the job. She’s on her hands and knees, leaning forwards to reach the back of the lowest shelf of Mags’s bookshelf, when the front door opens. She goes to look up too quickly, the back of her head smashing into the shelf above her, “Fuck.” She seethes, carefully drawing back and placing a hand on the back of her head, where it now throbs even more, only adding to the near constant headache she’s had since arriving.

“Are you dusting?” Amos is standing in the living room doorway, amusement on his face as he takes in the rag in Stell’s hand the pile of books she’s stacked on the floor. Before she can reply he keeps going, “I’m glad she’s turned keeping you occupied into something of convenience for herself as well.”

It takes a few seconds for his words to sink in. She hadn’t even thought about it, what this really was. But Stell knew the trick well, they all did. Try to keep the new Victor busy once they return home, keep their thoughts away from what had happened to them. She’d done it with Annie, watched others do it to new Victors when they were mentoring for the first time. Mags had tried to do it for Stell after her first Games, but Finnick had shut her out, the District had shunned her, so she’d spiraled.

Tendrils of her hair fall into her face as she shakes her head incredulously, “That’s what this is?”

Amos smirks at her, then points to the shelf above the one she’s been working on, “You missed a spot.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“If it makes you feel better, I have Finnick raking the leaves from my yard.”

The grin that had been playing on her lips falls away at the mention of him, Amos studies her carefully, gauging her reaction. Stell wonders how long she’d be able to rake in her current condition before she’d get too tired and have to take a break. Looking down at her hands, thinking of the still-boney elbows she knows lie beneath her blouse, she knows the answer is a short amount of time. “Lucky him.” She quips, reaching for the first book of her stack and moving to put it back.

“What happened with you two?” Amos asks, his eyes narrowed. Stell can hear Mags cease moving in the kitchen, no doubt wanting to hear Stell’s answer.

Stell’s lips draw back slightly from her teeth, “That’s none of your business.” Her words are harsh.

Amos crosses his arms over his broad chest, “Look, we know losing the baby-“

Stell slams down the next book, rocking back so her knees are now off the floor, “Don’t bring up my baby.”

“You can’t just ignore it.”

“I never said I was.” Silence stretches between them, Amos looking down at Stell's hands that now rest on her flat belly.

“Is that why you’re so mad at Finnick though?”

“If I give you an answer, will you drop it?” He makes a face that she takes as ‘maybe’, and growls, “It’s not, now will you get out?”

Thankfully, the man knows when to stop pushing, “Fine,” She hears Mags go back to moving around her kitchen, “you’ll have to talk to him eventually though.”

Stell just lets out a huff and goes back to her dusting, wishing she’d thrown the book at Amos’s head instead of placing it back on the shelf.

It’s getting dark when Stell returns to her own house. Mags had found a box of pasta that hadn’t expired and a jar of sauce, so she’d taken to cooking for herself and Stell. When Stell had reached for the bottle of wine that she spotted on the top shelf, Mags had batted her hand away and insisted Stell didn’t need any of that. Not even one glass.

Other than that, the dinner had been nice. Stell and Mags had chatted the best they could about idle things. Stores that would hopefully reopen soon and new businesses they hoped to see migrate here.

Luckily, the old woman couldn’t control what Stell drank in her own home. The front door opens easily, once again left unlocked. After spending all day dusting Mags’s home, it’s an overwhelming feeling seeing her own home covered in it. She shivers slightly as she sheds her coat by the front door, hanging it up on the front hook and making a beeline from her stairs.

Her bedroom is as she left it, and it’s easy to locate a pair of warm loose pants and an oversized long-sleeved shirt. Sapphire eyes glance towards the shower for only a moment, then Stell turns on her sink, letting the water run as she makes do washing her hair in that instead. She gets water all over her tile floor when she has to walk from the sink to the shower to get shampoo and conditioner, but it’s better than having to endure the shower herself, especially when it looks so much like the one in the Capital.

Hair cleaned and dawning her comfy pajamas, she makes her way back downstairs to the kitchen, where she finds her alcohol supply…gone. “Are you kidding me?” Stell mutters, rummaging through her entire pantry. She even drags a chair over to stand on, looking in the back corner where she always has something.

Nothing.

Stell hops down from the chair, her metal foot making a distinct clank against the tiles, and strides for her front door. Sure enough, Rowan is right where she last saw him fifteen minutes earlier, in the house right across from hers. He still hasn’t closed the front door, and she shivers slightly as she pads across the stones and up his steps.

The walls are bare and immaculately clean given that no one’s ever occupied the residence before. And given the lack of furniture, Rowan’s footsteps echo down to her all the way from upstairs. Stell turns towards his kitchen, “Stell?” His voice calls down after she’s taken a few steps, but she continues on to her destination.

“Yes?”  She calls back, opening the first of two large burlap bags that sit on his kitchen counter. As far as she’s heard, there was only one small grocer open at the moment and based on the bag’s contents, he had a pretty good variety.

Rowan’s footsteps pass over her head as he makes his way down the hall, calling down to her, “What are you doing here?”

She digs down into the bag further as she calls back, “Nothing!” That’s not a good thing to say, she mentally slaps herself as she pauses, “I mean, I wanted to say hi!” She lets out a huff when no bottles are at the bottom of that bag.

Rowan’s footsteps begin to descend the stairs, “You wanted to say hi?!” Disbelief coats every word, “I’m not even sure if you like me.”

Stell’s already onto the next bag, grinning when she spies the neck of a wine bottle, “No, no, as my new neighbor, I thought-“

“Are you stealing my groceries?” Stell whips around, bottle in hand, to see Rowan leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, an amused smirk on his lips, and no shirt covering his chest.

Stell opens her mouth to respond, then closes it, Rowan raises his eyebrows and she finds her voice, “No, I’m not, I’m just….borrowing…would you like a glass?” She looks down at the label as she feels her cheeks redden, “This isn’t a very good one, by the way.”

Rowan hums, pushing off the wall and walking towards her, “Are those your pajamas?”

“Your front door was wide open. Hey!” She scowls as Rowan takes the bottle from her, turning to place it in a higher spot that she can’t reach.

“So,” He chuckles, “I’m guessing you noticed your own alcohol was gone.” She continues scowling at him, “You and Finnick are cut off. Amos rule not mine, and I’m not about to argue with the guy who got voted into a Quarter Quell and won.”

“Amos doesn’t get to decide that.”

Rowan turns to face her, leaning back and placing both heels of his palms on the counter, “Again, you can talk to him about that. I’m just following orders, as for the door, I burned my dinner earlier, so I was airing it out.” Stell’s eyes linger downwards, taking in the muscles of Rowan’s arms and chest. Once again, she realizes how attractive he is.

Her tongue darts out of her mouth, wetting her lips once and then she huffs, “Fine. Guess I’ll just go drink water then.”

Rowan gives her a toothy grin, “Sounds like a wonderful idea.” Emerald eyes trail down her, stopping at her bare feet, “Do you need to borrow shoes?”

Stell turns away from him, waving a hand dismissively over her shoulder, “No, no.” And then she’s headed back towards the door, Rowan following a few paces behind. “Go put a shirt on, would you?”

His laughter follows her outside, even as she closes the door behind her. For good measure, she glares in the direction of Amos’s house and ignores the lights that’re on in Finnick’s. Her breath forms little clouds in front of her as she makes her way back across the street and this time, when she enters her home, she notices a manilla folder sitting on her coffee table before the hearth.

Her name is written on the front, in big loopy writing that she doesn’t recognize. Curiosity wins out and it only takes a minute before she’s seating on the couch and opening the folder.

The pictures are as mesmerizing as they are horrifying.

Pencil sketches of little moments. Moments captured perfectly by who she knows must be Peeta, because the first one is of two hands resting beside each other, fingers reaching through metal bars at the bottom of a solid wall. The smaller hand littered with small scars along the knuckles, both covered in callouses. He’s somehow captured the desperation for human contact and the solace they were able to provide for one another.

Stell leans back into the couch cushions, gently setting aside the first picture and focusing fully on the second. It’s a view of her being led past Peeta’s cell window. He’s captured the majority of the door, and then there, through the window, being carried between two peacekeepers, is Stell’s limp form. Her hair matted with blood and hanging over her face, her foot drags along the floor. The next is their shared wall again, with Stell sitting beside it, her hand resting through the bars once more, ready to provide comfort if need be.

She goes on, small things only she would know. The wall where they chained her, shackles hanging open against the floor. She hadn’t known he’d seen it. The hallway between their cells. The laboratory like room that separated their holding area from Johanna’s.

And then he’s drawn the Quell. There’s Stell, standing in the water, her trident poised to strike a fish in the shallows. Behind her sits the cornucopia on its rock island, the jungle far beyond and the sun beating down on them all. Beetee sitting with his wire, Johanna with her knees tucked up to her chest beside him.

The last one makes her heart skip a beat. They’re both wearing their Quell uniforms, and Finnick sits on a rock near the edge of the jungle, Stell tucked perfectly into his side. His arm is around her shoulders, his chin resting atop her head that’s rested against his chest. They looked relaxed, the both of them, perfectly content despite their predicament. But the expression that Peeta’s captured on Finnick’s face, as his eyes are looking slightly down at Stell?

She refuses to name it. Refuses to look at it for a moment longer and tosses it aside quickly, only to reveal a letter.

Dear Stell,

I hope this finds you well. I’m not sure when we’ll get to talk again, but with everyone talking about the upcoming Capital invasion, I figured it may be a while. I'm doing alright. They still let me go down to the cafeteria for meals and Katniss is hesitant to let me sit with them all. Haymitch and Effie are welcoming at least, as are Prim and Delly. Prim wants me to paint a portrait of Buttercup once I have supplies again. Unfortunately, District Thirteen doesn't see the point of paints, so I'm left with paper and pencils. 

I put in some of my sketches for you, it helps me to see it drawn out, to get it out of my head. I'm hoping it's the same with you. 

Finnick came by earlier and told me they’re sending him home; he’s excited to see you.

I know we never really talked about what happened to you while we were prisoners, but I know they hurt you a lot more than they hurt me. I could hear your screams through the walls sometimes. And when they'd bring you back, the guards would mutter about how you still wouldn't say anything. They hated how strong you were, but I always admired it.

I knew if I tried talking to you about this, you would’ve just hung up the call. So I wanted to at least write it and hope you haven't stopped reading yet. I'm glad Finnick is going back to help you. He said that you've been having trouble adjusting, that's why they wanted them all to go back. Selfishly, I'll miss having him here in Thirteen.

He helps me understand what happened in the Quarter Quell. That, and my first Games. He’s told me about you too, just to satisfy my own curiosity. Don’t worry, nothing embarrassing, he mostly rattles on about how great you are. Honestly, it gets a bit annoying, but his eyes light up in a way I’ve never seen before, so I never stop him. But he can answer a lot of the questions I have. He promised me that he'll only be a phone call away if I want to talk about either Games any further.

Anyways, I hope you aren’t too hard on him, on any of them, as they try and help. I hope you call if you have time, there’s not much for me to do here besides sketch and talk to the doctors.

Give everyone my best and don’t be too mean,

Peeta

Chapter Text

Stell’s entire body is gleaming with sweat when she jolts awake with a gasp, her heart thundering in her chest. Her hands shake, arms trembling as she clutches her bedsheets. The only sound around her is that of the waves crashing against the shore, their rhythmic melody drifting in through her open bedroom window. The air around her turned cold long ago, and she grips the blanket that’s now pooling around her waist, tugging it up to her chest as she blinks rapidly.

A dream, she tells herself, just another dream.

Goosebumps erupt over her exposed skin on her fifth deep breath, and she lets out a sigh. Pulling the blanket so it’s wrapped around her shoulders, she pushes the duvet back and swings her legs around so they hang over the side. It’s a short reach for her prosthetic, which she attaches with still-shaking hands before padding into her bathroom and flipping on the light. Her eyes squint against the sudden brightness, her mind still swirling half her thoughts with an undertone of anxiety and terror.

Her gaze drops to her wrists, “No restraints,” She whispers, her voice surprisingly steady, “No wall.” Her eyes drift upwards to her bathroom mirror, zeroing in on her own reflection. The bruising, the scars, the hollowness of it all. But yesterday…or is it still today? Whichever the answer is, she tells herself, it was a good day. She stayed present, she spent time with friends and family, she went outside and didn’t threaten to kill anyone. Her last thought makes her crack a small grin. Better.

Another breath. In. Out.

Stell exits her bathroom and makes her way over to the open window. The house across from hers is dark, the front door finally closed. She looks up at the stars and finds that dawn is only a few hours away.

But as she turns from the window and takes in the walls that surround her, she feels as though they’re closing in. Surrounded like she was in that interrogation cell, surrounded like that Capital room. She swallows once to keep her throat from closing up and swiftly exits, almost taking her steps downwards two at a time in the darkness.

She’s almost to the bottom when her prosthetic lands on the edge and she goes crashing down, her ass and back of her thighs slamming into the wood. A hiss escapes through her teeth on impact and the blanket falls away, but she pushes herself up quickly, making for the back door.

It takes a hard shove to get it to open, but she lets out a sigh as it does, the cold night air surrounding her as she hobbles out into the yard, her thighs still stinging. A startled yelp has her whirling around, mind racing and hands reaching for weapons that she doesn’t have.

Heart beating wildly once more, her brows furrow together as she gazes at the dog that was apparently curled up in the shadows of her back steps. Its bushy tail is lowered, wagging slowly, and she can hear it sniffing the air, snout extended towards her. The dog is a scraggly thing, with wiry hair and a sturdy, lean body. Too lean, Stell thinks, noticing how its shoulder blades jut out on either side. “What’re you doing here?” She asks, as though the canine can answer. But its head raises slightly at her voice and they just stare at each other.

A shiver courses through her body as the minutes pass and Stell thinks of the dogs she’s seen in the Capital.

Fluffy dogs with outrageous haircuts that match their owners, or little dogs that never seemed to have to walk on the ground, instead being carried in purses or in the arms of their owner. Some of her clients had dogs, they’d rave about how sweet they were, how much they loved them and Stell would nod along like she cared.  

She knows some of the other Victors couldn’t stand to see them, the canines too closely resembling mutations that had been sent after them in their Games. Stell often wondered if she should consider herself lucky that the mutts from her first Games had looked so otherworldly that no real creature sent her into a blind panic. And the mutt that chased her through the Quell? Her heart rate picks up as she remembers its glowing eyes.

The dog lets out a whine, padding back to its spot by her back steps, “You can’t stay there.” Stell snaps at it, earning its attention once more, forcing herself to focus on the dog instead of the memory surfacing in the back of her mind. She hesitates for a second, then takes a few steps towards the animal, “Go on,” She waves a hand, keeping the other arm wrapped around her middle for warmth, “leave.” The dog instead turns towards her, shifting its nose closer to her. Stell takes a step back.

But a frown pulls on Stell’s lips when she notices the dog is shivering too. Her eyes study her back steps, the small patch of grass that’s pressed down into a little circle. Its sleeping out of the wind, Stell huffs at the thought, glaring down at the animal and cursing her slowly crumbling resolve as it wags its tail just a little bit. “You can’t come inside.” She whispers, striding towards her back door, “Wait there.” She waves a hand at the dog, huffing to herself as she reenters her house. It only takes a minute for her to grab the blanket off the floor, and she slings it over her shoulder before turning around.

The dog is standing in the doorway, ears pricked forwards, “You’re not coming inside.” Stell hisses, the dog’s ears going back slightly. “Get back.” Relief coats her weariness of the animal as it backs out of her home. “Good,” Stell lets out a breath as she watches the animal retreat further into her yard as she makes her way back down the steps. Slowly, she crouches down by the side of the steps, taking her time as she spreads out the blanket. Stell folds it over itself a few times, giving more padding above the cold ground. When she stands back up, she glances over her shoulder at the animal, “there you go.” The dog’s ears perk up, “That should be better.”

Stell doesn’t look back as she goes back inside, closing the door before wrapping her arms around her exposed skin

Stell kept her hands shoved into the pockets of her light jacket as she walked down the path that led from Victor’s Village to the more populated sectors of District Four. She had quickly grown restless in her own home after finishing her visit with Annie and she thought that perhaps physical activity would rid her hands of the slight tremor they’d taken on.

Seeing Annie again…Stell can’t shake the feeling of failure. They’d been in that prison together, Stell hadn’t known though. And the one thing she could’ve stopped that caused Annie so much pain…she hadn’t. Stell had let Favian die, turned down the chance to save him, to keep him in this world for Annie.

And explaining her reasoning to her Victor felt insufficient, felt like she’d just be making excuses. So, she didn’t. Not that Annie held that against Stell, of course she didn’t. Annie had hugged Stell tightly, held her close for several minutes, neither woman moving to let go first.

They’d talked about the end of the war, about the weather. Everything else seemed…untouchable. It made Stell’s own sense of self feel untouchable.

Her teeth chew slightly on her bottom lip as she keeps her gaze upwards, the stone infrastructure growing taller the closer she gets. She’d promised Riptide she’d come help with the cleanup and, if she admitted it, she wanted to avoid Finnick if he decided to try and come by her house that afternoon. Stell didn’t want to have any conversation with him, at least not yet.

Peeta’s letter still weighed heavily on her mind. How Finnick has been helping the boy from Twelve, how Peeta says Finnick was excited to see her. It was a tangle of emotions in her brain, not knowing what to think of him anymore. Peeta had told her he often thought of labels for Katniss to help him sort her out, and Stell had taken to the same tactic with Finnick.

Victor. Mentor. Asshole. Fiend. Friend. Escort. Partner. Fiancé. Lover. Backstabber. Liar. Handler. Supporter.

She could go on, but his words would fill her mind once more and then the anger would course through her veins. So she shoves it all down instead, sitting with it and refusing to do something drastic like talk to him. He had sold her, then kept the fact from her for years. He’d managed-

Stell makes herself let out a loud huff, stopping her own thoughts as the tall walls of stone buildings begin to rise up around her. As she studies them, she revels in the familiarity of it all. She’d grown up running through these streets as a girl and now here she was, a grown woman, in a soon-to-be free country.

The thought makes her smile a little to herself as she enjoys her own solitary company on the way towards the Square. It’s easy to locate Riptide, who stands behind a table that used to only come out once every summer. The Reaping check-in tables are now being used to check in citizens of Four who’ve survived the war, and Riptide stands behind the middle one, looking over Ebb’s shoulder as he studies a long list of names.

Stell clears her throat as she gets closer, both looking up, “Hey boys.”

“Look who finally made it!” Riptide rolls his shoulders back as he greets her, his smile infectious, “We were beginning to think you wouldn’t show up.”

“And miss all this excitement?” Stell gestures to the very mundane cleanup tasks being done around them, “Never.” Ebb grins at her sarcasm.

He takes his pencil, scanning down another document, “Now, we already assigned you to a group,” He feigns surprise, “Oh,” Stell narrows her eyes, “with me.”

“So you can keep an eye on me?” She questions, her words somewhat clipped and eyes narrowed as Ebb steps around the table.

“No,” he claps her on the shoulder, turning her towards the far corner of the Square, “because I’ve missed you.” His hand stays there as she lets him turn her, a smile tugging at his lips at the sight of her glare. “We’re helping patch up that hole that got blown in the wall.”

“You seem more…” Stell tilts her head slightly as she searches for the right word, just settling on, “you.”

“Ah, yes,” Ebb lets both ends of his mouth tick up now, “with the constant fear of being blown to bits at any moment gone, I feel quite a bit more relaxed again.” Stell lets herself mirror his relaxed gaze for a moment before they both focus ahead once more.

Stell fills the air with the latest news she got from Rowan that morning, “I heard the rest of the Capital convoy left the boarder.”

Ebb nods, “Left, surrendered, same thing, right?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Stell huffs a laugh through her nostrils, Ebb’s hand falling from her as they reach the wall.

Two men pause their work, the older of the two resting his palms against the small of his back and leaning backwards as he greets them, “You two get stuck with me and Ferlin?”

Ebb smiles again and Stell’s chest tightens just a little at the sight of it. Growing up, the boy had always had a smile on his face, was always there to support another friend. Since she’d reconnected with him before the Quell, he just hadn’t been the same. Part of her feels as though this whole rebellion has been worth it, just to see this part of Ebb again.

“Yes, sir.” Stell’s answer draws the stranger and Fergus’s attention, Stell steps towards him and holds out her hand, “Stellar Mere.”

The man smiles, sweat beading against his gray mustache despite the chilly air around them. He’s got a firm grip when he takes her hand, “Marlow Lapiere, pleasure to meet you little lady.” Stell’s nerves bristle at being called ‘little lady’, but she manages to keep a retort behind clasped lips, “Ferlin and I came from District Ten,” He rambles on about their journey to Four for a few minutes, then points to the pile of rock that they’re filling in the decimated section of the wall with.

Stell’s muscles strain in protest as she bends over a large stone, contracting her muscles to lift it. She only gets it a few inches off the ground before her muscles protest and she has to put it back down, barely missing her own toes. Letting out a breath, Stell straightens back up slowly. She knows she was able to lift that much weight before, it would’ve been easy for her.

But now…her forearms look thinner than ever as she pushes the long sleeves of her shirt up past her elbows, moving to a smaller rock. She’s able to lift it, with a bit of effort, and she grins to herself as she places it back down atop the one that Ebb just placed a moment before. She pushes it down, making sure the stone settles nicely into the concrete mixture.

Despite the new strain and struggle, the work grounds her. Stell’s breathing evens out as her mind relaxes with the motions of work, the feeling of doing something good. None of the men comment on how she moves slower than them or how she can only life the smaller stones. Enough of the stones have been blown to smaller bits, leaving her plenty of options to choose from. She catches Ebb’s eye on mulitple occasions, rolling her own with every check in.

“I’m fine.” She pants at him as they pass by one another an hour into their job, sweat dripping down the back of both their necks despite the cool temperatures. She’d shed her jacket a while ago, the garment discarded on the cobblestones. Ebb’s lips twitch upwards at her words, shoulders shaking slightly in silent laughter as he goes to pick up another stone.

Off to the side, Ferlin takes a long draught of water from a plastic jug. As her gaze lands on him, he holds it up slightly towards her, “Need some?”

Stell rolls her shoulders once, then twice, “Yeah,” she answers, as her mind reminding her how scarce the resource can be, she takes it from him with steady hands, “thanks.”

“Thanks for helping us,” He replies, his accent even slower than her own, “I bet with y’all helping we can finish this up tomorrow morning.” She looks at the wall as cool liquid slides down her throat, they only had a few more feet to fill in.

Water drips down her chin as she tips the bottle away from her lips, “We can get it done by this…” evening dies on her lips as the large projection screen that takes up the opposite corner of the Square suddenly flickers to life, the Capitol seal filling the screen as Panem’s anthem rings out around them.

Every person in the Square stops what they’re doing. Pens get dropped, stones gently put down, papers hastily stacked and pushed to the side. Not one person moves as Ceasar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith appear on screen, sitting at their usual reporting desk. It’s odd for Stell, seeing them again, she’d assumed Claudius was dead since she hadn’t seen him in the Capitol. Though she’d never asked anyone about him either.

“Hello! Hello!” Caesar smiles brightly at the camera, his purple hair matching the lights along the front of their desk, “We’ve got some news for you all.” Claudius squeals next to him, Stell scowling at the obnoxious noise. She wonders where the two actually were, if the rebels were beginning an invasion of the city.

Claudius claps his hands together, nearly shouting out the word before Caesar can get a word out of his open mouth, “Victors!” Stell’s heart tightens, “We’ve spotted Victors in the Capitol.”

The screen behind them comes to life as Caesar expands, “Just a few moments ago, our security cameras picked up footage of rebel activity a few blocks outside our city center.”

“No.” Stell is acutely aware of the word leaving her mouth as she spots a familiar head of blonde hair clad in black.

“Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark have been spotted with a rebel squadron,” Stell watches as the cameras show Peeta walking within the small group, two other soldiers holding cameras that’re pointed at Katniss.

Stell flinches as the water jug that was in her fingers slips through her grasp, falling to the ground in a dull clunk. Water glugs over her shoes, “Stay nearby folks, we’ll provide live updates as Capitol forces close in to put an end to the Victors of District Twelve.”

Her shoes are soaked through, “He’s going to kill her.” Stell mutters, watching as the screen keeps projecting the small group. Her heart hammers in her chest, her knees shaking, “He’s going to kill her,” She repeats, then looks over at Ebb, desperation clear in her eyes, “and then they’ll kill him.”

Chapter Text

The stillness in the air is near palpable as the screen goes black. Stell’s hands shake, familiarity of the worst kind rearing its ugly head moments before she turns and vomits the meager contents of her stomach onto the cobblestones. Large, calloused hands rest on her back, holding the ends of her hair away from her mouth as she retches once more, the calming gesture making her flinch instead of achieving its desired effect.

For a few heartbeats, she just stays hunched over, hands atop her knees, her deep breathing the only sound in her ears. Around her, no one speaks, all eyes look to their Victor. “FUCK!!” Her scream ricochets, threatening to crumble the walls that’ve just been rebuilt. Breathes come faster. How many do I have to lose?  It’s a selfish thought, but it hollows her core.

Gloss, Cashmere, Favian, over thirty other Victors…and now Peeta may be added to the list. Perhaps the most innocent of them all.

Stell turns, half stumbling as she shoves Ebb away and makes for the archway exit of the Square. Blood pounds in her ears as she keeps stealing glances at the screen, not wanting to miss out should it come back on and dreading whatever she’ll see.

Murmurs follow behind her, some expressing excitement that soon the war will be over, others not surprised that Katniss is finally joining the front lines of the Capitol. And then there’s dissent, Peeta’s presence creating an opposition that cuts through the drumming in Stell’s ears.

“Maybe he’s a sacrifice.”

“It’ll be good if he ends up back in his cell.”

And from a few feet away from Stell, just a few yards shy of the archway, a gruff voice, “I’m sure it’s a tactic to get rid of Mellark, good riddance I’d say.” The man’s words snap something inside of her, the Victor lunging towards him, her hand clamping around the material of his shirt.

Her words come out as near undecipherable, “What did you say?!” She snarls, not even giving the man a moment to answer before her fist drives into his face.

People began shouting as the man lets out a cry, frantically trying to push Stell back, but she just keeps her hold on him and throws her elbow back, landing another blow to his chin. Blood gushes from his nose, pouring down over Stell’s hand and soaking into the cuff of her shirt, “I said – GET OFF ME!” Rage pulses through her veins as each of her arms are yanked off the man and she’s forcibly pulled back.

The now-bloodied man points a shaky finger at her, “You’re fucking crazy!” He screams, then points to the still blank screen, “That boy’s a traitor,”

“He saved lives!”

“Stell, calm down, you need to-“ Riptide’s eyebrows hit his hairline as Stell bares her teeth at him.

Nearly every pair of eyes on the scene widen, “I told you she was crazy,” the words are muffled by the blood that’s filling the man’s mouth, “she should be locked up.” Stell pulls against Riptide and Ebb’s grip, each man holding an arm tightly in their grasp.

“I’ll fucking kill you.” The words seethe past her teeth.

Her left arm gets yanked backwards, pain jolting through her limbs as Riptide starts hauling her further away. Stell pivots from her waist, driving a heel into the back of Ebb’s knee. It buckles under the sudden pressure and in the moment, Ebb releases her arm. She takes the chance, surging back towards the man who still spews profanities at her, cursing Peeta as well.

A flash of dark hair appears in front of her, a voice she recognizes in behind the wave of fury in her mind, “You should’ve seen that move coming Ebb.” The man’s hands grip Stell’s shoulders, “Stell-“ Syrus jumps back as she drives her knee upwards, missing his groin by mere inches. He pivots, keeping a hold on her shoulders to drag her with him. Stell drives a fist into his shoulder joint, Syrus grunting on impact, his grip lightening on her.

Stell barely processes what’s happening around her, the sounds, the sights, but then another voice is cutting through it all, “This is what I’m fucking here for.” And muscled, confident arms are wrapping around her torso.

A wordless cry slips past her lips as Finnick Odair tosses Stell over his shoulder, his teeth clenching together as her metal foot slams into his gut in protest. Stell watches the man she just assaulted laugh through a small curtain of her hair as it hangs over her eyes. “Put. Me. Down.” He doesn’t even wince as her foot drives into his gut again.

“You can’t just punch people, Stell.” Riptide whispers harshly from where he walks a few steps behind her, running an agitated hand through his hair, Syrus shrugs. Ebb still stands beside her victim, struggling to get out some sort of apology.

The roaring in her ears has only lessened sightly, and she’s still fuming when Finnick turns down an alley outside of the Square and sets her down. She steps away from him as though his very presence revolts her. She waves a flippant hand at him, “Why is he here?” Her eyes flash as she spits the words at Riptide.

Finnick takes a step closer to her, Stell’s shoulders stiffening as he replies, “He thought seeing Katniss and Peeta on screen might trigger an episode for you. I didn’t think I’d find you assaulting civilians.”  She has to tilt her chin up to look him in the eyes. But the familiar hatred and disgust that she was so used to seeing on Finnick’s face after she’d lashed out at others for the last six years isn’t there. His lips press into a thin line as he raises his eyebrows, “What’d he say?”  

She breathes out a huff through her nostrils before turning to leave the alleyway, not deigning to give him an answer. Riptide steps into her path, “Move.”

“No.”

Her arms cross over her chest, “I’d like to go home so I can watch my friend get a bullet put through his skull, if that’s alright with you.” She can feel Finnick stiffen behind her. Her sidestep is timed perfectly, and a heavy hand only comes in contact with open air where her shoulder had just been, her eyes flicker to the side, only seeing part of Finnick’s towering form, “Don’t touch me.” She looks back to Riptide and repeats, “Move.”

Her voice shakes slightly as she makes the command this time, causing Finnick and Riptide’s gazes to meet. Stell doesn’t see Finnick dip his chin slightly, but her shoulders relax just a little as Riptide maneuvers his body to the side. She doesn’t say a word as she slips past, booted feet giving a steady rhythm against the cobblestones as she stalks back towards Victor’s Village.

Her former guard quietly takes post beside her, staying silent for a few beats before commenting, “Seems like you and Finnick are getting along.”

“Fuck off.” She doesn’t look back as Finnick starts to trail them. Hovering asshole, she thinks, rubbing her now bare arms. The cold air against her sweaty skin had felt nice while she was working, but now the chill’s set in.

Wordlessly, Syrus pulls something off his far shoulder, Stell looks down as he holds it out to her. Her coat. “Thought you’d want it.”

A muscle in Stell’s jaw ticks in annoyance, but she takes it all the same, grinding out a “Thanks” as she shrugs it on. She flexes her right hand, the knuckles already aching.

Thoughts and flashes of her time with Peeta in the Capitol flash through her mind, and Stell grits her teeth, mentally battling them back, trying her best to keep the feelings at bay. He’ll keep it together, Stell tells herself, he’s strong. But she remembers how frantic he sounded after his sessions in the Capitol, how he was convinced Katniss was the real enemy here.

 ‘She’s a mutt!’ Peeta’s screaming echoes through her mind, the sounds of slamming cell doors and the footfalls of guards joining in. Stell shakes her head, the movement jerky and seemingly random to Syrus, who eyes her warily as they keep walking.

From behind, Finnick quickens his pace, worry etching deeper into his features as Stell shakes her head once more.

“Your turn,” a peacekeeper croons, “we get to have a little fun, you and me.” A whip cracks in the airspace right beside her head, “get up.”

Stell stiffens as Syrus loops his arm through her own, giving it a squeeze, “You alright?” He studies her face, her flared nostrils, her eyes that flicker quickly from one object ahead of them to another. Her entire body stiffens, her steps halting suddenly. Syrus stops with her, gaze flickering back to Finnick, whose lips are pressed into a thin line.

“Step away from her.” His tone is tentative and soft. The younger man looks towards the archway to Victor’s Village, now in view, a tall, broad figure standing underneath.

Syrus doesn’t remove his arm, speaking gently as Finnick comes up beside them. Stell doesn’t seem to notice, “Come on, Stell, let’s get you home.”

Rowan raises a hand, then calls out, his voice carrying towards them, breaking slightly near the end in the cold, “Stell!” Syrus would’ve laughed it hadn’t caused the girl on his arm to crumble, a wordless scream piercing out of her throat as her hands launch upwards to cover her ears.

And in her mind, she listens to the dead scream for her once more. Eyes wide, frantic, she searches for the Jabberjays in the skies but finds them empty. Finnick anticipates her next move, grabbing Stell’s forearm a mere second after she’s ripped it from Syrus to bolt.

“You’re okay,” He tries to reach up to touch her face, but she’s moving her head too often, too rapidly, “it’s alright, love.” Fear floods her sapphire eyes.

Suddenly, her eyes lock onto his, “Make them stop,” She begs, lips trembling,  “Make them stop. Make them stop. Make them-“ she screams again, eyes snapping shut as Rowan arrives at the edge of their little group. He glares at the group of people closer to town that have stopped to stare.

Finnick ignores everyone but Stell, settling a large hand over each of her own, “They’re not real.” He tells her, words firm, “Stell, they aren’t real.” Gently, he begins to pull on her hands, forcing them away from her ears, “Listen.” She flinches, eyes staying closed as her body trembles. “It’s not real,” Finnick squeezes her hands, “That’s real, I’m real, Syrus is real, Rowan is real.” Finnick looks to the other two men, then nods to a spot behind him.

Wordlessly they move, standing where Stell can see their faces. But she keeps her eyes closed, taking in a shaking breath. Rowan reaches over Finnick’s shoulder, running his thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear as it rolls down her face. She takes another breath, “There you go.” Rowan murmurs.

Finnick squeezes Stell’s hands once more, his own shoulders relaxing as her eyes slide open. He can’t help the lump that grows in his throat as he takes her in, trembling and sunken into the ground. The scar that slashes prominently across her features, a wound she received while protecting her allies.

The bold and boisterous woman who commandeered an entire room just by walking into it. The woman who held the hearts of thousands in the palm of her hand. The courage and the spirit and the determination that he knows can run through every inch of her…reduced to the trembling, broken, shell before him. All of that bravado beaten back.

He can barely get air into his lungs at the thoughts. “Finnick?” His gaze snaps back into focus at the sound of his name rolling off her tongue, her accent thick. Barely louder than a whisper, but he’d heard her.

Finnick swallows once, then once more, squeezing her hands, running his thumbs over the tops of her knuckles, tracing the small self-inflicted scars that lie there. “Right here.” Rowan’s hand still cradles her face, now seeming as though it’s the only thing keeping her head up.

“We’re in the arena?” Her words come out scratched, as though her throat is raw. “Real or not real?”

Finnick’s stomach drops to the floor, “Not real.”

Stell only blinks, then slowly pulls her right hand from Finnick’s and places a hand atop Rowan’s, “Gloss?” Doubt shines in her eyes as she looks at Rowan, the man’s lips pursing together, “When did you find us?”

Bile starts to rise in Finnick’s throat and by the way Rowan goes completely pale, he knows the other man is experiencing the same thing. This is worse. So much worse than anything Finnick could’ve anticipated and for the first time he has no idea what to do for her. He won’t shock her body back through pain like they used to, not again. And before…everything he’s done has been enough to bring her back. He looks at Rowan for a second, his blonde hair and broad shoulders. He supposes, in a way, the man resembles Gloss. And so when Rowan finally opens his mouth, Finnick’s decided on another tactic, “I’m not-“

“A few hours ago.” Finnick interjects, forcing his voice to come out strong, “He found me on the beach.” He drops her other hand, standing up to his full height and motioning behind his back for Rowan and Syrus to do the same. Does she even see Syrus? “We should get going, the next hour is about to begin.” Slowly, and fighting a grimace, Stell stands, Finnick nods his head indicating to head up the hill, towards Victors Village, “That way.”

Stell silently listens, turns and starts that way. Finnick hangs back, grabbing Syrus by the arm, “Get beside her, be ready.” The man nods, and in the next minute, he’s there, Finnick behind Stell. It only takes a moment for him to slip a hand to the back of her neck, closing his grip on two pressure points. She drops instantly, Syrus catching her before her body can crash into the cobblestones.

Finnick crouches down, Syrus transferring the unconscious Victor into her mentor’s arms. Once standing, Finnick shakes his head, meeting her former guard’s gaze, “I never got to thank you for getting her out.”

Syrus nods, arms crossing over his chest, he blows out a long breath, a small cloud forming in the chilly air, “She wasn’t going to last much longer.” Finnick grunts, then starts towards Victor’s Village, the other two falling into step behind him.

“She’s never…” He falters over his words, “She’s never stayed in it that long before.”

Rowan’s eyebrows rise, “She had episodes before the Quell?”

“Yes,” Finnick answers, glancing up at the archway as they pass underneath it, “She’d be violent though, try and attack us. It’s not...uncommon…in Victors.” They keep on the central walkway, Syrus running a hand over the lip of the fountain, “Her Games were among the most violent, out of all of them. They rarely replayed them on television, it was deemed too upsetting to viewers.”

“I remember the mutt that took her leg off,” Rowan shakes his head, “Gave me nightmares for months.”

Finnick huffs, “Try actually being hunted by them.” He turns, starting up the steps to Stell’s house and promptly changes the subject, “If we’re lucky, she’ll stay out for a while. I need to grab a few things from my own home so I can stay here. Would you guys stay with her?”

“No offense,” Rowan says, stepping inside, “but I don’t think she’ll really go for you staying here with her. She kinda hate you right now.”

The Victor shrugs, “Too bad,” His gaze swings to Syrus, “You have any insight on why she hates me now?” Gently, he lays Stell down on her couch, positioning her to be on her side with a pillow under her head.

“Snow took her into his office in private, multiple times towards the end, and only started doing so after you spilled all his secrets.” Finnick faces the guard now, jaw set tightly, “I’m not sure what went on during those times. But she’d come back, distraught is an understatement. And I wasn’t present during the,” He glances away at the far wall as he continues, “torture sessions. Snow wanted to tear her apart emotionally as well, he thought having a guard, me, who was always nicer, more pleasant, and then…worse ones…would tear her apart more. That I’d give her hope that we weren’t all going to hurt her. I think the plan was, for me, in the end, to be the one to deliver her to her execution,” Syrus’s hands go into fists, “one final betrayal, as it would be.”

Finnick takes a long breath in through his nose. Within days, President Snow would be captured, in the next few days, Snow would know what shackles felt like. “Fucking hell.” Rowan murmurs, then to Finnick, “Can that even be healed? Fixed?”

“I’ll fix her.” Finnick vows, voice hard, “Even if it takes years…she’ll come back from this.”

She has to, he thinks, I won’t accept anything else.

Stell’s entire body was screaming. She could feel every inch, every muscle. Slowly, she opens her eyes, taking in the fire roaring in her hearth. ‘My name is Alma Coin, leader of District Thirteen-‘ Stell goes to sit up as she registers the words, instead letting out a groan as her body protests. The holographic television is immediately muted.

“Stell?” Syrus crouches down in front of her. “How’re you feeling?”

Stell scowls at him, “Help me sit up, and turn that back on.” Fuck, even her wrist hurt as she waves a hand towards the news. Syrus grins, black hair flopping over his forehead as always as he moves to support her back, pulling her up into a sitting position, a hiss escaping between her clenched teeth.

She stiffens even more as she spots Finnick sitting in the armchair, “It’s a rerun,” he tells her, “so we can fill you in.”

“Get. Out.” The words grind through her teeth.

Finnick has his bare feet propped up on her coffee table, a bowl of what smells like soup in his lap, “Oh no, I’m staying.”

“Syrus, get him out.” Syrus moves to the opposite armchair, picking up the second bowl that had been on her low table, Stell glares at him, “Syrus.”

“I heard you,” He replies, scooping a spoonful of soup into his mouth, his legs crossing in front of him, “But no.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Stell seethes, moving to push herself up, but her body screams once more, and she collapses back into the pillow behind her. Sapphire eyes narrow down at her legs, at the lack of one of them, “Get out of my fucking house.”

“Guys, it’s still-oh, you’re awake.” Rowan appears from the back of her house, “I thought I heard profanities.” He gestures behind him, “There’s a dog in your backyard.”

Stell points to Finnick, gritting her teeth through the pain, “Get him out, Rowan.”

“Finnick’s not leaving.” Stell’s head whips around at the sound of Amos’s voice, the older man appearing from her kitchen, “In fact, you’ve gained a roommate, sweetheart.”

Finnick chuckles, “Did you pick up that pet name from Haymitch?” Amos grins, moving to stand by the fire.

“You’re not allowed here.” Stell spits the words at Finnick. If looks could kill…

Finnick makes a show of relaxing further into the chair, “My bag of clothes in your guestroom suggests otherwise.” He looks over his shoulder at Rowan, “Will it let you touch it?”

“It’s a he.” Stell grumbles.

“Oh,” Rowan perks up, “so you are aware of your furry neighbor.” He ignores Stell’s expression, “Does he have a name?”

“Why would he have a name?”

“He’s a dog,” Syrus supplies, “They all have names.”

“A stray dog.” Stell snips, “No name, he’s not staying.”

Rowan hooks a finger behind him, “You clearly haven’t told him that.” As if on cue, the distinct sound of nails on wood flooring fills the room, the shaggy, wire-haired dog appearing a few feet shy of Rowan. Syrus and Amos’s lips tick upwards.

The dog eyes the men in the room, his tail wagging slightly when he catches sight of Stell on the couch. The animal’s ears tilt backwards towards its head, its tail lowered as it pads slowly across the room, laying down carefully a few feet away from the fire.

For a few minutes, everyone simply watches, and it’s Amos who breaks it, “Now you have two roommates.”

“If I could move,” Stell mutters, loud enough that just Amos and Syrus can hear, “I’d kill all of you.” And then, louder and still glaring at Finnick from time to time, she asks, “What’d the broadcast say?”

Chapter Text

Stell actively avoids responding to Finnick. Choosing instead to only address Amos, Syrus and Rowan. It’s the latter who speaks up first, “The Capitol’s reported that all members of Squad 451 are dead, they bombed down the building that they took cover in after Peeta…lost it.” Her heart drops into her stomach, the weight settling there, and she half listens to the men in her living room.

“Alna Coin-“

Finnick huffs a laugh, interrupting Syrus, “It’s Alma.” He corrects and Syrus rolls his eyes, motioning to the screen that periodically shows the middle-aged, gray-haired leader of Thirteen.

“If you call her Alna to her face though I’ll give you a hundred dollars.” Stell’s head jerks towards Amos, his words laced with laughter, the older Victor shrugs, “She’s kinda stuck up.”

Why weren’t they upset? She knows Amos wouldn’t be cracking jokes at a time like this if the Squad’s deaths were indeed confirmed, “What’d she say?” Stell quips, studying the leader she’s only heard about as she directs the question at Syrus.

“As I was saying,” He glares at Finnick and Amos, “She’s already using Katniss as a martyr. Saying that Katniss will still be the face of the rebellion, that she turned slaves into freedom fighters.”

Stell’s gaze wanders over the projection, her eyes catching on the symbol in the bottom corner, “This is a Capitol station,” She points out.

“Beetee got through,” Amos answers, “Snow came on after Coin, said that once they pull Everdeen’s body out in the morning, everyone will see she’s just a dead girl.” 

Stell huffs, “So no body confirmation yet?” A tiny bit of relief flows through her veins as Syrus nods.

“Are you hungry?” Finnick asks, something akin to concern lighting in his eyes.

Stell ignores him, “It’s possible they got out, there’re so many different hallways and air ducts connecting those apartment buildings.”

“That’s what we were thinking too,” Amos glances at Finnick as the man gets up, his gait almost lazy as he heads towards the kitchen, “especially given that a few of those soldiers are from the Capitol.”

“Really?”

“Turns out not everybody enjoyed watching children fight to the death.” Amos replies, then inclines his head towards the screen, “Cressida, the one with the tattoos on her head, she used to be a filmmaker-“

“Pollux and Castor have been her film crew for years,” Finnick pipes in, setting a bowl of soup on the table in front of Stell, he flicks his eyes upwards to meet hers, “you’re welcome.”

Stell’s eyes narrow at him, the scar tissue around her left eye unmoving despite the movement. Rowan chuckles at the interaction, moving to sit on the hearth a few feet from the dog before slowly reaching forwards, “I hope you get bit.” Stell mutters, effectively halting Rowan’s movements.

“You think he’ll bite?”

“I don’t know, like I said, he’s a stray.”

“I say go for it,” Syrus grins as he walks around the back of the couch, leaning his forearms on top of it. He turns his head to the side, grinning at Stell. “we should know in the morning their status in the Capitol.” He assures her, bringing the conversation back on topic as Rowan gingerly sits down, “And with our forces,” his smile widens as he refers to himself as part of the revolution, “closing in, I’d say President Snow will be captured in the next forty-eight hours.”

Stell hums, bringing a spoonful of soup up to her lips and sipping gently to avoid burning her tongue, “A lot can happen in forty-eight hours.” She looks up at Amos, “Those traps? Like the sludge wave?”

“Thirteen referred to them as ‘pods’, traps laid out all throughout the Capitol that’re now activated. Everdeen will be able to see most of them with that device Boggs had but there’s no telling what else they’ll set loose once they don’t find bodies in the morning.”

Everyone goes quiet, dread filling Stell’s stomach as she eats another spoonful, the warm liquid sliding down her throat and settling deep in her stomach.

Rowan has a small grin playing on his lips despite the now somber mood, probably because the dog’s letting him gently stroke his fur, “Hopefully they’re smart enough to keep moving, cover as much distance as possible before Snow hunts them down.”

Finnick sucks in a deep breath, his eyes meeting Amos’s, then attempting to look at Stell, who glances back over at the dog, “Ladies and gentlemen,” He lets out a humorless laugh, “welcome to the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games.”

“You were out for hours.” Finnick’s voice floats across the room towards her as Stell reattaches her leg, “Do you remember any of it?” The sound of her leg locking into place is his only response. He’s been trying to get her to talk about her episode for the past thirty minutes, ever since the rest of their cadre left.

First, he’d tried a gently, soothing tone, which Stell had silently found offensive. She wasn’t a toddler for fuck’s sake. After that, he’d gotten snippy, telling her that she’d mistaken Rowan for Gloss, which in her defense, both men were blondes. It did bother her a bit to learn that though, other than the blonde hair, they were vastly different. Gloss had a more rounded jawline and less pronounced cheekbones than Rowan did, and their eyes were completely different colors. Even their muscles composure was different. Gloss had clearly gotten his in a gym, whereas Rowan earned built them through physical labor.

Now Finnick was starting to sound fed up with her…it was about time. He runs a hand through his hair, “Stell, you have to answer me.”

Her fingers still, and ever so slowly, she releases the end of her pant leg, letting the fabric hide her prosthetic before sitting up. She purses her lips together, still refusing to look his way, instead she looks at the dog, who has curled back up after finishing what was left of Stell’s soup.

She left more than she should’ve, she knows that, especially with her current body condition. But the way she stomach keeps turning itself in knots every time she takes a bite? She’s not sure how long all of it is going to stay down.

“I couldn’t get you back,” Finnick says in a rush, having noticed her pause, “from your episode today, Stell, I couldn’t get you out.” She notes the hint of panic in his words, the concern and the fear. She had already figured that much, since she’d woken up on the couch. Stell didn’t remember where her mind had gone, she never remembers, but an echo of the ending was there. Abrupt. Not gentle, not coaxed out of her like so many times before. “You kept screaming and thought we were in the Quell.” Stell sees him push off the doorway through her peripheral, “You even asked me if we were in the arena, and I said no.”

She’d what? Stell looks at him then and gets a shaky smile in response, “I’m worried about you, I’ve always been able to get you back.” He runs his hands through his hair, his arm muscles rippling with the movement.

“You thought I’d come back from being a prisoner…what?” Her words are harsh, biting, “The same?” Stell rolls her eyes, was he really just concerned that his own ability to help her was now lacking? “I…” Stell shakes her head, he wasn’t worth the words. With a grunt, her muscles screaming in protest, she pushes herself into a standing position.

Finnick lets out a groan of frustration, then easily blocks her way out of the room, “Of course I didn’t think you’d come back to the same, I’m just saying I’m worried and you won’t let me help you, you-“

“I don’t want your help.” Stell snaps, finally meeting his gaze.

Finnick’s question slips past his lips, “Why?”

You sold me. The words scream in her head, clawing at the sides of her mind, desperate for her to voice them. But her lips stay sealed. The insults Finnick had hurled at her for years, both to her face and behind her back, repeated in her mind as well. You’re a monster. You’d be better off dead. I should’ve let her die. “Why not, Stell!?” A whine sounds a few feet away, the dog’s head now raised at the change in their tones.

Stell settles for another truth, “I just lost my baby, I’d like to be alone-“

Finnick’s arms fall from their crossed position to hang loosely at his sides as he interrupts, “Your baby?!” The words scoff out of him, “your baby.” He repeats, and then his hands are pressing on his own chest, “She was mine too!” His voice raises and Stell can see it, the pain in his eyes, “I lost a child too, Stell! She wasn’t just yours.”

For the first time since being rescued, Stell willingly takes a step towards Finnick. To shove a hand against his chest, “You didn’t carry him! You didn’t go through a miscarriage! You never felt any of it!”

“You think I didn’t feel anything?” Finnick towers over her and when she shoves him again, he grabs her wrist, holding tight, “You think I didn’t imagine it? Being a family? Having a child? Of course, I fucking did, and then it was gone!” Stell winces when she tries to pull away and he doesn’t let go. The words hang in the silence that stretch between them.

Finnick drops her hand, taking a step back as the dog takes a small step towards him, a low growl coming from the animal’s throat, “I’m grieving too.” He croaks, and it’s with a start that Stell notices the tears welling in his eyes, the way his throat bobs as he swallows, “But I’m not shutting you out because of it. And this,” he motions between them, “Isn’t just about that. You’re angry.”

Stell’s body stills and for a minute, they just stare at one another. The only sound around them is that of nails against her hardwood floor as the dog circles Stell once, his fur brushing the side of her leg, then heads towards her back door. She takes in the flecks of green and blue in Finnick’s eyes and just for a second, she can practically feel the care in which he used to touch her. The way he’d kiss her.

It was all wrong…he’d lied to her, sold her, manipulated her. Of course I’m angry! She wants to shout at him, wants to scream it so the whole world hears her. But if she started, Stell’s not sure she’d be able to stop. And part of her hates that he can still read her like this.

“Shut up.”  Her jaw grinds together as she gets the words out. Finnick’s face blanches, but he lets her shoulder past. She can feel his eyes on her as she opens the back door, the dog trotting outside.

Her hands grip the doorknob tighter as he pleads with her, “We can’t fix this, if you don’t talk to me.”

Stell scoffs in response, shutting the door as she replies, “I don’t want to fix this. There is no,” She motions between the two of them, “there’s nothing to fix.” Stell shakes her head, turning away from him as she feels the tears start to burn in the back of her eyes. I can’t do this, she thinks, heading towards the stairs.

Finnick doesn’t say another word, and she doesn’t look back at him as she starts up the stairs. She wants him to leave, wants to never see him again, but telling him to go would just prolong their current conversation and part of her hopes that maybe she’s said enough for him to give up.

A shaky breath slips past her lips halfway up the stairs, and Stell flinches when Finnick lets out a bellow downstairs, the roar followed by a sharp crash and the sound of glass shards falling onto her floors.

Fear threatens to take hold of her mind as Stell takes in the damp stone wall and the chain that shackles her to it. The floor is cold underneath her and when the far door creaks open, her head snaps up.

“This isn’t real,” a smooth voice supplies from the far corner and there, as she glances over, is Gloss. His arms crossed over his broad chest; blonde hair styled as it always was.

Stell’s lungs shutter, “What?” Bootsteps sound, and her eyes widen as Peeta’s shoved through the doorway, a gun against his back as Peacekeepers escort him inside. “Peeta?”

Gloss pushes off the wall, circling the new trio from behind as they force Peeta to his knees in front of her, “None of this is real,” He taps the side of his head with a finger, “it’s in your head, Stell.”

“Stell?” Peeta’s voice is barely a whisper, his blonde hair stained with blood, his ripped clothes hang off his shoulders. “You’re alive?”

She nods, crawling closer to him, wincing as she reaches the end of her chains nearly six feet away from him, “For now,” she’s always been honest with Peeta, “why’d they bring you?”

“You should wake up,” Gloss advises, “you know it’s just going to get worse.”

Stell looks back to Peeta, the younger boy giving her a sad smile, “I’ll be alright,” A peacekeeper shoves the gun muzzle into the back of Peeta’s head.

“We need the names of Capitol traitors.” Gloss calmly walks up to her side, and his hand is nearly warm on the side of Stell’s face as he turns it gently.

Sorrow shines there in his eyes, plain for her to see, “This isn’t real,” His words are a cool breath across her face, “You’re alright.” Her chest rises and falls rapidly, sweat coating her skin like a second layer, Gloss runs his thumb down the side of her cheek, one end of his lips ticking upwards as something pokes into Stell’s abdomen, “That’s real.” They both glance down as the sensation comes again, seeing nothing between them.

A high-pitched whine fills the room, “Tell us now!” She barely hears the peacekeeper’s demand.

The whining continues, Stell’s brow furrowing as Gloss doesn’t move his hand, but she feels something hit her shoulder.

She wakes with a gasp, sitting upright so suddenly her head spins, making her clutch it between her own hands. “Not real…” She whispers, folding forwards, her elbows bracing against her thighs. “It wasn’t real.” A whine sounds again, making her flinch sideways. Her eyes shoot to the side, where she can make out the form of the dog in the darkness of her bedroom, “You.” Stell reaches out a shaking hand, resting it atop her comforter.

The dog wags his tail, taking a few steps forward and resting his chin on her palm. “Real.” Stell whispers, fingers curling upwards to scratch the wiry fur. With her other hand, she runs her fingers through her damp hairline. She’s nearly soaked her sheets with sweat, but…her throat isn’t raw. She hadn’t started screaming, not yet.

The thoughts only just left her mind when a wordless cry riots through her home. She’s flung the bedding off herself before she can even think, and promptly crashes into her bedroom floor as she tries to run for the hallway. The blow stuns her enough that for a moment, she simply lies on the floor. “Stell!” Her name is recognizable when Finnick screams again.

The dog, whose backed himself towards her bathroom, lets out another whine, his head swiveling towards her door. The biting air makes Stell aware of every inch of exposed, saturated skin as she dares not to move. She takes one deep breath, in through her nose, out through her mouth, and then another, “STELL!” Her name tears out of Finnick’s throat once more and for a split second, she’s back in the Quell and he’s yelling her name all around her, begging for help.

Months ago, covered in sweat for entirely different reasons, she couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t get to him, couldn’t stop the screaming. You’re in your room, she reminds herself, and you can do something now.

She can reach him now.

With her teeth gritting together, Stell reaches for her prosthetic, attaching it as Finnick lets out another cry and she’s up in the next moment, nothing bothering to pull a shirt over her sports bra, the dog leading the way down the hall to the far bedroom.

The sight of him makes her pause in the doorway, her whole-body trembling as she grasps the doorframe. Finnick’s entire body is rigid as he lies in bed, the comforter half thrown off his body. The shirt he wore earlier is discarded on the floor, even though the far window is cracked open, cold air seeping through. His face is contorted into agony, hands white knuckling the sheets and now that she’s closer, she can hear his softer pleas, “Leave her alone, please.” He’s begging.

Stellar Mere has never heard Finnick Odair ask for anything more than once, he’s never had to. Let alone beg. And by gods, him begging for her to be spared or saved…a small part of the concrete wall she’s built-up fractures.

She remembers hearing the jabberjays in the Quell, having to endure his screams then. But she hadn’t, had she? No, Stell had bashed her own head in, forced herself into unconsciousness rather than listen to Finnick be in pain and not be able to stop it. I can stop it now, the thought outweighs the betrayal and the fury that’s taken root in her gut. That one thought, and something else that flares and she not dare name.

It takes only four strides for her to cross from the doorway to his bedside, “Finnick?” Gingerly, she reaches out with one hand towards him, pausing, hesitating just a few inches from his face. He lets out another cry, a sound that vaguely resembles her name, and she closes the space between her palm and the side of his face. She cradles it, her thumb sliding over the slight stubble on his face, “Finnick,” Her second hand finds the other side and his features soften, his hands easing up on the sheets, “I’m right here.” Both fingers slide over his features in unison, “Right here.” Stell whispers, and he takes one deeper breath, her eyes flickering down to his exposed chest as it expands. When her gaze returns to his face, sea green eyes look back at her.

“Sorry,” Finnick croaks, he slowly lifts a hand, then places it over hers. His brow furrows, “you’re freezing,” his eyes flicker past her face, taking in her exposed body. Stell lets her free hand fall from his face, bringing it back to her side. He catches her other hand before she can pull away.

“I woke up just before you started screaming.” She doesn’t bother lying. Finnick doesn’t apologize, and he doesn’t need to ask if she’d been having a nightmare too. She averts her eyes from his, glancing down at the dog who stands beside her, “Did you let him in?”

One end of his lips quirks upwards, “He seemed cold out there.” Stell nods, then starts to pull her hand back, Finnick squeezes it, but the move doesn’t get her to look back at him, “Stay.”

Stell’s hand slips out of Finnick’s as she pulls away, taking one step back, then another, “No.” And then she’s back in the doorway, her figure disappearing back down the hall. But not before the hallway light illuminates all the bruising and all the scars that’ve been carved into her back. And she doesn’t turn back when she hears Finnick stifle a sob.

Chapter Text

Every movement, every twitch, every breath, made Stell’s muscles scream. From between her shoulders down to the backs of her quads, everything was sore from moving those stones. Gods she hadn’t been this sore since…well since she’d jumped over that railing.

And Stell knew tomorrow would only be worse.

‘Of course, we’re relieved at the possibility that the Mockingjay may still be alive,’ Stell rolls her eyes at President Coin’s words, projected from the small device on her mantle. ‘I expect nothing less from her, she’s an inspiration’

“This is near painful to watch,” Stell mutters aloud, the words directed towards the dog who lays curled up by her feet. He raises his head, dark eyes gazing at Stell as though he understands what she’s saying, then lets out a huff before resting his chin back atop his paws. Stell lets out a huff as well, “you get it.” She keeps her eyes on the animal, who has clearly now claimed her home as his own. He had to have been someone’s pet before the war, or at some other point in time. It was the only explanation she could think of. Sure, he was a bit twitchy and unsure about being touched, but she respected that.

But a dog who’d lived on the streets his entire life wouldn’t be house trained. And by the way he’d stared at Stell whilst standing by the door earlier, barking ever so softly at her till she got up to let him out? He’d been trained. At first, she thought he was just ready to leave, but when she’d come back from the bathroom herself, the dog had been patiently sitting by her back door.

A creaking above her head draws Stell’s attention to the ceiling, the distinct sound of footsteps following it.

Finnick was up.

Her eyes stray to the clock on the wall to her left, they still had nearly an hour till dawn. He usually didn’t get up this early without reason, the thought makes her pause, her lips pursing together. She hated knowing that, remembering these small, intimate details about him.

Just like how she knew not to close the window in his room last night, despite the cold air that was coming in. If she had, he would never have been able to fall back asleep. And how she knows he’s going to take a shower before he comes downstairs.

Her eyes flicker up to her ceiling as she mentally tracks Finnick. From the guest bedroom to the bathroom across the hall, and there, a minute later, her pipes creak low as he turns the water on for the shower.

She looks down at her own skin, a thin layer of dirt still visible from yesterday. And if she looked in the mirror, not only would she see the scars, but that her hair was starting to get oily. Soon, she tells herself as she closes her eyes, I’ll face the shower soon.

Muscles screaming in protest, Stell sits up, swinging her legs around and rising slowly off the couch, a deep cringe set across her features. “Come on.” The dog looks up at her, Stell motions towards the door as she straightens up with long exhale, “We’ve got to at least try and find your home.” Her movement towards the door is more of a waddle than a walk, but each step is easier than the last and she’s thankful she doesn’t have to go back to the couch and shove the dog off after she’s thrown on one of her heavier coats.

In six short weeks, they’d be experiencing full winter weather. If she didn’t get healthier by then, Stell may have to invest in a new coat altogether.

She pauses only for a second, to confirm the shower is running upstairs, before opening the front door and slipping outside into the predawn darkness, the dog following close behind. Was it probably too early to venture out and see if this dog actually belonged elsewhere? Most definitely, but Stell rationalized her actions, which were definitely not because she wanted to avoid Finnick and made complete sense because if the dog saw his old home he’d trot up to the door and stay there all on his own.

Hands stuffed deep into the jacket pockets, Stell lets a gentle smile slide across her face as she faces the end of Victor’s Village and starts towards the gate. The distant sounds of the waves echo in her ears and up ahead the horizon is starting to turn a soft orange.

“Want to know my favorite color?” Peeta’s voice drifts back to her.

Stell had scoffed at him, glaring at the far wall of her cell, “Not really.”

“It’s orange,” he’d told her anyways.

“Like a goldfish?”

“No, softer, like the sunset.” Sure, this was sunrise orange, but Stell thinks that Peeta would appreciate this one as well. He’d asked her favorite color after that, and she’d surprised herself when she’d told him right away it was…Stell scowls.

“Sea green,” She mutters aloud, earning a glance from the dog, who walks a few feet ahead of her, “like his eyes.” The smile falls away.

Stell rolls her shoulders once, as though she can shake off the feeling of ambivalence and turns down the battered path that leads away from what was before the richer portion of District Four. Maybe the economic divide in the Districts will lessen as a result of this war.

It was only one of her hopes for the future.

Her body is slow going and the walk that used to only take fifteen minutes takes nearly thirty. She stays silent for most of it, nearly content with the dog walking at her side. The colors of dawn have transformed as the sun continues to rise, changing from a soft orange to a brilliant one, illuminating the world around her in a new day.

Before the Quell, nearly every shell of a house here had been occupied, but this neighborhood that sits closer to the District’s border clearly saw more fighting than the inner sectors. Stell’s eyes linger on a bullet hole in a nearby window as she crosses the imaginary threshold that officially starts the slums.

The boarded-up windows and rotted out steps don’t make a lump form in her throat, but the kicked in doors, scorch marks, and occasional blood stains do. It was clear that Capitol forces had come through here, maybe even targeted it.

Not every home is damaged, some still stand with the reverence of a Victor, little depictions of what once was. Stell swallows, taking a deep breath. She can still spot the signs of life: a candle flickering in the living room of one home, the sounds of morning chores happening in another. People had survived, she expected nothing less.

Her breath is visible in the air, a puff curling upwards, as she looks down to the dog, “Where’re you supposed to be?” He gives no indication that he cares about her question, and she only feels a bit stupid about speaking to a dog as though he’ll verbally answer.

Another bullet hole catches her eye and Stell’s steps slow. She can barely feel the underlying ache in her muscles as she stares at it. Did the bullet just hit the house, she wonders, or claim the life of someone inside as well? Her left hand rises on its own accord, the wrist twinging slightly, as she absentmindedly rubs the bullet scar on her shoulder. Eyes drifting down to her stinging wrist, Stell wonders how much trouble she’ll be in for ditching the brace as soon as she moved out of the Justice Building.

She’d barely noticed the pain while moving stones the other day, which was a miracle in and of itself. Her hand drops back to her side, “Stell?” Her head snaps up, instantly finding the lone figure that stands further down the dirt path.

“Percy,” Stell’s lips slide upwards as she recognizes the man from before the Quell, and she fights to hide her cringe of pain as she starts towards him. Based on how his eyes quickly flicker up and down her figure, she didn’t do a very good job of it, “it’s good to see you.”

Percy nods, setting down the two buckets he’d been carrying, “You as well, we’d heard you made it back.” He returns her grin easily, “And thank you,” He tells her genuinely, “for all you’ve done.”

Stell nods, “I wish I could’ve done more.” It’s a near robotic answer.

“Oh no,” Percy shakes his head, bronze hair swinging across his forehead, “you’ve done more than…well more than anyone ever should’ve had too.”

Stell can’t help but mentally agree, but she doesn’t comment on it, “How’s your family? Did they?” Die? She can’t say it.

Percy beams and Stell’s shoulders relax, “They’re doing great,” Stell’s lips twitch up even higher, “oh, why don’t you join us for breakfast? Helen and Seamus should be up by now, I was fetching the water to put on the stove.” She opens her mouth to object, but he cuts her off, “I insist, you can even bring your mutt.” Percy nods down at the dog.

Stell lets out a chuckle, motioning for Percy to lead the way, “He’s not my mutt.”

“He sure looks like it.” They start walking between homes, peeling off the main path.

Stell glances back at the wiry dog, “I actually came down here to see if anyone’s missing him, showed up at my house two nights ago and stuck around.”

“Sounds like he picked you then,” Stell shakes her head, fighting a grin, “how long have you been back?”

Her eyebrows furrow, “Nearly two weeks.”

“I heard they brought the rest of you back too,” she glances over at him, watching as Percy flashes another smile, “how’s that going?”

Stell shrugs, not giving an answer and instead asks, “What happened to the water lines?”

“There were some big blasts, our best guess is they got destroyed. A group of us went and told Riptide about it a couple days ago, he said he’ll add it to the list.”

“I’ll have him make it a priority; you’ll all be screwed if it starts freezing before we get that fixed.”

“I appreciate that.”

It feels good to Stell; to be able to make that promise and know she’ll be able to keep it. The muscles of her left thigh suddenly cramp, causing Stell to grind her teeth together as she stops. Ahead of them, the front door to the home Stell had walked by so many months ago is pushed open.

Seamus, his hair now cut shorter and all his limbs a little longer, steps out onto the meager front porch in nothing but his pajamas, “Stell!” The little boy leaps off the porch, an open mouth smile on his face. When he collides with her legs, she lets out a hiss of pain, “Are you okay?” He doesn’t let go of her, just pulls back to look up at her face.

Stell pats his head with a hand, “My leg’s cramped up is all, not your fault.”

And it suddenly hits her that this little boy, who probably watched her in the Quell not that long ago, is safe from a future like hers. And there’s not a hint of fear on his face, no shadow that maybe she’s a monster. Seamus’s name will never be written on a paper slip and dropped into a Reaping bowl. His parents will never wait in the crowd, hearts pounding and their breath held. Stell will never teach the boy just how much force you need to stab another human being through the breastbone.

And despite the pain in her leg, she sinks down onto her knees and pulls Seamus into a hug. Stell blinks rapidly to try and keep the tears at bay as he returns her embrace without question. “I’m glad you’re okay.” Seamus tells her, and his words make Stell chuckle. She sniffles once, wiping at her eyes.

In that moment, it’s all worth it.

She looks up, seeing Percy has paused, one foot on the steps of his home, Stell waves gently with her free hand to Helen, who mouths a simple ‘thank you’ to Stell.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Stell tells the boy as she ruffles the hair on Seamus’s head then slowly stands up, “Come on now, your father invited me for breakfast.”

The little boy pulls away, hoping from one foot to another to avoid the cold on his bare feet, and beams at the dog, “Did you get a dog?!”

A sharp inhale follows Stell’s first step as her leg tightens, but she still hears Percy chuckle inside, “He’s not my dog.” Stell insists, “I was actually hoping someone would recognize him, do you?” The animal in question trots straight up the steps and into their house, “Seems like he could be your dog.” Stell whispers as they reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Oh, don’t go putting ideas in his head Stell!” Helen calls out from the little corner that’s the family’s kitchen, “We don’t have space, let alone the time, for a dog in this house.” Stell pauses on the steps, letting the heel of her prosthetic sink downwards, her toes raised on the edge of the step.

Seamus waits by her side, “Does that help?” He asks, curiosity all over his face.

She nods, “A lot, it-“

“Gods, there you are!” Stell’s neck lets out a crack her head wipes to the side, where Alexis walks out from behind another house, “We’ve been looking everywhere.” Alexis stops a few feet away, her lips curving upwards as she nods to the family, who’ve come back to stand in the doorway, “Hello.”

“We?” Stell asks, then motions to Alexis, “This is Alexis, she’s from District Eleven. Alexis this is Seamus, Percy and Helen.”

“It’s great to meet you but could we move this indoors? The cold’s getting in the house.” Helen ushers everyone inside right after speaking, not really waiting for an answer.

“Yes, we,” Alexis continues as she closes the door behind her, “Finnick woke up to find you gone, he took it about as well as you’d expect. We’ve divided the District into sections to find you.” The dog pads up to Alexis, sniffing the back of her offered hand, “He’s concerned about the dog too.”

“Percy invited me to have breakfast with them.” Stell informs her, walking over to stand by Helen. The blonde-haired woman must only be a few years older than Stell, “Can I help with anything?”

Alexis lets out a snort, a smile still playing on her lips, “You can join too!” Seamus announces.

“Oh, I’ve already eaten,” Stell takes the egg that Helen offers her, “I’m staying to see that you make it back home though.” She cracks the egg easily on the counter, watching its contents fall into the frying pan.

Their conversations drift, going from Alexis describing what life was like in District Eleven, to the progressions being made in Four. Percy talks about his ongoing plans to open up a carpentry shop. He’s been building ship parts all his life, but now that he wouldn’t be governmentally obliged to that trade, he was looking to get into home building and repairs. “I know you’d never guess that by looking at our porch, but I’ll be allowed to purchase proper tools and materials now.”

Seamus and Helen tell Stell about the school that’s recently reopened (she also learns it’s Saturday through this conversation) and Seamus rattles on about new teachers and curriculum. His eyes widen as he tells Stell that his teacher mentioned they may get new students from different Districts.

All too soon, Stell and Alexis are saying their goodbyes, “You let me know if you hear of someone looking for their dog.” Stell says one last time, looking at Percy and Helen.

Percy chuckles, “I will, but I’m pretty sure he’s yours now.”

Stell looks down at the scruffy beast, who stands by her side, Seamus’s hands buried in his fur, the little boy looks up with pleading eyes, “He needs a name!”

“You name’em.” Stell answers instantly, grinning down at him.

Seamus’s face scrunches up for a moment, his eyebrows furrowing together as he looks down at the dog before declaring, “Otter.”

Alexis snorts. Stell purses her lips together to keep her laugh behind closed teeth and looks the Eleven native a glare. “That’s a good name.” Percy pipes up, laughter lacing his words.

“Alright,” Stell says, “Alexis, Otter, and I have to get going.” She pushes open the front door, Alexis exiting first, and Stell watches Otter trot down the steps. With one final wave, Stell shuts the door behind herself and descends the steps, to where Alexis stands with her arms crossed over her chest.

“Finnick’s probably had an aneurysm by now.”

“You promise?”

;;;;;;;;

Stell arrives back at her home with Alexis by her side in typical fashion: as though nothing’s wrong. Her legs ache, her entire body exhausted by her morning journey, but she makes herself stand tall as she always does, trying to mask any pain from her face.

Four pairs of eyes snap over to her as she exits her foyer and Stell ignores them all except for one, “Mags,” A soft smile spread across Stell’s lips as she crosses the room to the old woman sitting in one of her high-backed chairs, “good morning.” Stell leans down, kissing the woman’s cheek. Mags clasps Stell’s hands in her own, patting them twice for good measure.

Stell straightens, her eyes flickering to meet Amos’s and Rowan’s gazes for a moment. She glances over at Finnick, who practically has waves of anger rolling off him, and for a second, his voice echoes in her mind, “Stay”. Finnick raises his eyebrows at her, and Stell just smirks.

“What’s everyone up to?” She asks flippantly, taking a seat on the sofa.

The words grind past Finnick’s teeth, “You were gone.”

Stell shrugs, “I took a walk.” Her lips purse together, “And then I had breakfast with some friends,” She notices Finnick tense, and it makes her body more aware, her mind more alert of the danger in the room. But he has no right to be mad at her, he’s not her keeper. Not anymore. “Oh,” She looks at Rowan, another grin tugging at her lips, “we named the dog.”

Almost everyone in her house was smart. They knew not to coddle Stell, not to push and reprimand her about her own actions. They didn’t treat her like she was fragile, or broken, or waiting to snap. “What is it?” Amos asks, glancing at the dog who stands beside Mags, sniffing her forearm.

“Otter.” Alexis snorts a laugh again, even Mags lets out a chuckle.

“That sounds like a toddler named him.” Amos argues.

Stell raises her chin, “An eight-year-old, actually.”

The sound of a solid thunk draws everyone’s attention to Finnick, who has his eyes closed as he leans his head back against the wall, “Everyone,” his voice is barely above a whisper, and when Stell glances at his hands, his knuckles are white, “get out.”

Otter’s nails clicking against the floor are the only sound as Stell sits up, her lips curling upwards, “This is my house,” Her words were low, menacing, “only I get to tell people to leave. And right now, the only person who’ll be leaving, is you.”

Sea green eyes snap open, “You were-“

“Get. Out.” Stell doesn’t remember standing, she doesn’t feel the ache in her legs, or in her shoulders, as she stalks towards him.

Finnick pushes himself off the wall and tilts his head so far to the right that his neck cracks, “Fuck you, I don’t-“ Arms wrap around Stell’s waist, and she snarls as he fucking catches the knife she’s thrown at his head.

She’d found the small blade lying on her kitchen counter that morning, probably left out by the boys the night before. Slipping it into her pocket, hiding it among the loose fabrics of her pants, had been intentional. A way to feel a bit safer as she ventured out.

Throwing it at Finnick’s face just felt good. And it got him to shut up. “Alright!” Amos keeps a tight hold of Stell, “That’s enough, kids, Finnick.” Stell lets her gaze wander up, meeting Finnick’s disillusioned expression, “Get out.” Stell smirks at him as Finnick growls, turning and stalking away, slamming the door behind him. “Rowan, follow him, make sure he doesn’t do anything dumb.”

“What actions qualify as dumb?” Rowan’s question comes as he’s already moving towards the front door.

Amos gives him look Stell can’t quite catch from her current angle, “You’ll know it when you see it.” Amos turns, then roughly shoves Stell, who fall and collapses back into the couch, “What the hell was that?”

Stell glares up at him, then looks at Mags, doing a double take at the woman’s clenched jaw. It wasn’t the first time they’d seen Stell throw a knife at Finnick, it’d happened plenty of times between her crowning and the Quell. “He has no right to be mad!”

“No, he doesn’t.” Amos’s agreement only slightly shocks her, “But that doesn’t mean you try and kill him.”

“Please,” Stell rolls her eyes, wincing as she pushes herself up to sit normally. Otter stands awkwardly between where she sits and the door, unsure of what to make of all the commotion, “he’d never let it hit him.” He’d known she had the blade, she didn’t know how, but he’d been ready. “He can’t just-“

“No, you’re going to listen to me.” Amos cuts her off, pointing a finger at her that makes Stell scoff, “Mags and I had a long talk last night.” Stell looks to Mags, who nods, and Stell has to look away at the sadness that stares back at her, “We can’t possibly understand what you went through,” her body stiffens, “and Finnick, he wants to help, he wants to be here for you because he cares but the two of you, well, heartless,” He sneers as he uses Johanna’s nickname for Stell, “you’re awful at communicating.

You need to talk to him, not throw knives at him. Pull yourself together because soon, within days, this country is going to start rebuilding, and you’re not a stupid girl. You’ve realized they’ll drag us all out again, haven’t you?” Stell’s brow furrows, her expression causing Amos to curse, “You haven’t thought about that, have you?”

He was right, that was her first thought. President Snow had killed off most of the Victors, used them as pawns to inspire or inflict doubt among thousands of people and troops. Of course no one would let them just fade away after the war, they’d continue to be used, no matter what anyone had said about the District Four Victors having done enough. Her throat tightens, “No,” It’s hard to push the word past the lump there, “I didn’t think of that.”

“We thought you would’ve by now, fuck, Stell, it’s pretty obvious.” Her eyes harden, all the pain and torture of her imprisonment threatening to rise to the surface, “Fine,” Amos exhales slowly, exchanging a glance with Mags, “They will put us in the spotlight, we will have a voice, just like before, but this time, we can say the truth, and none of us, especially you, can fall apart.”

Mags shuffles slightly in her seat, her wrinkled hands gripping the armrests a bit tighter, “They saw you bleeding,” her words are slow, quieter, but just as fierce as Amos’s, “after the warning,” Mags’s raises her index finger, “for Thirteen.” She shakes her head then, and Stell begins to understand, “They will’na see you weak again.”

Stell remembers a younger Mags, one with similar words but a stronger voice. The one who taught her the importance of looking put together, looking sane. Yes, there was now a cane and a tremor in her hands and wrinkles on her brow, but Mags was still Mags. She was a fighter and ingenious and knew when her children needed a harsh hand.

“We’ll see President Snow again, and he wants you broken.” Amos motions to Stell’s body, “And by the way you’re starting to stink, whatever he did was effective.” She averts her gaze, looking to Otter, who’s now laid down a few feet from where Alexis leans against the wall closest to the kitchen, “Look at me.” Her eyes burn, “Stellar, look at me.” Her nails scrap against her knuckles as she listens, “Don’t let him win. If you fall apart, Snow wins.”

Her episodes were worse, she already knew that. And the slipping sensation she used to feel before…it’s minute now. The nightmares came each time she closed her eyes, the tremors every time she turned on the shower, and the grief at the loss of her friends? Unending.

Pull yourself together, the command rattles in her brain, finding no purchase in which to cling. If Amos had spoken to her like this before the Quell, Stell would’ve lost it. She would’ve erupted, told him he was out of line and wrong and that she didn’t need to be told what to expect like she was a child.

But that spark, that edge, had been dowsed. Her mind was even further than any semblance of control than it’d ever been.

And she’d never let President Snow know that. She could say no to Amos. She could refuse to go back into the spotlight…but people would know something was wrong. Snow would know he’d won.

Stell couldn’t let that happen.

“If you need to yell at Finnick, then yell, and fight, and rattle the damn walls. But it ends once we get on that train.”

All she can do is nod.

“This seems dumb.” Rowan cringes again as another plate shatters against the wall, the shards joining the pile of hundreds of others already littering the tile.

Finnick grabs another plate from the shelf, turning back around and launching it at the wall. When he turns back again, he lets out a curse before opening the next cabinet, “Alright,” Rowan jumps into action, bounding over and putting a firm hand over the cabinet door, effectively closing it, “Maybe it’s time to stop before you’re out of dinnerware.”

Sea green eyes glare at him, “I can buy more.”

“That’s a bit expensive.”

“I have more money than I know what to do with.” He growls, gripping the door tighter. Rowan doesn’t doubt that he could force it open despite Rowan’s efforts, “Move.”

Rowan swallows, holding his ground, “You seem pretty pissed at Stell.” He gets an incredulous look in response, prompting a hoarse chuckle up his throat, “I think she’s trying her best.”

Finnick lets go of the cabinet to run a hand through his hair and lets out a long breath, “That’s not why I’m mad.” He mutters, he paces away, glancing back over his shoulder at Rowan, “You really wanna hear about it?”

Rowan turns, leaning back against the countertop, “Saying things out loud has always helped me sort my thoughts.” He answers with a shrug, “Are you mad she wanted to get outside? Be away from you?”

“No,” Rowan raises his eyebrows, Finnick rolls his eyes, “Not really. Fine, wanting to be away from me, yeah, it hurts. And she should be able to go where she wants, but…she could snap.” The words come faster once he’s admitted it, “She could get trapped in a flashback – she’s never been this trapped in them before – and she could hurt herself, she could hurt someone else.

And I knew she had the knife, I went to bed after her, saw the knife was left and didn’t move it. I saw it was gone this morning; saw she was gone. Then hearing that she’d been around a child? Gods, if she hurt that boy…” Finnick shakes his head.

Rowan’s lips are pursed together, “She’d never forgive herself, would she?”

“No.” Finnick cracks a sad smile at Rowan, “I didn’t expect her to come back the same, none of us left that arena the same. But I didn’t expect to be back to where we started.”

Silence stretched between them, long enough that Rowan finally moved to the pile of broken ceramics on the floor and began picking up the larger pieces into his hands. Wordlessly, Finnick grabbed the trash bin, crouching down to help. Rowan kept busy as he spoke, “When the time comes for you all to head back to the Capitol, and she doesn’t want to – I’ll look out for her. While you’re gone.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Finnick glances upwards, locking eyes with Rowan for a second, “but if she stays, I stay. I won’t leave her.”

Rowan’s lips quirk upwards, “Thought you’d say that.” He scoops a pile of smaller pieces into his hands, turning to dump them into the bin, “In that case, if you need a friend, I’ll be here.” Finnick returned the smile easily. Nearly every single one of his friends had just been executed…it felt good to find a new one.

Pull yourself together. Stell scowled back at Otter, the dog’s face seeming to convey the message to her, or maybe Amos had just gotten under her skin two days ago when he’d laid into her.

She was trying. A sponge bath had been a small step forward, but not very effective in terms of really cleaning herself off. And he was right: she was starting to smell. Stell turned back to her bathroom after flipping off the dog, who still hadn’t left yet and was always beside either herself or Finnick, who also hadn’t left yet.

Stell bit her lip, brow furrowed as she looked at the control panels for her shower. Simple buttons she’d pressed hundreds of times, but if she pressed them while standing right in front of them, the water would hit her right away.

That thought made her body stiffen. Echoes of pain and her own screams echoing off the walls played in her mind. “You’re not there.” Stell’s whispered words are barely audible to even herself. A glance in the mirror confirmed her other worry: no open wounds.

Alcohol only burned open wounds and this time, she had none. Her hands still shook, even as she reached for the long stick she’d snuck inside while Finnick had been occupied in the kitchen.

Uncharacteristically, Stell had made a plan all on her own for this. Goosebumps erupted over her flesh as she stepped into the shower, the tile cold on her foot. She stayed close to the back wall and, holding the very end of her stick, leaned forwards, pressing the other end to the button on the far wall.

Her breath hitches as water sprays from the showerhead, a steady, uninterrupted stream. The glass is cold against her exposed skin, but she doesn’t step under the water, instead watching has to bounces off the tile floor, spraying just the tips of her toes and the other wall. It’s getting her bathroom floor wet as well, but she doesn’t dare close the door.

Stell gently sets the stick down, as though a sound too loud will make the shower turn against her. And carefully, gingerly, she sticks out her prosthetic into the stream. Liquid bounces off, small droplets landing on her metal shin. She feels none of it, as expected, but she still made a move towards it all on her own.

And she can still feel every edge of her mind.

Stell looks to the side, and grins fleetingly at Otter, who now lays just outside the bathroom doorway, his chin resting on his front paws as he keeps watch. Pull yourself together, it’s her own voice in her head this time.

She owed it to Amos and Mags to try. To the friends that she'd lost. To the people around her. To the friend still fighting, because Peeta and Katniss were still alive, according to the latest news. And to herself, quite honestly. 

She brings her foot back underneath her, out of the spray, and tentatively reaches out with her hand. Instinct threatens to take over for a split second and a sharp cry escapes past her lips before she clamps down on the scream that wants to come out in it’s place. But she forces her hand not to move, to stay where she’s put it.

The pain doesn’t come, and Stell watches, transfixed, as the water wraps around her hand before falling to the floor.

She waits a minute, then takes a small step forward, her lips pursing together as the water hits up to her elbow, splashing to even hit parts of her face. It slides over the scars on her wrists, and she lets out a breath when it still doesn’t burn.

And it may take small steps, and nearly twenty minutes, but Stell gets her entire body in the shower, gets it rinsed off and clean for the first time since coming home. And as she wraps a warm towel around herself, hair dry and brushed, Stell looks into the mirror, and smiles.

Chapter Text

“If you have space, you will be required to give refuge to those fleeing our inner-city blocks.” Stell took a slow sip of her tea, legs curled up underneath her as she watched the Capitol broadcast. Rowan, Syrus and Alexis were in the kitchen, putting together a meal that Stell and Finnick had never heard of before. Riptide and Syrus had brought ground beef over earlier, saying it was part of the first shipment of shared food from District Ten.

It hadn’t been much, but after scouring Stell’s kitchen, Alexis had declared they were having chili for dinner. Rowan and Syrus’s eyes had lit up at the word that just brought confusion to the Victors. Despite an invite, Riptide hadn’t stuck around, but Stell had still been able to bring up the water lines in the slums to him. Her old friend had assured her they were looking for a solution. And given that Syrus was currently staying at Rowan’s he’d gladly accepting the invitation for dinner.

“Those who refuse will be detained for questioning.” Stell huffs, typical Capitol. She was glad, at least a little, to see Caesar still in good health. There are small signs of his struggle, mostly the fact that his hair is a very faded pink. She can see that his natural roots are gray.

“How old do you think he is?” She questions aloud, genuine curiosity in her voice. And when she looks to her right, to Finnick, his eyes widen.

“Oh,” He stammers, “you’re talking to me?” Things had been tense between them for the past several days, which was fair, since she’d thrown a knife at his face. But those three words kept repeating, pull yourself together.

And Stell had showered today.

So she could be pissed, but she could also be civil. ‘You need to talk to him’, she could try. “Well the dog isn’t going to answer.” she quips.

Finnick’s lips twitch upwards, then he looks back to the projection, shrugging, “Fifties?”

“Fifties?” Stell echoes, “No, that can’t be right. He did the second Quell.” She remembers seeing a young Caesar while they’d studied the old Games. “Remember, he pointed out how brilliant Haymitch was to use the forcefield.” Her eyes are still on the projection as she speaks.

“You’re right,” She grins, “and he was what? Thirty something then?”

“So, he had to have started, uh,” out of the corner of her eye, Stell sees Finnick start counting on his fingers, “Around the thirty-second Games, give or take a few.”

“Okay, so sixties.”

“Yeah,” silence falls between them, and Stell chews on the inside of her lip, shifting her weight from one hip to the other. Finnick clears his throat, Stell still keeps her gaze on the screen, half listening as Caesar talks about President Snow opening up the mansion for children. “Stell?”

Stell looks over with raised eyebrows, “It’s ready!” Alexis’s voice calls from the kitchen and Stell lets out a relieved breath. She swings her legs around, muscles protesting as she stands and heads towards the kitchen.

Syrus is already seated at the table with a bowl full of what looks like slop. “That’s dinner?” Stell sniffs the air once, her lips crinkling upwards a bit as her mouth waters, “It does smell good.”

“And it tastes even better!” Alexis assures her from her spot at the stove, where she fills four more bowls. “Usually there’s more spice, but those I always forged back home.” Stell nods in thanks as Alexis hands her a bowl, then she moves to sit at the table beside Syrus. Rowan sits at the head of the table, dunking a piece of bread into the bowl.

He lets out an exaggerated moan as he takes a bite, “Fuck, this is amazing.” He points the bread piece at Stell and Finnick, who pulls out the chair opposite Stell, “No offense to your District, but the food is a little bland.”

Spoon halfway to her mouth, Stell sets it back down, “My cooking is not bland.”

“Oh now you’ve done it,” Finnick quips, then smirks, “She’s going to kill you.”

“We’re in the middle of a war and,” She raises a finger, “I just got rescued like three weeks ago so I’m sorry if my ingredients have been subpar lately.”

Rowan cringes, “Sorry, sorry, okay, well-“

“And it’s winter.” Stell lets out a huff, then puts a spoonful of chili in her mouth, “Oh fuck me.”

“See!” Rowan beams and the rest of the table erupts into laughter. Alexis covers her mouth with a hand as her shoulders shake, Syrus picks out a piece of beef, handing it to Otter, who happily wags his tail.

Stell swallows another bite, her gaze drifting upwards, eyes catching Finnick’s. The corners of his mouth quirk upwards in a smile, and after a moment, she returns it.

Maybe I can do this, Stell thinks, maybe I can pretend we’re okay.

Stell could hear the projector from where she stood behind her office desk sorting through a stack of papers nearly six inches tall an hour after their guests had gone home. Just because she was a Victor, it didn’t mean she was exempt from paperwork.

For the first few years after winning, she’d had some Capitol woman come in twice a year to deal with it. But having to sort through the numbers and really think about it all provided her with an odd sense of normalcy.

Her eyes scan the various lines, there was her income, the ungodly number that she received each month. Average monthly costs that she barely kept track of, most of them were just estimates. Her utility bills and old correspondence from various businesses in the Capitol, most of them photographers requesting her modeling services.

‘We would be honored if you would consider an appearance should you be crowned Victor in the Third Quarter-‘ Stell tosses the letter in the trash bin, where it joins dozens of others. She watches it fall, hands flattened against the wood surface. The nerve of these people, Stell shakes her head, it was shocking that she wasn’t more surprised.

Hell, part of her was impressed. Talk about thinking ahead.

“I mean, look at him,” Her brows draw together as she catches the words, “he’s brilliant, funny, and handsome, why wouldn’t I let him show me off?” Stell pushes off the desk, padding out of her office, crossing the entry foyer, and then peers into the living room.

The projection is of herself, probably around nineteen years old, her hand encased in that of a man she vaguely remembers. He has to be around twenty-five, and he beams down at her before leaning down to try and kiss her. The younger Stell avoids it easily, turning her head so he kisses her cheek instead.

Stell barely hears the audio as she watches herself. The way she commands the floor and the respect of those around her, all while in the arms of someone who bought her.

The screen moves on, and then she’s even younger, without a man on her arm this time as she sits at a bar, in apparent deep discussion with an older couple. Capitolites mill about around them, all conversing, some laughing. And there, in the back, she gets a glimpse of Blight talking to another man, a serious expression dawning his face.

The bar was called Egans, a well-known establishment for the higher class to frequent, and a great spot for District Four to procure sponsors for tributes during the Games. If Blight was there, then this has to be the year Johanna won. Stell would be eighteen. She’d liked Johanna the moment she proved to not be the weakling she’d lead them all to believe. And as a show of respect, she’d told Blight she’d accept his presence there for a few hours.

The heels strapped to her feet on screen at the be at least four inches tall and the halter top blouse had a neckline that nearly went down to her navel. And if she recalled correctly, yes, she thinks as she watches herself turn, her entire back was exposed save for the thin stretch of fabric down her spine.

And somehow, Naboo had made the entire outfit come off as classy. Her heart clenches at the thought of her stylist. Watching herself...Stell frowns as a passerby lays a hand on her arm, her younger self going from warm and friendly to cold and callous in the span of a heartbeat. The chair is pushed backwards as she stands, and she has the man’s arm wrenched at a painful angle behind his back before he even knows what’s happened.

The commentary sounds far off as someone mentions her temper, but Stell knows it’s not anger making her lash out. It’s fear.

Fear of an unwelcome touch, of being attacked, of being hunted.

“No one would blame you if you didn’t go back,” She jumps slightly at Finnick’s voice, her eyes shifting to look at him where he sits lounged on her couch.

‘Stell has always been a bit unpred…’ the commentary fades out as Finnick lowers the volume and Stell lets her crossed arms drop down by her sides, averting her gaze away from his.

He clears his throat, a clear attempt to get her to look at him again, but she refuses, “I hope you know that.” He sits up a bit more after putting the remote down, one arm slung over the back of the couch so he can turn to look at her. Stell’s face remains impassive, does he honestly think she’ll stay behind? “I can’t imagine what-“

“No.” She cuts him off, “You can’t.” Finnick’s mouth snaps shut and Stell grinds her teeth together, fighting back the onslaught of insults and accusations that want to spew from her lips. They didn’t know what was going to happen after President Snow was captured. How things would be decided, what exactly the new people in charge would do. But Stell wanted to be there, needed to just like Amos had said.

Pull yourself together, it was harder now. With darker thoughts already in her mind. And looking at Finnick, knowing that the man who’d sold her was right there.

Finnick mistakes her silence as an opportunity to keep going, “Can we talk-“

“No.” Stell leans away from the wall and turns to the front door, “I need to-“

“Don’t run away.” His words are clipped, and the pressure that she feels in her chest only builds, “I thought we were past running away when the conversation gets hard.”

She feels as though someone’s laid bricks on her chest. Her hands shake, does he honestly think she’s going to stay behind? That she can’t handle it? “I don’t run.”

“You do, every time I try-“

Stell scoffs, spinning on her heel to face him, the movement so fast it makes the dog flinch where he sits on the opposite end of the couch, “Try?! Try to what?!” Stell couldn’t remember a time they talked about a difficult topic. After her Games? He screamed at her multiple times. Before the Quell? She went behind his back, they made declarations of love on a stage. Anytime in between? When she had a flashback? When their tributes died? They’d ignored one another. And he was saying that…that what?

Her mind stammers, her breathing rapid now as her thoughts race and she notices that at some point, Finnick’s stood up, and she flinches as he reaches towards her hands, “Don’t do that.” Stell digs her nails as far into her knuckles as she can, the pain sharp. “Stell,” he takes a step closer, and she retreats, her eyes cast downward, focusing on a single spot on the floor.  

“I’m going back.” The words come out clipped, “I have to go back.” Her skin splits beneath her nail on one of her index fingers and she’s only vaguely aware of the warm blood that begins to run down her hand.

“Gods,” He’s too quick for her, and in the next second, he’s got her wrists in his hands.

Stell tries to yank them away, “Let go!” She screams, the words echoing off the walls, startling the dog to jump off the couch.

He keeps up with her as she tries to fly backwards, erupting right back, “For fuck’s sake, let me help you!” She keeps trying to yank her hands away, his grip feeling like shackles, “Stell!” He lets go with one hand, the other coming up to grab the side of her face. “Look at me!” The hair at the nape of her neck twists in his fingers, making her grimace.

She stills, chest heaving, “You don’t think I can handle it.” Her free hands curl into a fist at her side, “You think I’m too broken to go back?”

“I didn’t say that,” His own words start to get sharper, “Don’t put words in my mouth.” Stell raises her free hand to grasp Finnick’s wrist, roughly pulling his hands away from her, he lets her and his arms fall to his sides as he backs up.

And for a second, she’s back sitting in front of President Snow, the tape deck running before her, Finnick’s voice filling the room.

“No clue how she got that black eye…deserved it though, I’m sure.”

“She’s lucky she’s pretty, not a total waste of money for her clients. At least she’s good for something.”

The clips play through her mind.

“Oh, sorry,” She croons sarcastically, “I’m psychotic,” she gestures with her hands as she sneers the word past her lips, “that’s the word you used.” She takes a few steps towards him, the muscle of her jaw feathering as she grinds her teeth together, the anger rearing up tenfold inside her.

“I’ve never said that about you!” She rolls her eyes, his jaw going slack as she scoffs, “What!? Stell, I’m worried about you! I’m trying to help you, to be here, because no, I don’t know what happened but clearly you’re not alright!” He gestures at her as he yells, his voice filling the entire house.

“I know everything,” every whispered secret, every murmured word, “so I’m going. Because I’m sure those’ll be useful for whatever the fuck we’re all going to do after this war.”

“I know them too, we can just write-“

“Oh, I’m aware.” Stell cuts him off, eyes blazing, “You told the entire country mine.” Surprise flickers through Finnick’s eyes, “You told them about the Trade, and about Reed and you spoke about him like you knew him,” She takes one step closer to Finnick, then another,  “when you don’t know a SINGLE FUCKING THING!” Stell’s fist swings across the space between them, he catches it.

Finnick swallows, “How do you know that?”

Stell rips her hand back, Finnick letting her, “He told me, how do you think? Do you know what he did after? After you left me behind.”

A slow smile spreads across Stell’s lips as those feelings rush back. The betrayal and the anger and the hurt, all so sharp and so intense in that moment that her eyes begin to water and a tear runs down the side of her marred cheek. It pulses through her veins, each beat of anger sharper than the last.

She wants Finnick to feel the same way. She wants him ashamed of himself, she wants him cut down. “This is where you guess,” She chokes the words out, “guess what he did, Finnick.”

His throat tightens, he shakes his head side to side, “Stell, I…I knew he’d have you beaten for it, for all of it but I didn’t think they’d leave you-“

A humorless laugh escapes past her lips, “He didn’t beat me. No,” She watches relief flood his face. And then she tears him down, “he told me your secrets.” The way his face goes white makes her laugh even more, and Stell raises brow at him as she stalks forwards, “Oh?” His eyes are glued to the floor now, not even turning to watch her, “At least she’s good for something” She quotes back to him, watching him flinch, his whole-body stiffening, “Look at me!” She roars. “It’s all you’ve wanted for the past few days so DO IT!” Her hand latches onto his shoulder before she shoves his chest, Finnick’s back hitting the wall.

He forces his eyes up to meet hers and for a terrifying moment, she feels a twinge of regret, a hint of longing.

Ally. Friend. Lover.

“That day on the beach, when Peeta was asking how mentoring works. You couldn’t look at me,”

Finnick’s jaw trembles, Stell’s hands shake. “Stell…I…” Words fail him, and Stell watches as his hands come up to cover his face. Finnick lets out a gut-wrenching sob that echoes through to her bones. And the satisfaction at watching him crumble before her.

It never comes.

He slides down the wall, elbows landing on his knees, “You just thought I’d never find out?” Her words come out softly now. He lets out another sob, so horrific that she can watch it start in his gut and climb its way up his throat. She knows she has to say it out loud, “You sold me.”

Finnick drags his own face up, fingers threaded through his hair, and she takes in the red blotches that cover his face, “He would’ve, it was,” He shakes his head, Stell grinds her teeth together as he takes a deep breath, “You would’ve ended up in the same situation.”

“Yes,” She’s thought about that. Stell wasn’t naïve nor was she dumb. Ending up in the Trade would’ve happened to her no matter what. Finnick lets out a gasping breath, “but maybe my family would’ve lived longer, had I known I was already sold the first time they came to collect me.” Tears keep streaming down his face and she watches, impassive, as the dog pads up to him, sniffing gently. “You saw the bruises, the days I couldn’t get up in that first year. Funny how I was still sold to those men again, when you could’ve at least stopped that.”

He makes that gasping sound again, his eyes red and puffy. Her gut roils within her stomach. Stell flinches as the phone begins to ring, the loud, shrill sound echoing from her office. The dog’s ears perk up, head turning towards the noise as it sounds again after a moment of silence.

Tension pools between her shoulder blades, very rarely did the phone ring. Almost never. It rings again, the shrill noise filling the space around them all for a third time and the dog follows it, trotting into her office.

“Stell,” His pleading voice makes her brow rise, “I love you, please.” Her heart aches, constricting so sharply it’s hard not to gasp. Swallowing, she shoves it down, blood flowing harder down her knuckles.

She glances down at Finnick, their eyes locking. And for a second, she can feel it, her own love for him. The peace he’d brought her, the comfort of having someone to turn to. But this version of Finnick on the floor? He wasn’t the same. She wasn’t the same.

The phone rings again.

 Stell turns abruptly without another word to him, striding from the room. “What?” She snaps as she picks up the receiver, holding it up to her ear.

There’s a light chuckle from the other end, “Stellar,” Plutarch Heavensbee says her name like they’re old friends, “it’s great to hear your voice. How are things?”

“Fine,” She snaps, “now, what’s this about?” It was nearly eleven.

“I wanted you to be one of the first to know,” He tells her smoothly, and she can hear his lips tick upwards, “a rebel task force has captured President Snow.” It takes everything in her to keep the phone by her ear, her shoulders sag forwards, “In twelve hours, the war will be over.”

Her mind felt empty, the pounding of blood rushing to her ears the only noise as Stell slowly lowered herself into her chair. “Over.” She repeated, the word rolling easily off her tongue.

“We’ll be contacting the justice buildings in each District in the next few hours, of course, we’ve been preparing, so further instructions will be passed on.” Stell nodded, over, the word kept repeating in her mind, “Stell? Did you hear me?”

Stell shook her head quickly, just once, “Yes. Yes, I did.”

“Great news, well, I’ll leave you to it then.” She could hear voices in the background, “I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.”

The receiver was still held to her ear when it clicked on the other end. Stell swallowed then ran her tongue over her teeth. Her hands moving of their own accord, she hung up the phone.

She felt as though she was living outside of her body, like she could step away and see her own slack jawed expression.

Movement near the wall snapped her back to the present, her eyes flying to Finnick, who gripped the doorframe with white knuckles, “Stell, I’m sorry,” His voice broke on the words, fracturing into a dozen pieces.

“No.” Her own was surprisingly steady now, and she stood, pushing herself up, “No.” She didn’t know what else to say, what someone should even do in this situation.

The war is over.

Part of her wants to tell him, wants to celebrate because it’s all they’ve worked toward. But with this between them? She can’t, but she can see it in her mind’s eye. How she’d kiss him senseless if everything between them was alright. How they’d race from home to home, spreading the news. Finnick would find musicians and drag them to the Square, Stell would scowl while fighting a smile as he pulled her into a dance in front of the entire District.

But instead, she clenches her teeth together, not even glancing at him as she trudges by, heading towards the front door, “That deal saved your life.” Her fingers tighten around the doorknob, the dog lets out a low whine, wanting her to finish opening it. “You were going to bleed out, that wound was too deep, too bloody.” His voice is hoarse from crying, and when she looks back at him, she can see the tearstains running down his cheeks. His hair that falls over his forehead is now in total disarray.

The anger flares in her chest, “I never would’ve made that deal.” Her words shake, and with her free hand she points an accusatory finger, “If that were you,” She takes a staggering breath, “I wouldn’t have done it. And if by some,” She shakes her head, her hand lowering, “Some way, I had.”

“You would’ve rather died?!” His words break as they rise in volume, “Than live and-“

“The Trade isn’t living!” Stell cries, fingernails once again digging into her skin, “Finding my family butchered isn’t living! Being raped and beaten and watching those children die year after year after year-“ She turns, flinging the door open so hard that it slams into the wall, the doorknob busting through the drywall with a crack.

Her feet carry her down the steps as her mind short circuits. Behind her, Finnick sobs once more, his fist and foot creating another two holes through her wall before he slides down it, face hidden in his hands.

Stell wraps her arms around herself, squeezing as though she can keep herself from falling apart. Otter trots at her heel as she strides towards the beach, away from the lights that line the walkways of Victor’s Village.

When her feet hit the sand, she stumbles once before catching herself and continuing towards the ocean. Emotion builds and builds inside her, begging for an escape. She shoves it down, gritting her teeth and then forcing her eyes shut. She stumbles again, this time letting gravity take her and as Stell’s knees hit the beach she slams her blood-crusted fists into the sand and screams.

She screams until her throat is raw and she feels blood dripping down the back of it. Over and over, her emotion meets the world in the same continuous rhythm as the waves hitting the sand. On the last, her voice breaks and she gasps in a breath, hands coming up to her throat.

Behind her, the sand shifts, and Stell lets her head hang forwards, “What do you want?” Broken words.

Syrus makes his way forward slowly, then lowers himself down in the sand beside her. Carefully, he wraps an arm around her shoulders before pulling her closer. Stell turns, burying her face in his shoulders as the tears start, “You’re alright.” He soothes, pulling her into his lap fully, ignoring the pain in his shin when her prosthetic knocks into it.

“Finnick-“ his name comes out as a gasp.

“Rowan’s with him.” Syrus interrupts, running a hand down her back. Exhaustion suddenly replaces everything else that had built up inside her and Stell lets her weight lean more into Syrus.

She must drift off to sleep, because when she wakes again, she’s moving, held in Syrus’s arms. She opens her eyes, catching sight of Otter following behind him, “Sleep, Stell.” Syrus murmurs, his words quiet. She’s too exhausted to argue, and lets her eyelids slip closed again, resting her cheek back against his chest.

Half asleep, she barely makes out two male voices, their sentences coming and going, “I don’t think they should be in the same house.”

“He told me, and it’s, gods, it’s fucked.”

“No, no, I’m fine with him staying with me. He shouldn’t be alone either.”

“I’ll get her to bed then take the guest room.”

Someone’s calloused thumb strokes her cheek, their words registering just as she drifts off into a deep sleep, “She’ll be alright.”

Chapter Text

She wakes up with a scream already breaking past her lips, the force meeting her already raw throat so hard that she’s instantly wincing, hands gripping her own throat as she dissolves into a strangled cough, droplets of blood staining the blanket that covers her.

Laying at the end of the bed, Otter raises his head to look over. Her hands lower, eyebrows coming together at the white bandaging that’s carefully wrapped around each finger. She coughs again suddenly, red spotting appearing on the wraps.

The door to the room she occupies is pushed open, and Stell flinches, half expecting the mutation from her nightmare to stalk around the corner, her own eyes mirrored back at her, but it’s Syrus. He has the beginnings of dark circles under his eyes, his unkept dark hair sweeping across his forehead as he walks over, picking up the glass of water that she hadn’t noticed from the nightstand beside her, “Drink.” Even his voice sounds tired, and he holds it closer as her coughing subsides.

Stell listens, gulping down a mouthful, the liquid effectively soothing just a little of her sore throat. Her eyes stray to the window, where the first rays of light from the morning sun are just starting to streak the sky. Hands shaking, she startles slightly as some of the water spills onto her lap. Her expression must be concerning, because suddenly Syrus is sitting on the bed, “Hey, look at me.” His hand raises to cover one of hers where it holds the glass, and he squeezes it gently, “You’re in District Four.”

I know that, she wants to taunt back, but as she opens her mouth too, it dawns on her that she really does know. Her nightmare ended when she woke up. It wasn’t the creature from the Quell who walked into the room, it was her friend. Relief floods her system, and she leans back again into the pile of pillows behind her.  

The events of last night tumble through her mind and she shoves the feelings of betrayal and hurt away to focus on a simple fact: the war’s over. “I need-“ Stell coughs once as her throat burns with the words, then downs more water, “Mags.” Syrus backs up as Stell pushes back the blankets, revealing her crumpled clothes from the night before. Otter rises, jumping to the floor just as Stell stands up.

“Hang on now, maybe you should rest.”

Stell surprises even herself when she pushes Syrus aside, “No time,” Her words can barely come out above a whisper and she stumbles just once, her body as exhausted as her mind, as she goes down the hall to the top of the stairs.

Syrus trails behind her, calling out as her hand grips the banister, “Mags is just-“ He shakes his head as she pounds down the stairs, his words drowned out by the noise.

She doesn’t pay any mind to the house, doesn’t register the sounds of clicking silverware or see the occupied kitchen table until she’s steps away from the front door, “Stellar?” Stell whips around, backtracking two steps at the sound of Mags gently calling out her name.

The woman who’s become a mother to her sits at the kitchen table, her cane resting against her chair. A smile spreads across Stell’s face as she approaches, sinking down to her knees in front of Mags’s chair. Stell gathers Mags’s hands in her own, her eyes watering as Mags gives them a squeeze, “I got a call from Plutarch last night.” Stell whispers, letting the tears roll down her face. She brings their joined hands up to her lips, pressing a kiss on Mags’s wrinkled knuckles, “They captured Snow,” Stell looks to the clock above the sink, marking the time, “In five hours, the war will be over.”

Mags sucks in a breath, her chin quivering as tears of her own begin to streak down her cheeks, “It’s over.” Her words, normally weak and quaking, come out strong, “The children...” No more dead children.

Stell nods, “I’m not sure of the details, or what happens next…”

“We vote,” Mags still smiles through her tears, letting a chuckle out at Stell’s confused expression, “we’ve had a dream,” Mags explains slowly, having to pause every few words, “of what next,” a soft laugh passes her lips, “for decades.”

Stell’s expression slackens, “Decades?” She questions.

Mags squeezes her hands again, just once, then let’s go, “Amos will explain.” Her wrinkles hand comes up to rest on the side of Stell’s face, “But-“ Stell’s face turns at the sound of light footsteps coming closer from down the back hall.

“Stell?” Stell stands, pressing a kiss on Mags’s cheek as she does so, and turns to face the redhead standing quietly now in the doorway, “Are you alright?” Annie asks, eyes glancing down at Stell’s partially wrapped hands, “I heard screaming last night and went over to your house but you weren’t there and-“ Stell cuts off her rambling with a hug, wrapping her arms tightly around her Victor and burying her face in her neck, tears running onto her skin. Annie grips her back instantly, her breathing coming faster, “What’s going on?”

Stell leans backwards, her hands coming up to rest on either side of Annie’s neck, thumbs holding her jawline steady so she looks right into Stell’s eyes as she tells her, “The war’s over, Annie.”

The sound that comes out of Annie’s mouth is something between a laugh and a gasp, and then she’s clutching Stell just as hard as Stell is clutching her. “No more Hunger Games?” Annie asks, her words choked up.

“No more Hunger Games.” Stell wipes the tears from Annie’s cheeks with the pads of her thumbs and smiles.

Stell eases open her front door, her throat tightening as the hinges creak. Otter’s nails click along the wood floors as he saunters inside, leaving Stell momentarily in the doorway, “Oh good morning.” Rowan’s voice carries over from where she assumes is the living room, and she draws her shoulders back as she enters the rest of the way, gently closing the door behind herself.

The sight of the hole in the wall makes Stell bite the inside of her lip, but she moves on quickly, finding Rowan on the couch, his hands buried in Otter’s wiry coat. He looks up at her, a benevolent smile curling along his lips, “Hey,” He stands, and she hates the way his gaze softens. Hates that she can tell that he knows. “You’re up early.”

She glances up at the news projection. The Capitol’s City Circle is being shown, President Snow’s mansion a shining beacon. Stell pays little attention to it, she doesn’t think twice about the crowd that’s gathering outside. “So’re you.” She answers Rowan, her words stiff.

Rowan purses his lips together at her tone, “Listen, I –“

“Did he tell you?”

His silence is answer enough, but she lets it sit between them, long enough that he stops petting the dog and faces her more fully, then he validates, “He did, he needed to talk to someone.”

“And this is where you tell me that I should too?” Rowan lets out a breathy laugh and nods, “No.”

He hums, pursing his lips together for a second before he nods, more to himself than her, “So you’ll just hold a grudge? For what? Forever?”

“Darling I can hold a grudge like it’s someone’s hand. What he’s done is-“

“Did,” She scowls at his interruption, “What he did. One time, years ago, in an impossible situation.” She feels it with every word he speaks, the wall around her heart getting taller and taller.

Stell takes a step backwards, her lip curling upwards as she scoffs, “You’re on his side.”

“There are no sides, I’m –“

“Where is he?”

Confusion falls over Rowan’s expression, “Finnick?” She nods, “He’s upstairs, he-“ She doesn’t wait for him to finish, instead turning towards the staircase.

Otter rises, trotting ahead of her. Her chest tightens with each step, nails digging into the bandages on her knuckles with hardly a thought at all.

She turns down the hallway, stopping briefly in the doorway of what used to be her twin brother’s room. The duvet is pulled back, the sheets crumpled, giving away that Rowan chose to occupy it overnight.

No one’s slept there since Cephas. Stell hasn’t spent longer than five minutes in the room since he was killed. She winces as she presses her nails harder into her knuckles, scraping away at the bandages. Her next step lands harder against the floor as she continues onwards, finding the usual guestroom door closed tight.

Knocking isn’t even a consideration as she twists the knob, pushing the door open while remaining in the doorway.

He’s not even in the bed.

Finnick sits on the floor beside it, knees drawn up to his chest, arms encircling, forehead pressed against his forearms. His breathing is heavy, as though he’s trying to calm down. “Finnick.” His head snaps up at the sound of her voice.

Red blotches cover his face and his arms drop, hands pressing against the floor for a moment like he’s going to rise, but then he seems to think better of it, his shoulders rising as he sits back down. He opens his mouth to speak, and Stell raises her eyebrows at him and he closes it, “Nothing to say?” She leans against the doorway, “You’re not going to try ‘I’m sorry’ again? Think it’ll matter if you say it a hundred times?”

It feels good to be mean, to say what she feels, even if it’s not as sippy as she’d like. With a sore throat, it all comes out in a rasp. When Finnick speaks, his voice is clearer, “I’d say it a million if I thought it’d make a difference.” Stell’s lips twitch upwards, “Please, just let me explain.”

“There’s no need too,” She doesn’t need to explain that she’s not saying he’s forgiven, “That call last night, it was Plutarch.” Finnick’s expression becomes puzzled, concern mixing in as Stell coughs a handful of times before being able to continue, “They’ve captured Snow, they’ll be announcing the end of the war in a few hours, we’re going to the Justice Building to tell the others.”

His expression goes slack, his jaw dropping, “It’s…” he does stand now, looking at her as though he misheard, “They captured him?”

She nods, just once, the movement curt, “Meet us outside in two minutes.” Stell pushes off the doorway, then strides back down the hall.

The sunrise over District Four is giving way to a chilly winter day, but the sun still illuminates the way as Stell walks arm in arm with Annie and Mags. It’s slow going, and the entire way Stell tries to ignore the feeling of Finnick watching her from where he walks behind her, Amos, Rowan, and Syrus at his side.  

She ignores the knots in her gut that come with not knowing whether Peeta and Katniss are alive. For a few minutes, she wants to savory the feeling of victory as much as she can. President Snow was in custody – the war was about to end. Stell looks down at Mags, then over at Annie, and smiles once more, her steps near light as they make their way towards the Square.

Behind them, the men talk about rebuilding, apparently Rowan has been appointed to oversee the construction of some new buildings given his woodworking background. He needs Finnick’s help in choosing just how far back wooden buildings have to be from the shoreline to be considered safe.

Gently humming fills the air around her, the tune one that tugs at the threads of Stell’s memories. She looks at Mags, her eyebrows coming together for only a heartbeat before she remembers.

The first memory of it, like the majority that the song’s connected to, isn’t happy. They’d been ordered the Square, her whole neighborhood pulled from their homes just as it was about to be past curfew. Stell had held Cephas’s hand tightly in her own, their father not letting them stray further than a few feet away, as they trudged along. It had been hard to see in the dense crowd, but Stell remembers standing on her tiptoes, craning her head to get a glimpse of the men standing atop the gallows.

The head peacekeeper had shouted out the men’s crimes, charges that six-year-old Stell hadn’t understood. And then, as one, the men had started to sing. A slow, haunting tune that made gooseflesh appear up and down Stell’s little arms.

Days later, she’d started humming it, skipping around their home. Her mother had, in a rare moment, whipped her focus to Stell, dropping the sewing needles that had been in her hands as she stared at her daughter in horror. “Don’t sing that! Don’t even hum it do you hear me?” The reprimand had been a harsh whisper, as though someone would hear. “That’s a dangerous song.”

She had never asked why, and by the time she turned fifteen, she didn’t need to. Stell understood the words, knew the message they carried. She would whistle it on occasion, softly, barely audible as she stalked the streets.

Sometimes, people whistled parts of it back.

But it was Stell’s very first night in the Capital, after her and Reed had been reaped, that Mags’s sang it for her. She couldn’t sleep, was too afraid of the coming days, and had found herself standing in the living room of their floor at the Tribute Tower, looking out over the bustling city.

Mags had found her, took one look at her, with sorrow and consideration in her eyes, and Stell had crumbled. Tears had streaked down her face as Mags folded her into a hug, rubbing steady hands over her back as she sang gently. And as a tribute, the song had an entirely new meaning.

It was the song Mags would sing softly again, so quiet that Stell barely made out the words, once she’d made it home. The song once again transformed for a Victor.

And she hums it now, Stell picking up the melody in a voice that can’t carry a tune

“I'll catch you up
When I've emptied my cup
When I've worn out my friends
When I've burned out both ends
When I've cried all my tears
When I've conquered my fears
Right here in

The old therebefore
When nothing is left anymore”

Ebb and Riptide are already at the Justice Building when Stell and her cadre arrive. They’re seated in one of the larger living rooms, and Alexis is there as well, arms crossed over her chest as she stares at the news projection.

“Well, this works out, we were just about to call.” Rip flashes a short smile at them all, “You brought the whole crew.”

Stell glances at the projection, the crowd around Snow’s mansion has gotten larger in the past hour, “I got a call last night, wanted to discuss it with everyone.” She says half distracted, stepping closer to the image, “But what’s going on here?”

She glances over at Alexis, who purses her lips together for a second before answering, “He’s sheltering the children.”

“He’s what?” Amos asks, and Stell can feel his presence behind her as he walks closer.

Ebb’s eyebrows furrow together, “Did you not watch the broadcast last night?”

There’s a stagnant pause, then Syrus speaks up, “No, we took a break from it.”

“Well, bad night too.” Ebb doesn’t hesitate to inform them, “The Capitol put out a decree that all children under fifteen would be given refuge at Snow’s mansion if they just show up,” Stell’s stomach drops, nausea churning with each word, “but he hasn’t opened the doors, they’ve been gathering since the middle of the night.”

“They’re still telling the kids to come?” Finnick asks from where he stands beside the couch, well away from Stell, “Even now?” By his tone, Stell can tell he’s thinking the same thing she is.

President Snow is already in rebel custody. He shouldn’t be giving any orders at all.

But if Snow isn’t giving orders now, then who is? The gears in Stell’s brain work double time as she tries to puzzle it out. The first part isn’t hard, Plutarch can’t give mass orders like that, the only person with real power left would be Katniss, who’s missing and wouldn’t knowingly lead if given the chance, and….

Alma Coin.

“Why?” The question is whispered mostly to herself. Around her, the others continue watching, Riptide explaining that it wasn’t Caesar who delivered the promise of refuge either, but an unknown broadcaster wearing a Capitol pin.

Why would Coin give an order to help children but make it look like it was Snow? There was no gain for that, no increased support for her side, only, “Are those?” Annie mutters, squinting at the screen.

“Sponsor gifts.” Stell confirms, watching the little parachutes fall from the sky, the camera pans upwards, showing the Capitol hovercrafts that drop them. She watches as the children cheer, jumping upwards and lunging over one another to grab at the parcels.

They must be starving, she realizes, rations in the Capitol had to be lower with the supply chains in chaos. And for a breath, she’s glad the children are being supplied with food, hopefully fresh water too.

The camera zooms in, and everyone in the living room watches closely as a little boy with green eyes gently opens his parcel, folding back each corner.

Dread flows through her veins, she came so close to this being her future. Watching from afar as a starving child with green eyes opens a sponsor gift, watching and not being able to help, knowing that the odds weren’t in the boy’s favor, not even a little.

It’ll never happen, Stell reminds herself, a lump forming in her throat, my baby is dead.

President Snow was in rebel custody, Alma Coin was feeding the kids.

Stell lets out a shuddering breath, forcing herself to relax. And watches along with everyone else as the little boy, with light green eyes, explodes.

Chapter Text

Peacekeepers and rebel medics leap over barricades, rushing towards the children. The camera pans over, showing burning flesh, broadcasting dying screams. It echoes through the room that they stand in, each and every one of them…speechless.

“They won’t be able to save them,” Amos’s muttered words are barely audible, and Stell silently agrees. Like him, Stell knows how much of a body can be aflame before it’s too late. They’ve watched children burn before, watched and not been able to look away like the others do.

Ebb turns completely away, striding to the nearest window to gaze out across the Square. Riptide hangs his head in defeat, eyes glued to the tops of his boots.

From behind, Finnick intakes a sharp breath as the camera pulls back, showing just how many medics there are, red crosses stitched into white cloth. Some look young, too young.

The bombs explode again.

No, she thinks, watching limbs tear off bodies, watching a fireball land past a barricade, igniting the crowd that had stood there in stunned silence, they won’t be saving anyone. The screams seem to get louder, louder still.

Stell takes a step backwards, her eyes blinking rapidly, she staggers, turns, staggers again. More screaming, her head begins pounding, “Stell?” She slams her hands over her ears, shaking her head back and forth.

“No, no, no, no.” A near silent plea past her lips, thin fingers drum along her skull, the heels of her palms pressing down harder over her ears.

It doesn’t keep her from hearing the screams. Save me! Help! Stell!

But there’s nothing she can do; she can’t stop any of it. She tried to stop Snow, was victorious for only a fleeting moment before carnage rained down once more.

Had she even spoken to Plutarch yesterday? Had she imagined it? In her heightened state after arguing with Finnick, had the conversation all been in her head?

STELLAR!

Syrus appears before her, the edges of her vision blurring as a crease appears between his eyebrows, “Stell?” She can hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He doesn’t believe her either, doesn’t think that anything’s over.

Her grip on the world frays. The room surrounding her fades until she’s no longer there. Something brushes her hand, and she lets out a shriek, slapping it away. Blinking rapidly, the crushing smell of dirt and blood fills her nostrils.

It sticks to the back of her throat, coating the insides of her mouth and every exposed inch of skin. When she turns her head, toppled ruins surround her on nearly all sides, near-collapsed buildings that threaten to take her down with them.

She’s standing on a narrow path, crumbled remains of the buildings seemingly swept off to the sides to create it. Stell lowers her hands, looking down at her arms to see the tattered remains of her arena wear. The right sleeve of her once-long sleeved shirt is missing, Stell having cut it off to wrap around a cut that Opal had gotten on their third day. The left sleeve is still there, but covered in splatters of blood, just like her tan colored cargo pants.

Tan pants, tan shirt, tan belt, tan buildings.

“There she is!” Stell’s head whips around, looking behind her to see Harrison, his machete clenched in his right hand. Her heart pounds in her ears as she takes off, her own grip tightening around her trident.

She only gets a few yards before she slams into something solid, her nose letting out an audible crack before she can smell her own blood, a hand grips the collar of her shirt, “I got yah!”

“NO!” It morphs into a wordless scream as she struggles to get away.

“Stell?” A softer voice sticks out from the others, but she screams again as her shirt collar is tugged harshly, her shoulders gripped fiercely. She throws an elbow backwards, the pressure releasing before she’s staggering again, then falling. At first, she still sees gravel, can count the pieces of rubble, but right before her body hits the floor, it becomes carpet. Her shoulder makes impact first, her head following a beat later.

Nausea sweeps through her, saliva flooding her mouth mere seconds before she vomits. No stopping, she thinks frantically, instantly placing her hands against the floor to push herself up, coating a hand in the warm, meager remains of her dinner.

Someone gags, “Stell?” She stands on shaking legs, feet spread wide. A gentle hand touches her shoulder and Stell jumps, shooting an elbow backwards again into her attacker’s gut. She hears the breath leave their lungs just before she sweeps her own foot backwards, hooking their ankle with her own and pulling their feet out from under them.

A harsh set of arms wrap around her then, “Stop! Stell, stop it!” She’s lifted off her feet, “It’s not real,” the words rush past her left ear, “Whatever you’re seeing isn’t real.” The smell of dirt fades, the blood overtaking everything else. She can feel it, a stream dripping from her chin, pain blossoms over her face.

Something wet nudges at her hands, drawing her frenzied attention. A nose, a dog. It nudges its wet nose into her hands again. “Real?” She whispers, dragging her eyes upwards to look around the room.

She’s been brought close to the window, the curtains still drawn back so she can see out into the Square, where dozens of people mill about. Ebb is in her direct line of sight as well, his eyes wide, a spooked expression on his face, “The dog?” he asks, his voice wavering, Stell moves her fingers, tapping the bridge of the dog’s nose, “Real?” Ebb tells her, the confusion that lines his answer spurs her heartbeat upwards. Does he not know, can he not tell?

“You’ve got to give a firm answer,” someone hisses from behind her, drawing a guilty expression from Ebb as Stell stares at him wide eyed.

“Real.” He tells her now, “The dog is real.”  Stell lets out a breath as more of reality returns to her senses.

She relaxes for a moment, just to stiffen as she feels the arms around her, caging her to a broad chest, “Where are you right now?” His words heat the back of her ear.

“Let me go.” She can hear voices behind her, whispering, blood drips from her chin again, landing on Finnick’s forearm. It drips faster as she tilts her head down to watch.

Drip. Drip. Drip. The arms tighten, “Stell-“

“Finnick.” She cuts him off, she lifts her chin, “Let me go.” He does this time, allowing her to take a few shaky steps away from him, she lifts a hand to her nose, letting out a hiss of pain as she hears the cartilage crackle.

“I think you broke that.” Riptide walks up from behind her, holding out a towel. She takes it, wincing as she holds it to her broken nose. He pulls out a second, “Let me wipe off that other hand, it’s gross.” Stell glances at it, lips pursing together at the bile that’s on it. But she doesn’t say a word as he cleans it, “Will she need a doctor too?”

Stell’s brow furrows as he directs the question to the other side of the room. She yanks her hand from Riptide, turning on her heel.

Amos kneels on the ground, Mags standing beside him as they both keep their eyes on Annie, who lays on the floor, her hands clutching her chest, “No,” Amos’s eyes slowly rise, meeting Stell’s. She goes to move towards them, stopping when Amos gives a subtle shake of his head, “she’s just got the wind knocked out of her, that’s all.” His eyes answer the question swimming through her mind, you did this.

I hurt Annie, Stell’s chin quivers at the thought. For years, she’s kept her struggles away from her Victor. She never let Annie see her break, never laid a hand on her, never directed a mean remark towards her.

Annie’s words come out in spurts, “Is,” gasp, “Stell” gasp, “alright?” She was too kind, too good to be a Victor.

“Shhh,” Amos runs a hand through Annie’s red hair, “Just breathe, deep breaths.” Despite his advice, Stell watches as Annie bats his hand away, then pushes herself up onto her forearms. Drops of blood stain the floor around her, all leading to where Stell currently stands.

Stell clenches her jaw, wincing when the pressure spikes at her nose, “It’s alright.” She can barely hear Annie whisper from across the room. How can she say that, Stell thinks, how can she even look at me right now?

Stell is the first to look away, only to find that they’ve turned off the projector.

All eyes stay on Stell, and then Ebb is touching her elbow, trying to gently steer her away, “Let’s go get you cleaned up, yeah?” Stell’s still staring at the empty projection screen though, her mouth agape to let ragged breaths in and out as she keeps the rag against her broken nose. She doesn’t reply to Ebb, doesn’t move her feet when he tugs on her.

The memory that had overtaken her flashes through her mind once more, Harrison chasing her down, hunting her, through the streets of her arena. Fear floods her veins for one quick moment and then she’s moving, her head down as she strides quickly towards the exit, not saying a word, the panic of slipping into another episode driving her to get far, far away from those she could hurt.

“Stell!” Someone shouts after her, but she’s too distracted to notice who, “Annie!” Stell takes a hard right, feet loudly thudding against the floorboards as she makes her way down a narrow hallway.

“Let her go.” The words barely register in her ears, and then she’s taking a left, shoving a door open with her shoulder and collapsing onto the window seat on the far side of the narrow room.

Using her free hand, she pulls the curtains shut, darkness enveloping the space around her except for the small strip of morning light that pierces through the bottom. Stell draws her legs up, knees to her chest, and lets her head fall backwards, her eyes closing. There’s a steady beat of pain coming from her nose, and she uses it to ground herself in the present.

The war will be over

Hundreds of children were just bombed. Innocent, scared children. They weren’t expecting death, weren’t prepared, didn’t get to say goodbye to their loved ones. They were tricked, and then those offering help were killed as well.

A tear slips past her closed eyelids and Stell winces as she presses the rag harder against her nose. A soft creak sounds through the still room, “Stell?”

Stell sniffles, the movement causing more tears to roll down her face, and opens her eyes to see Annie slowly moving into the room, she shuts the door behind her, “Annie, don’t-“

“No.” The conviction in the girl’s voice makes Stell stop talking, “You’re going to listen to me.” They’re the sternest words Annie’s said to her mentor since her Games. Stell slides backwards a bit on the bench, giving Annie more room to sit down, “It’s hard to be firm when I can barely see you,” She mutters, her words making Stell’s lips quirk upwards.

Stell uses her free hand to open the curtains an inch, “Better?” She asks, Annie’s features coming more into few as more light streams in. The older girl sets her jaw, nodding curtly to her mentor.

“Yes,” She reaches forwards, carefully taking the rag from Stell’s hand, “I’ve got it,” She murmurs, scooting even closer and the girls’ knees touch. “I can handle seeing a bit of blood,” Annie tells Stell, her words confident, “I’m not as weak as you think.”

Stell’s fingers curl, “I don’t think your weak, Annie, I would never-“

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you have an episode.” She interrupts, “Not once in the past five years have I seen it, and I know you have them a lot. You keep that part of you hidden from me, just like you kept me hidden from the Capitol by insisting you mentor each year. But Stell,” Annie picks up the rag, folds it once, then presses it back against Stell’s nose, “You don’t have to hide it, I understand, it doesn’t scare me.”

The conviction in Annie’s voice and face remind Stell of when she first met her. Her very first tribute, a girl who was older than Stell herself. She hadn’t expected Annie to want advice from her, hadn’t expected her to be so kind given their situation. But Annie had shocked her, she’d been honest, been upfront.

“What do you want to get out of the Games?” Stell asks the question that Mags asked her just last year. She’d thought it silly at the time, but now, looking back, she sees how important it truly is.

“I don’t expect to win,” Stell doesn’t mask her judgement from showing at the girl’s answer, her sapphire eyes trailing up and down her body once more. She certainly wasn’t built like a fighter, “I’m not a Career. I just don’t want them to forget I’m somebody too. I don’t want to lose myself to the Games.” Annie Cresta doesn’t look away from Stell as she says it.

“Like I did?” It’s not really a question.

“Yes,” Annie tells her, “I hope you make them regret that.”

But Stell had let her down, partially, at least. She hadn’t been able to keep the trauma away. And when Annie broke, Stell harped on it to her sponsors. Look how human she is, look how much these children feel.

She’d kept her alive until that dam broke, an achievement she silently thanks Finnick for each day.

And afterwards, she did make them forget Annie was somebody, she’d made them believe Annie was still mad, forever shattered. It was the key to her protection.

“I never thought it would.” Stell mutters, wincing as Annie pulls the rag back. She doesn’t feel any more blood run down her face, “I’m your mentor, I’m supposed to be strong. I’m supposed to set an example.” Her eyes stay trained out the window, unable to meet Annie’s intent gaze.

A hand comes up to the side of her face, turning her head and blue eyes meet brown, “I could hear you in the Capitol,” Annie admits softly, and Stell tries to fight off the tightness that constricts her chest, “I listened to you scream and refuse to give in,” She settles other hand on Stell’s good knee, squeezing firmly, “You are the strongest person I know.” Annie tells her, “But I think it takes a lot more courage to ask for help than to shove everyone away.”

“I don’t need-“

“You do, Stell, having those episodes…” Annie shakes her head, “That’s no way to live, I know that. And yours look a lot worse than mine….no offense.” Stell snorts, the pressure causing her nose to start bleeding again, “Oh no,” Annie laughs softly, pressing the rag back up to Stell’s face. They sit in silence for a long while, Annie simply holding the rag, Stell studying her face.

She’d grown up, which was a silly thought, since Annie has always been older than Stell. But she seemed better, definitely better than right after her Games. Probably because she talked to her parents, she probably talked to Favian. She knew Annie had talked to Mags about her Games, hell, she’d talked to Stell about them too.

One of those talks was when Stell told Annie she had to pretend to never recover.

So, when Annie pulls the rag away, Stell murmurs, “Do you think I imagined it? The phone call?” Annie hums in thought, and before she can answer, Stell opens her mouth again, “It’s just…before…” She purses her lips together, her first Games flashing through her mind, “never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“No, no, it’s-“

“Crazy?” Annie huffs a laugh, “Stell, people have been calling us crazy for years, just tell me.”

Stell purses her lips, looking away from Annie once more before saying in a near whisper, “There’re parts of my first Games…that I think I remember. But they were in the recap,” She shakes her head, “wrong.”

“What do you mean, wrong?”

“The sequence of events, there’s a conversation I remember, and a fight, I remember it differently than what plays on screen.” Stell swallows, taking a deeper breath as her hands shake. Annie glances down at them as Stell keeps speaking, “I think my mind made up what I’d hoped happened,” She fumbles over the words as they come quickly, “told myself it happened that way enough that, maybe that’s the memory I’m left with.”

“You think that’s possible?”

Stell nods, “You tell yourself something enough, you believe it. I asked Mags once, recalled a conversation, she never saw it happen.”

“Who were you talking too?”

“Reed.” His name is a whisper from her lips. The memory feels hard to grasp, as though only thin tendrils whisp through her pounding head, “I told him he had to win, that he could do more with a lifetime than me.”

Annie doesn’t say anything at first, the pause long enough that Stell looks away from the window to peer at her face. Her lips are pursed together, eyes slightly narrowed. Slowly, Stell raises a hand to push the rag from her face, “Annie?”

“I don’t know, Stell. But maybe, if you let us help you, we could figure it out.”

Stell’s expression hardens, “And what would be the point of that?”

“You could be yourself again,” Stell scoffs at Annie’s answer, “no more pretending to be cold and cruel.”

“That’s what I am.”

“No, you’ve just had to be to survive, before-“

“There’s never going back to who you were before the Games.”  

Stell flinches when Annie puts a hand on either side of Stell’s face, but she doesn’t lunge at her, “They are the ones who are cruel, what they did to us, what they forced us to see and do. We carry it all, but Stell, some of it you have to let go of. They are the monsters, not you.”

Her jaw trembles, and Stell grinds her teeth together to try and stop it, “I don’t know how to be anything else.”

Annie smiles sadly at her mentor, “You were with him.” Stell bites the inside of her cheek as Annie runs a thumb over her jawline. She remembers laughing, smiling, spinning wildly on a dance floor. “We’ll all help; we’ll all take care of you.”  

A tear slips from her left eye, running across her scar to meet Annie’s awaiting finger, “It’s rotten work.”

Annie’s smile wobbles as she leans in, Stell’s eyes closing as she presses her lips to Stell’s brow, “Not if it’s you.” Annie pivots as she pulls away, settling her body against Stell’s. The younger girl wraps her arms around her Victor, resting her chin atop Annie’s red hair.

Neither one of them says anything else as they sit in the dark. They aren’t needed, the steady presence of another gives Stell’s mind something to cling too, keeping her here, in this room where she said goodbye to her family all those years ago.

Her head pounds between her ears, a steady reminder that she’s hit her head yet again, and exhaustion pulls her eyelids down. Stell gives into it, letting herself slip into unconsciousness, all the while thinking that Annie has always been stronger than her.

“Stell? Annie?” A soft thud follows their names, and Stell opens her eyes to find the lights have been turned on and Otter has hopped up on the end of the seat. She looks over to find Rowan halfway in the room.

Annie sits up, disentangled herself from Stell’s arms, “What time is it?” she asks, glancing outside as she does so.

“Just past lunch, you two slept for a couple hours, but it’s almost time to go.”

Stell rolls her shoulders, tilts her head from one side to the other to stretch out her neck, “Go where?” Her voice comes out raspy once more and she turns, putting her feet flat on the floor. She tries to breathe out her nose but is quickly reminded that it’s broken and she has to settle for mouth breathing.

“President Coin rang,” Stell’s gut tightens, “turns out President Snow just surrendered, the rest of the Capitol forces having turned on him after he bombed those children.” Her hands grip the edge of the bench, knuckles white, “She’s requested all Victors report to the Capitol, the train should be here in twenty minutes.”

Annie lets out a shaky breath from beside Stell, pushing herself to a stand, “I should go let my mother know, and I’ve got to pack.”

Rowan waves a hand, “Finnick said he’ll make sure she’s at the station, he’s asking her to bring a bag for you as well.”

Stell closes her eyes for a moment, the pounding not having dulled with rest. She swallows before asking, “Are you coming too?”

Rowan shakes his head, “I’m not a Victor, besides,” he shrugs, “someone’s got to watch your dog.” 

Stell looks to the scruffy dog that’s wagging his tail, “He’s not my dog.” Even as she says it, she lifts a hand to pet him.

“Well, he’s been sitting outside this door for hours so he still hasn’t accepted that,” Rowan walks closer, holding out a hand, “come on though, we should start walking.”

Stell ignores it, pushing herself to her feet, “Is Mags coming?” Annie asks, making her way towards the door.

Rowan nods, shiver running through him, “Yes, she’s insisted, even after I offered to look after her as well.” Stell lets out a snort, knowing just how insulted Mags’s probably got at the implication that she shouldn’t travel, much less that she wouldn’t be able to take care of herself if she stayed behind.

Rowan tries to catch Stell’s eye, but she looks away as the three of them make their way down the long hallway. “Syrus is going with you, though he’ll be dropped off in District Two.” Stell nods at the news.

“Alexis?”

“She’ll be here a little while longer.” They walk a few steps, “You look ghastly, by the way.” He throws over his shoulder, timing the comment perfectly as they pass by an ornate mirror that hangs on the wall.

Stell pauses and has to fight a laugh at the sight. The middle section of her nose is no longer aligned with the rest, and the swelling is already there. “I’ll have Amos fix it in a couple days.”

It’s a tense silence that falls around them, and Stell doesn’t see Riptide or Ebb as they make their way through the Justice Building. But at the news of Snow’s surrender, she knows they’re probably busier than before.

Stepping out into the sunlight, it’s clear that news of the Capitol’s fall has traveled fast. Every single person has abandoned rebuilding efforts in favor of celebrating with those around them. Delighted shouts fill the air, and from the top of the Square wall, she spies someone waving a flag embroidered with a Mockingjay. Smiles adorn nearly every face Stell sees, “He’s surrendered! Snow’s surrendered!” A little girl yells as she races over the cobblestones just outside the Square, yellow ribbons braided into her hair.

A man jogging by glances at Stell and Annie, his smile getting impossibly wider, “Thank you.” He nods at Stell, the genuine words lightening some of the weight that had settled on her chest. She nods back wordlessly, and he carries on without another word.

Rowan glances back at them as thought to make sure their still there, “Stay close.” He instructs as they walk on. Stell narrows her eyes, the sunlight not helping her headache.

Above them, a shopkeeper throws open his windows, letting out a loud whoop. It’s impossible to keep her lips from quirking upwards, and when she looks at Annie, she’s smiling as well. Even Otter seems to have a bounce in his step where he trots ahead of them.

They turn towards the main road, just to find it packed with bodies. The usual layer of dirt and grim that covers most roads and buildings is near invisible beneath the sea of people. Overgrown vines that Stell always thought made the streets look ragged suddenly have an air of charm in the triumphant atmosphere.

Stell lets out a laugh as she spies a young man climbing up one of the lampposts, a crumpled Capitol flag in his hands. Once he reaches the top, he holds it high above his head, letting out a shout, “DOWN WITH THE CAPITOL!” Voluminous cheers erupt around them as he tears the already tattered flag into pieces, dropping the fabric into the crowd below.

Stell reaches out, looping her arm through Annie’s, “Best we don’t get separated,” Even with Annie only a foot away, Stell raises her voice to be heard. Her teeth glinting in the sun through the smile she can’t get rid of as Rowan tries his best to shoulder through the crowd ahead of them.

“It’s over! The war’s over!”

“We’ve won!”

They pass by one of the open-air carts, the vendor manning the booth flashing an impossible smile when he catches sight of them, “Our Victors!” He calls, waving them over. Stell pauses, pulling Annie to a stop with her as Rowan continues, “Come on, here, here, it’s free today!” He holds out a rock candy molded onto a stick, the likes of which Stell hasn’t had in years.

She reaches out, noting the way the man’s eyes wander over the scars on her wrists as her hand wraps around it, he holds on for a moment, meeting her gaze, “Thank you Stellar,” He tells her, his words barely heard above the joyous crowd that surrounds them. “My little brother died in the Games, now I won’t have to worry about my children meeting the same fate.”

He pats the angry scar that circles her wrist once before letting go, Stell shrugs a shoulder, “Then it’s worth it.” She replies, smiling again as the man hands a candy stick to Annie.

“What happened to your nose?” he chuckles as he asks, motioning to Stell’s crooked facial feature.

She waves a hand at him, “Ebb tends to throw his elbows around when he celebrates,” She lies, shoulders easing when the man laughs right away, accepting her answer.

The girls turn, facing the sea of bodies that surrounds them. It seems everyone’s congregating the main strip. It’s Annie who tightens her hold on Stell, “Just focus on me if you have too,” she tells her, as though she knows the crowd will make her mentor uneasy.

Stell sticks the candy in her mouth, sugar melting against her tongue. I’m okay, Stell reminds herself, scanning the crowd for near-white blonde hair, but Rowan’s nowhere to be seen.

Exhaustion presses on the back on her mind, a lingering effect from her earlier episode. Stell shoves it down though, the task made easier by the infectious nature of the crowd around her.

The skeptical part of her has her eyes glancing up to the skies every few steps, keeping an eye out for white parachutes. Usually, she’d just keep an ear out for a hovercraft, but crowds make that an impossibility. Someone bumps their shoulder against Stell’s boney one, pushing her slightly back.

“Stellar Mere!” Her shouted name has her turning her head and she plasters a smile on her face before waving at the young woman who’s holding up a hand already. The woman beams at her attention, “Thank you!”

They make their way steadily through the crowd, Stell holding her head high as Annie, for the first time in years, lets herself do the same. No more hiding, no more pretending.

“Annie Cresta!” Stell catches sight of Annie beaming at a woman who rushes up to them, pulling Annie in for a quick side hug, “Thank you, both of you.”

“Hey, Stell, wanna say a few words to the crowd?” A man slides up next to them, directing the question past Annie as they continue to try and push forwards.

Head pounding and almost struggling to put one foot in front of the other, it’s the last thing Stell wants to do.

Stell gestures to the festivities around them as she licks her candy stick, “And pause the celebration?” She shakes her head, “No fucking way.”

“We have a train to catch.” Annie tells him.

“And candy to eat.” Stell holds up the half-eaten treat, hoping she’s putting enough energy into her words to make herself pass off as fine.

The man throws them a bewildered look, “Well how do you expect to make it through the crowd?” The three of them have barely moved since he’s come up, “Words spreading that Market Street’s the place to be –“

“MOVE IT!” Stell barks, all heads around them whipping her way, “We’ve gotta get to the train station.” People part before her and she pulls Annie along as they stride away, Stell calling over her shoulder, “Like that!”

“Hopefully you’re getting that nose fixed too!” He shouts back.

People pat her and Annie on the back as they pass by, Stell grinning the entire time as people continue to get out of their path. “Annie! Stell!” Rowan pushes through from the opposite way, clearly distraught, “There you are, I told you to stay close!” Annie holds up the candy stick, “What is that?” He glances around, “Where did you even get it?”

Stell sticks the rock candy into her mouth for a moment before pulling it out with a pop, “From Ralph.” She tells him, “And it’s rock candy,” Her eyebrows pull together, “do you not have candy in District Seven?”

Rowan scoffs, “Of course we, oh come on, we’ve gotta go.” He maneuvers himself to be behind both women, pushing them gently. “We can’t miss the train.” He mumbles under his breath.

“Well, they aren’t leaving without me.” Stell quips, eyes glancing upwards once more. The crowds around them are a sea of color and movement, driving her awareness upwards as well as her heartrate. Despite it, she silently fights to portray the perfect picture of a relieved Victor.

“STELLAR!” She looks back over her shoulder, catching sight of Ebb on a rooftop with…is that a liquor bottle? He waves it twice in the air before bringing it to his lips, his grimace after apparent even from afar. Their eyes lock, “We’re seeing it!”

“Someday this all has to end,” fifteen-year-old Ebb mutters, his shoulder resting against Reed’s where they all sit on the beach. “the Reapings, the beatings, the Games.”

Stell whips her head around, peering over Reed’s shoulders to double check that no one else is nearby, Reed squeezes her thighs with his hands, “Relax, Mere, no one else is around.”

She huffs, “Doesn’t hurt to double check,” She looks to Ebb, “and someday, but I doubt we’ll be alive to see it.”

She shakes her head as she laughs, sending a salute his way. “Well, I guess he’s not working.”

“The only ones with any sort of agenda for the next hour are Victors,” Rowan mutters, having to lean down close so they can hear him, “and neither of you seem to realize that.”

“Is he always this snippy?” Annie asks.

Stell shrugs, bringing a hand up to her throbbing nose. It makes a crinkling noise at her touch as she answers, “Kinda.”

The girls share a look, Annie breaking into a fit of laughter. Stell’s head pounds so hard she winces, no one noticing the slight hand she brings up to her temple for a moment before dropping it back down.

Rowan ushers them along the rest of the way, and soon, the train platform comes into view. Stell’s eyes first look to Mags and Amos, the former leaning heavily on her cane, her posture juxtaposed to the beaming smile on her face as she listens to Amos speaking with an older man Stell doesn’t recognize.

Her gaze roams down the platform, her chest tightening as she takes in the sight of Finnick. He leans on the station railing, broad arms crossed and resting atop it. His bronze hair looks as though he’s brushed it since this morning, and -

His eyes are already on her, his entire expression softening when she doesn’t look away.

A small crease appears between his brows, the expression one that always appeared before he’d ask if she’s alright. Stell nods before thinking the action through, that line smoothing just a little.

“Stellar?” Stell looks away from Finnick, finding Annie’s mother standing before them.

Stell smiles, “Hi Geillis,” she greets, wrapping the woman in a hug that she returns firmly, “we’ll be back soon.”

They pull apart, Geillis Cresta resting her hands on either side of Stell’s face, tears are pooling in her eyes, “I’m so happy for you all.” She tells her.

Stell can only smile a bit wider, then she’s passing Geillis off to Annie and moving past her to ascend the stairs to the top of the platform. Her eyes trail over the train that’s stationed, a low hum emitting from the machine.

Not once has she ever been excited to board one of the high-speed trains. Not even the first time, when she’s gawked at every inch of it. The platform under her boots has never seen the joy and excitement that occupies it in that moment.

“Oh hey there,” She looks over at the man beside Amos, who’s now grinning in her direction. Stell lets her eyes flick up and down him, taking in his pressed pants and felt hat, “I’m Georgie,” He holds out a hand, “I’ve never seen District Four,” Stell just glances at his outstretched palm, making no move to shake it, “fresh from District Six and Amos was just saying how,” His voice falters the longer he holds his hand out, his gaze going up to Stell’s face as he closes his mouth.

Stell lets out a breathy scoff, “I don’t care.” She quite literally waves him off, instead she goes up to Mags and wraps an arm around her shoulders. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Finnick push off the railing, he raises a hand to the crowd, the movement making Stell fully look at him.

“Sorry,” She hears Amos apologize, “She’s a bit of a bitch.”

He waves to a few people who cheer, a smile spreading across his face. Her lips purse together as she notices his clean-shaven face, “Stell! Stell!” Her head turns towards the sound of her name, the smile near automatic as she catches sight of Riptide making his way through the crowd, his son sitting atop his shoulders.

Nearly every fiber of her being wants to go somewhere quiet, but she squeezes Mags’s shoulder before stepping away, walking up to the railing to stand a few feet away from Finnick. Riptide’s made his way to the space just below, where he stands with a smile that threatens to split his face in two, “You should be with your wife!” Stell has to raise her voice for him to hear her, and he chuckles.

“I just was!” He yells back to her, “She agreed I should see the Victors off! It’s only right if I’m to be mayor!”

His son laughs at the words, his teeth showing when Riptide hops up and down in place, jiggling the boy around whilst holding onto his ankles. “Mayor!?” Stell parrots back.

“Leadership had an emergency meeting right after the surrender! Daphne informed us her father thought it best if he step down! She suggested me and a vote confirmed it!”

Stell grips the railing as she shakes her head, leaning forward so she doesn’t have to yell as loud, but the words still scratch her throat, still make her head pound, “Did you tell them how many times you’ve been in stockades!?”

Riptides throws his head back laughing, his son burying his little hands in his adoptive father’s hair. Stell’s heart constricts as she watches the boy, and for a second, she thinks of all the children who were murdered hours ago, she thinks of her own baby.

She thinks of the boy’s biological parents, who lie dead at the bottom of the sea. She thinks of the tributes she’s lost. She thinks of Reed and Cephas and her parents. Of Fetch and Evan.

“I think you’ll be a great mayor!” Finnick’s voice pulls her from her thoughts, Stell glancing over at him. He’s moved closer, his shoulder nearly brushing her own.

Riptide inclines his head, “Well, I appreciate the support! It’ll go a long way having you two in my corner!” He lets go of one of his son’s ankles, “Now get going! You all have an execution to get to!”

Finnick yells a goodbye, backing away first as Stell leans over the railing with an outstretched hand. Riptide takes it without question, and Stell gives it a hard squeeze, “I wish they could see this.” She tells her childhood friend, glancing in the direction of the graveyard.

In response, Riptide looks up to the sky, “They can,” he tells her, his words so sure and firm that for a moment, Stell believes him, “And they’re so proud!”

A tear rolls down Stell’s cheek, “Thank you for saving my life!”

 Her eyes stay locked on his, and for a moment, she sees him as a boy again. She can hear their laughter merging with their friends as they race down the beach, splashing in the waves. She can see him waiting at the edge of the crowd as a peacekeeper lashed her back raw. See him with his around her brothers’ shoulders as they watched her leave for the Capitol.

“You would’ve done the same for me!” She squeezes his hand again as he swallows thickly.

They let go of one another at the same time and Stell takes a step back, turning towards the open door of the train. Amos, Annie and Mags have already gone inside, Finnick stands in the doorway, a hand gripping the frame.

Otter wags his tail in the midst of everything, glancing between Stell, the train, and Rowan, who guards the top of the steps with Geillis at his side. Stell shoots Rowan a look, “Don’t lose that dog.”

“I thought you said he wasn’t yours.”

“Doesn’t mean I don’t want him around when I get back.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but three loud beeps cut him off, signaling that the train is preparing to depart. Instead, he just raises his eyebrows at her, a look that Stell mirrors back as she steps towards the door.

Finnick moves aside easily, his hand hovering over the small of her back as she boards. She feels Finnick step on behind her, and the silence that surrounds her as the door slides closed is deafening.

Stell takes a step forward, bracing a hand against the wall as she closes her eyes, her head still pounding. “Everything okay?” It’s Syrus who asks, and Stell nods.

“Just tired,” She opens her eyes, turning her head to look over at the sitting room where he stands. Finnick’s moved silently through the room, headed towards the bar.

Stell watches as Amos places a hand over the bottle he reaches for, giving a stern shake of his head. Finnick half turns, “Can I get you anything?” Her eyes flicker up to meet his, her jaw clenching.

She looks away, back to Syrus, who has his hands stuffed into his front pockets, “I’m gunna go lay down.”

Syrus nods as Amos calls out, “We’ll grab you when dinner’s ready.”

Moving down the narrow hall to her room takes more effort than it should. Stell’s highly aware of just how much weaker she still is as she forces one foot in front of the other, a hand trailing along the wall.

Her door opens automatically, the plush carpet soft even under her boots. It takes mere moments for her to close the space between the doorway and her bed, Stell letting out a sigh as she sits down, shedding off her jacket and boots.

Elbows rest on her thighs, and she cradles her head in her palms.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Her head pounds, Stell feeling as though each beat rattles her fragile body. She lifts her face to the opposite wall, finding her reflection in the mirror.

Sapphire eyes scan the myriad of scars scattered across her nose, cheeks, and chin. The aggressive, flawed flesh that bisects her eye. Her clothes she once filled out hang off her shoulders, her once well-muscled arms near thin, her crooked nose.

Ladies and gentlemen! The most beautiful girl in the world!

Stell closes her eyes tightly, turning her head before opening them once more. The names of her past tributes taunt her.

Lando Faris

Annie Cresta

Vincent Tukhart

Molly Watik

Quinn Stevens

Poppy Sander

Maxx Val

Evelyn Howard

Michael Upton

Jade Xide

She remembers each and every one, remembers painting a line through nine of them on her way home after every Games. And there, the black paint still bold, are the two names she added last year.

Finnick Odair

Stellar Mere

Carefully, Stell lifts her head, thin fingers reaching for the dresser. She opens the drawer, carefully pulling out the jar of black paint that’s lived in the corner alongside a thin brush for the past six years.

Stell looks back at her reflection for one more moment and tries to remember what it felt like to be brave and kind. Her tortured body taunts her, a direct representation of her soul. Pursing her lips together, she looks away and dips the brush into her paint with shaking hands.

Stellar Mere