Archive of Our Own

Hax wins the 68th Hunger Games by driving an icicle through District Eight's neck.

His fingers are swollen purple from gangrene and tear alarmingly, stuck to the ice, when he tries to unclench his fist. There's blood everywhere, already freezing on the cold floor of the cave. Hax hunches over the District Eight tribute's rapidly cooling body, heaving. Nothing comes up; he hasn't eaten in days. Faintly, he can hear the sound of blood dripping down his hollow cheeks.

He can't sleep yet. Not yet. Hax swallows thickly as the cannon fires, mouth filled with the cloying taste of iron. He claws his way out of the cave to the whirring of a hovercraft. When the ladder unfurls in front of him, he practically ties his mangled hands into it, too terrified of accidentally letting go. Then he’s being pulled into the body of the hovercraft, and Hax is too tired to care. He sways into unconsciousness as gloved hands descend on him.

-

Soft, messy white hair falls like a curtain over his face. Hax brushes it aside and stares at himself in the mirror, disbelieving.

It's thoroughly disconcerting how familiar, yet alien the face in the mirror is, like someone had taken the idea of him and cut away everything flawed and real. His nose and lips are too perfect and his cheeks flush a cherubic pink. His eyes are pale and prismatic and blink prettily from under white eyelashes. Distantly Hax thinks that they resemble chips of ice. He's not sure what the surgeons did to him, but he can't spot any trace of his pupils. He thinks, also, of being blind.

He pinches himself. His skin is too-soft under too-soft fingers. Gone are the calluses from hauling up rope nets, or the jagged scar on his ankle from where he'd gotten a fishhook stuck in it or any trace of imperfections at all. Hax thumbs the hem of his shift, too terrified to see anything else.

The person he sees isn't him at all. He thinks he might throw up.

“They did a good job,” Mongey says from behind him. Hax jumps. “Really leaned into the snow aesthetic.”

-

In hindsight, maybe Hax should've paid more attention during media training. The joke—recurring conspiracy—was that the Games were 10% about physical performance, knowing how to run and survive and kill, and 90% about putting on a good show for the Capitol, being memorable and compelling and interesting. Someone they had to keep alive, no matter the price of sponsorship.

It was just something that seemed so natural that Hax hadn't seen the point in formal, rigid classes on it. He'd attended, of course—he's always been a good student. He's just not really sure how much he absorbed. So much of it just seemed like common sense. Talking to people—or well, not to them; more like talking while they were around (what was the difference, anyway?)—was easy.

It doesn't feel nearly as easy, now, when he sits down across from Cesar Flickerman, who smiles genially at him. “The guest of the hour!” Flickerman declares.

Hax tries to return it and feels the smile stick to his teeth.

-

Hax isn't really a Career as intended.

For one, he's a year short, seventeen instead of eighteen. Career tributes always volunteer at eighteen—they have the biggest physical advantage that way, have the longest time to train and prepare for everything in the arena. For another, he knows he's one of the most promising out of the crop of seventeen year-olds, but ultimately it's down to the trainers to pick who they want to mentor. Hax decides it’s too much uncertainty to wait for someone else to have the final say when it's as easy as raising his hand.

He isn't afraid. He's an orphan; he has no family they can threaten him with. If anything, it's better for the cameras if there's drama at the Reaping, provided the resulting tributes ultimately get shipped out to the Capitol with no incident. Hax’s always been lightning-quick—and the male Career they have lined up this year isn't fast enough. Hax gets the words out before the boy even stands up.

He glares daggers at Hax; Hax's fellow trainees, sitting in the front row of the Reaping, murmur, before they're sharply silenced by the instructors and coaches from the training center. They put on a good face for the camera, and there's no incident or public reprimand, but Hax can feel their frosty gazes drilling into his back.

This would never fly in One or Two—Districts with long established Career programs, that have the process polished down to every detail and long years of dealing with candidate rivalry. But Four's Career program hasn't been around for quite as long. No doubt the center is scrambling to come up with new contingencies, to make sure this never happens again.

Hax doesn't care, because he's the one making it up to the stage, beaming at the Capitolite escort. She clasps her hands together and smiles back, charmed.

-

Mongey is awesome. He also likes Hax, which is doubly awesome.

Capitol fashion is always fantastical and outlandish. Mongey's brand of it comes in the form of a shock of pink hair and furry, rounded ears just as equally pink. Hax wonders if he can actually hear out of them; or does he still use his human ears? Would that mean he has four ears? It's wild for Hax to think about. The chain around his neck is gold; his eyeliner is flecked with it. A multitude of rings decorate his spidery fingers. The craziest thing is a long, prehensile tail—pink of course—which can curl and grip tubes or small boxes or whatever Mongey needs it to. Hax startles the first time he sees it move.

He can never tell with Capitolites—their cherub-faced escort was in her seventies—but coupled with his demeanor, Mongey seems oddly young to be working as a stylist.

“I'm nineteen,” he tells Hax, chewing on the end of a pen as he reviews Hax's measurements.

“What? You're like barely an adult!” Hax exclaims. “Why the hell are you a stylist?”

Mongey shrugs at him. “I really needed a job, and the pay’s good. It's chill.”

“if you say so,” Hax starts, unconvinced. Okay, his stylist might not know what he's doing. That's not ideal; Hax can't say he anticipated that as a potential problem. Bad enough that his mentor doesn't like him. “I really hope you know what you're doing.”

Mongey must see some of the discomfort on Hax's face, because he laughs. “Dude, trust me,” he says, and when Hax meets his eyes, there's something hard and serious in them. “When you win your games, they're gonna know that I did my best to make it happen.”

“You haven't done many Games, have you.” Hax narrows his eyes.

“My first,” Mongey says cheerfully. “I'm going all in on you.”

Well.

Crazily enough, Hax doesn't immediately feel a sense of despair. His mind is racing a mile a minute, and he feels a spike of adrenaline. He's an unconventional tribute for his district. He has an unconventional stylist, sharp and clever if the way he studies Hax is any indication.

He's in uncharted waters. He feels the sudden urge to grin, and lets it spill across his face. Mongey smiles back.

He can make this work.

-

Hax remembers his pre-game interview distantly, like something out of a dream.

The girl from his district scowls at him when she gets off the stage. Hax can’t fault her; she's always been a quiet, stoic one, and even with Flickerman's best efforts, the interview falls flat, the host trying to coax faltering sentences and brief anecdotes out of a rock, basically. Hax figures she must be frustrated, and nervous besides. He can't say he shares her compunctions. He's always had a million things he wants to say, and the people at the Capitol are frivolous and materialistic compared to the District, but they're not hard to talk to. If anything, they might be easier to charm than his perpetually unamused trainers, so quick to giggle and smile as he rambles about the food or the weird fashion, or do you guys have fish here, how do they swim with all those jewels? Whatever’s on his mind, basically.

He smiles and waves at Flickerman as he settles down. “Wow, this is a nice chair,” he says.

Flickerman laughs, and the not-crease in his shiny face smooths out. Hax thinks the man should've stopped a long time ago with the procedures; there's an oddly plastic set to his features.

Well, okay, Hax knows better than to say that out loud.

“Quite so, isn't it? I've got a matching one,” Flickerman says, patting his armrest. “Small mercies, when I've got to be sitting in it for hours, for all the tribute interviews. So—Hax, District Four tribute, was it?”

“That's me,” Hax affirms. Then, because he can't help himself, he's been thinking about this all night—“The fish you have here are crazy colors; did you know that?”

Flickerman not-raises an eyebrow. It sort of freezes on his face, but Hax gets the expression. “I seem to remember jeweled carp being in season among the menageries a short while ago. Personally, I might have had a collection myself at one point; I can't quite recall. Have they caught your attention, Hax?”

“How do you even get them that color?”

Flickerman smiles. “We have all sorts of wonderful inventions in the Capitol. Color technology is one of the forefronts.”

Hax hums. “Does it go down past the scales, too? I can't imagine eating a fish that color.”

“Oh, no!” Flickerman laughs. “These ones aren't for eating.”

“See, I started thinking about a purple seafood bake, and I didn't know how to feel about that. All the fish I've caught are white or orange or pink. The open sea crews, though, I know they pull in marlin and bluefish. Bluefish is also weird—it's gray, did you know that?”

“I can't say I did,” Flickerman says. “Perhaps we'll all have the opportunity to try some after you win, hmm? You mentioned you worked on a fishing boat?”

Hax nods. “Yeah. Actually, I grew up in the north of District Four; that's where the water gets so cold, it freezes into ice even in the summer…”

It goes well, Hax thinks. Mongey gives him a high-five on the way out.

“Dude, you killed it out there,” he says.

Hax smiles at him. “Thanks, Mongey.”

Hax thinks about his interview as Mongey ushers him back to the dressing room, starts dabbing at his face with makeup remover.

You're a little younger than usual, aren't you?” Flickerman had asked. “What made you want to volunteer?”

“I couldn't wait,” Hax had said. “I really wanted to be here.”

And thinking about it—as cheesy as it sounded, as much as he was playing it up for the cameras—Hax realizes it's true. He can feel himself on the verge of something big, there on the stage, under the lights. He wouldn't have been able to live with himself if he’d let the chance to be something more slip out of his hands; go back to throwing nets and hauling catches until his hair grayed and his back stooped. Or wash out, like the second-rate trainers around at the center; when every trainee would rather work with a former Victor, someone with real Games experience.

No, there’s something in Hax that wants. He learns too quickly, gets bored too easily to live comfortably under the heavy yoke and meager resources the Districts are shackled under. There’s one clear ticket to that, as precarious and gory as it is.

When he comes back to District Four, it'll be in glory or a coffin.

-

Rowl wins the 63rd Hunger Games by poisoning the last remaining tribute, then strangling her to death.

Hax's watched footage from every game, but the only one's he's watched in full are the Quarter Quells, the first Game, and then the ten most recent, from Reaping to Victory Tour. He remembers Rowl; for fighting tooth and nail through an especially bloody and desperate game, and for scowling and snapping through his entire Victory Tour, in a way that had the media instructors shaking their heads.

But they don't have media instructors in District Seven, just trees and more trees, and those huge axes for felling timber that Rowl used to cut down tribute after tribute until Two broke it, head to hilt. Then he'd smeared his hand with poison and jammed it into her mouth, refusing to budge even when she'd screamed and snarled and bit off his fingers with a crunch. His other hand wrapped firmly around her throat and squeezed. Viscera tumbled out of his abdomen from the gaping wound she'd scored down his torso, knife stiIl lodged in his intestines. It'd been a race against time—blood against oxygen loss—which one of them would go first.

Rowl's the one standing here today, and Hax doesn't have the free time to memorize the names of long dead tributes. A total of nine kills; an incredibly high count for a non-Career tribute. Some of them mercy kills, including the scrawny girl from his district, when she'd gotten mauled by mutts.

Hax can't remember whether Rowl had a grudge against the Careers in his year. He feels a sense of apprehension regardless as the man turns in Hax's direction.

-

It takes up to his first day in the arena for it to really sink in to Hax—how stupid he was for wanting to be in the Games, to buy into the honeyed lies the Capitol had fed them to slip poison down easier.

The arena is a cold hell, jagged, snow-capped mountains ringing long-frozen rivers. Scraggly trees dot the gray plains, the same color as the sky above. Bitter wind howls, and there's a freezing chill that sets in as soon as the platforms rise up that never goes away. Hax instantly recognizes how important warmth—any source of heat—will be, and eyes the thermal blankets peeking out of the Cornucopia. Later, he’ll rewatch footage of his Games to see tributes—District Nine, male, and District Five, female—beat each other to death with frozen fists over a box of matches.

The gong goes off. He meets the eye of the other Careers and motions them towards the Cornucopia with a jerk of his head. Hax runs. There's a sword in his hand and a scrambling body on the ground in front of him. He tenses. The District One boy moves first. There's the wet sound of metal on flesh. Screaming. Cannons.

Hax had been afraid of blood at one point, as a child. Then they’d put him on a work boat, to earn his keep, and he'd had to gut and clean fish, sometimes hundreds per day. Slide a thin knife into the belly, pry it open, pull out wet, glistening organs. The first time he'd seen the bloody mess inside, he'd flinched and cried, and then mangled the carcass so badly they'd tossed it overboard. The second one, too. He couldn't keep his hands from trembling as he poked the knife in. Wasted catch.

The fishermen hadn't been pleased to lose quota to a sniveling orphan assigned to them as assistance. They'd kept him on the boat, even when the public school teacher started inquiring about his absences, until he could reach into a fish with bare hands and gut it quickly and efficiently. He got to go back to school, and his distaste for blood—he managed to tamp it down, even if it never went away.

People aren't so unlike fish, Hax thinks. A scrawny hand reaches for the same backpack Hax is going for, and it's easy to cut it off with a spray of blood and a crunch of bone. It then becomes a mercy to slide the tip of his sword through Eleven's neck, and the boy's screams of pain choke into a gurgle.

A cannon fires overhead. Hax exhales. It hasn't even been ten minutes yet.

The arena's descended fully into chaos. Hax's head swims with noise—yelling, screaming, the rasp of metal and the thud of falling bodies. The earsplitting roar of cannons. He's so hopped up on adrenaline that he twitches at anything. A flash at the corner of his vision, and Six is dead at his feet, impaled from where she'd been reaching for a ration pack.

He's watched so many Games; he knows how this goes. They secure the perimeter of the Cornucopia, pick up the best and most valuable supplies, but they can’t completely stop the non-Careers from stealing things away. Two boy curses loudy when his throwing knife misses Ten by a hair, and the boy, tall and stocky, runs with two packs slung over his shoulder and one in his hand. Hax makes a note of Three girl, scurrying away with a bundle of foil and what might be mines, as he yanks his sword out of her district partner's body. That could spell trouble for them later.

The rest, though, is the traditional opening ceremony bloodbath. Hax feels a surge of anger for those mentors—the ones who had so little hope in their tributes that they didn't even give them the basic advice of running away from the Cornucopia. It's always been Career territory, every year, but there's still scrawny tributes from Eleven and Twelve and Eight flocking in like moths to a fire, and Hax is covered in blood by the end of it.

It's a total of eleven kills by the end of Day One, cutting the tribute pool nearly in half. Hax makes up four of them. On the low end for an opening day, but he's not surprised. The chill of the arena is punishing. Hax's hands are stiff and clumsy, and his limbs feel sluggish, wrapped in a pervasive cold. And he's better off than most. One glance at Two girl shows that her lips are turning blue, and she tears open a thermal blanket and throws it over her shoulders, too desperate for warmth to use it more efficiently.

Hax saves his for now. An experimental touch of his jacket shows that the blood has dried fast to it. Impossible to get out. He rifles around in their secured supplies until he spots a thick, longer coat, and shrugs it on over.

He can still feel the chill through it.

-

“What's with all the—” Hax waves a hand at the blue, translucent layers the assistants help him into, nearly sheer over the black sleeveless turtleneck sitting tight against his skin. Sparkling crystals resemble ice, or fresh snowfall. “Aren't I supposed to be a snowman?”

Mongey stands a few steps back, eyebrows furrowed as he eyes the whole ensemble. He snorts at Hax's question. “It was fine for your interview,” he says dryly. “Parties are different; gotta make you look nice for them. It's a snow inspired look. You can think of it like a—” Mongey pauses, considering. “Snow fairy. More like.”

“A snow fairy,” Hax repeats.

“Sure, yeah. Let me know when you're done getting into everything,” Mongey says. “I have to fix your makeup and shit. They didn't tell me they were gonna make your eyes like that.” He sighs. “All my palettes are fucked now.”

“Sorry, Mongey,” Hax says automatically, even though there's a part of him that wants to lash out—Hax's brain screams at him when shadows move a bit too fast or colors are a bit too bright, or when sounds are too loud. He wakes up shivering and dry heaving in the middle of the night, can only let others touch him without jerking away after he swallows a handful of painkillers he's not even sure he should be taking anymore—and his stylist's biggest concern is worrying over different shades of blue.

He presses it down. It's not Mongey's fault.

-

Waves of sea-green hair; piercing blue eyes, magnetic in their intensity. It’s unsurprising how Rowl ended up with so many sponsors anyway for someone so deeply uncooperative with the media. After his district partner had woven a flower crown, nestled it in his hair—the image it made for was mesmerizing; unforgettable, even from the miniaturized window playing on Hax's screen.

Rowl is lucky he's pretty, Hax thinks, somewhat bitterly. At least he got to keep his own face, after his Games ended.

His flower crown is done up in white, the vines winding through it and down the sleeve of his flowy shirt a cool blue. Appropriately winter themed. This was supposed to be a celebration for Hax, after all.

“Congratulations,” Rowl says stiffly.

“Thank you,” Hax says, feeling equally awkward. He racks his brain for what to say next, comes up empty.

“Enjoying yourself?” Rowl asks, and Hax can hear the sarcastic lilt in his voice.

“No, definitely,” Hax says, with a wide smile he doesn’t feel. “I'm having a great time.”

Rowl snorts. “Alcohol helps. You have a lot of handshakes and stupid photos to get through.”

“I don't drink,” Hax says automatically.

“Shouldn't say that. People will take it as a challenge, to get you drunk.”

Hax raises an eyebrow. Tries to, anyway. He's still not used to makeup; his entire face feels like it's frozen. “Like you?”

“Me? Why would I care about what you do?”

Hax shrugs. “You were the one who brought it up.”

It’s incredible, but also mildly terrifying, how comfortable Rowl is in being abrasive to Capitolites. He scowls at the photographer that comes to take a photo. A reporter has to beg him for an interview, about how he’s liking Hax’s party; which the District Seven victor answers in brief, curt replies. Hax stares at him in amazement as a lady comes up to shake Rowl’s hand and he stares at her for several beats, and then sighs and reaches out with his own hand. She thanks him effusively and leaves.

Rowl sighs, and motions with his hand. “Balcony,” he says. “Less chance of getting interrupted that way.”

“Do you talk to everyone like that?” The wind is cool against his face. Hax can understand the feeling—by God was he tired of touching soft Capitol hands, giving perfunctory thanks; his face ached from forcing so many smiles—but he’d never expressed nearly a fraction of it so openly as Rowl. Hadn't considered it even as an option.

“Only Capitolites,” Rowl says. He scowls. It’s, impossibly, also beautiful. “I hate being here. I hate everything about the Games. How they can sit around treating District lives like cheap toys. Killing children for spectacle and entertainment. How fake everything is.”

“I can't believe you're just allowed to say shit like that.”

Rowl shrugs. “Allowed? Why not?” A bitter smile crosses his face. “I do everything they ask me to. So what if I have a temper for it?”

Hax doesn't know what to say. This entire conversation feels dangerous. “Wouldn't it be easier to fake compliance on the surface?”

Rowl looks at the glittering skyline. “Is that what you're going to do? Good, then. That's a much easier act to play.” He looks Hax in the eye, and all Hax can see is blue, blue, blue. “Hax. Did your mentor tell you?”

Hax tenses. “My mentor didn't tell me much. He was forced into mentoring me since I volunteered early—well. Out of turn. I wasn't supposed to, and a bunch of the trainers got super mad at me for it.”

“I saw that interview. I can't believe you wanted to be here. I'll never understand Careers,” Rowl says with a curl of his lips.

Hax laughs bitterly. “Well, if you want to get kids training to fight and kill, you have to promise them a dream. I'm awake now.”

“Good,” Rowl says. “Listen, Hax. Whatever character you picked to play at the beginning—you'll be doing that for the rest of your life. Me? I was disagreeable as hell. I didn't want to put up with any of their stupid bullshit. The Capitol thought it was funny; like some yapping, feisty small animal. Then Snow told me he had my parents whipped.” He closes his eyes. “That killed any chance of me really being rebellious. But I already had a role, you know? I was already onstage.”

“So you have to keep playing it.”

“Yeah. They like having a character who looks sullen and grumpy. But not one who really is difficult. So everything I do is tame, surface-level. A dog with a muzzle and blunted fangs.”

Hax stares at the night sky. “You probably could change your role to something easier, no? It might take a while, but there's no way it's not possible if you're smart about it.”

Rowl gives him a wry smile. “Well, I like being disagreeable. I hate the stupid Capitol. I can be honest in small ways like this.”

“So I'm—friendly. Open. Enthusiastic talker.” To be honest, Hax can't remember what it was like to be excited about anything in the Capitol. He feels tired. The three days he spent unconscious after his Games were the only good days since. Then he'd woken up with dry, burning eyes.

Rowl nods. “That's you.”

There's a knock against the open door. Mongey clears his throat. “I was told you headed off in this direction.”

Hax turns. “Hey, Mongey.”

Beside him, Rowl's face shutters. He sneers. “What do you want?”

If Mongey is perturbed by Rowl's demeanor, he doesn't show it. “I'm Hax's stylist. Wanted to check up on him.”

“I'm okay,” Hax says. He doesn't feel okay, but it's fine, it's whatever, it's a perfunctory question. “Rowl, be nice. Mongey's chill. He's helped me a lot.”

“Hey, uh.” Mongey waves awkwardly at Rowl. “Nice to meet you. Mongey here.”

“Rowl,” he supplies grudgingly.

“Are you sure you're good?” Mongey asks Hax. “You looked a little tired in there. I got you a—uh. I think it's a hot tea thing.”

“I'm fine, really,” Hax assures him. “Today's just been a lot.” He takes the cup. The tea is warm. “Thanks, Mongey.”

“It's chill. I'm here for you, dude.”

“You did a good job with him,” Rowl says abruptly. His face is faintly sour, like it physically pains him to talk to a Capitolite. “He looks young for—seventeen? It's a good angle.”

Mongey is quiet. “I hate that sixteen is legal in the Capitol. I wouldn't design shit like that for literal kids. It's fucked up.”

Rowl murmurs his assent. “It'll keep the clients off for a year? Maybe even more.”

Hax stares between the two of them. “I'm not a kid. I've killed ten people—”

“You're a kid.” Rowl fixes him with a hard look. “It's a good thing.”

“I'm not,” Hax says heatedly. He can't understand why they're being so patronizing.

They exchange glances. Then Rowl starts talking. Mongey's tail twitches uncomfortably.

Hax feels sick.

-

They make him watch it, over and over again, his final kill. So many commentators and show hosts remark on how novel, how exciting it was to use an icicle—definitely the kill highlight of the year. Each time he sees something new, the way the blood looked as it sprayed out of the carotid artery, the terror and mania in his eyes; how his disfigured fingers tore as he plunged the icicle down.

He sits frozen in place and smiles inanely at them. Then the prattling stops, and it's his turn to give them compliments and thanks for their kind remarks; answer their curious questions—What was it like? How did you feel in the moment?

What a stupid question. How do you think it felt to be choking on blood, freezing to death, hand mangled and useless; guided by pure animal instinct for something, anything to fend off the threat bearing down on you? To realize that something was a shard of ice; that your ruined hand could only stick to it by the congealing, wet flesh of an open wound? Hax had held that icicle in the same clumsy fist he’d once, as a round-cheeked child, used to hold crayons, scribbling messily on scraps of sail tarp. It painted the cave floor in splatters of red until the body underneath had let out a choking gurgle.

Hax knows better than to say any of that.

Mongey had told him to get his shit together and had him watch his pre-game media. The bright, clever figure waving from the top of the District Four float had seemed an alien to him. Hax doesn't know when that boy had died. He tries to remember how to wear that face, how to smile so widely and openly.

His throat is dry when he opens his mouth to respond. He answers honestly but not honestly at all.

-

Hax’s mentor doesn't like him.

Okay, Hax can't fault the man. Mentors are supposed to be given the pick out of the entire cohort for each game, for which tribute they want to mentor; but—well. The man is stuck with Hax instead, now. He eyes Hax balefully and looks as if he wished he was working with the other District Four tribute instead.

Hax doesn't bother trying to talk strategy with him. He shouldn't burn bridges with his home, but he has to win.

Mongey is a godsend, and far more helpful than a stylist is required to be. Hax is grateful for that. “It's gonna be good,” Mongey says. “Usually District Four’s all about water, the ocean, things like that. But we can lean into the snow and ice with you. All the winter stuff.”

“That makes sense, yeah,” Hax says.

“Can I see your scarf?” Mongey asks. Hax undoes it warily and passes it over to him.

“It's not like it's anything special,” he says as Mongey examines the fabric.

“Wool, yeah. District quality. But it's distinctive,” he says. He hands it back to Hax. “We can use this.”

-

Things start getting really bad the next morning.

If the first day was cold, then the temperature now is glacial. Hax feels the deep, aching chill crawl around his bones and knows immediately that the shelter they've set up in a cave—entrance blocked by tarps and traps, insulated sleeping bags and the Cornucopia supplies lining the ground—is unlivable. A sharp, howling wind rips through the entrance and makes them flutter wildly. His glove slips down as he's rolling up his sleeping bag and at first, he's too numb to feel anything. Then the exposed skin reddens, and pain shoots through his wrist. He yelps and instantly yanks the glove up.

“Fuck, it's cold,” District Two girl says.

“They dropped the temperature this morning,” Four girl says. She'd pulled last watch for the night, and her lips are purpling.

Hax winces internally and counts his blessings that he'd gotten to sleep through the night. He'd slept in all his layers, and even with the sleeping bag around him, the cold had seeped through. Still, though. At this point, the temperature has gone from a potential complication to an imminent threat. Hax does not want to freeze to death.

“We have to move camp,” he says. “It's literally too cold to be safe.”

Two’s district partner furrows his brows. “There’s no guarantee it’s better anywhere else. The entire arena’s probably fucking freezing.”

“Listen, if you were a Gamemaker, would you want all twenty-four of your tributes freezing to death?” Hax says. “There’s definitely somewhere else safer. Probably in closer proximity to the other tributes.”

One girl sneers. “Fine by me. Easier to pick off the cannon fodder that way.”

Packing up, Hax learns, sucks when your fingers are so stiff that just bending the joints hurts. They take as many supplies as they can. There’s a short argument about whether they should destroy the things they can’t, which Hax tunes out, because he doesn’t care whether some random tribute from Six picks up a javelin. He wants to start moving.

The arena looks just as bleak when they step outside, shades of pale gray and muted green under a white sky. A gust of wind swirls snow through the air. Hax squints at the terrain.

“Well?”

Hax shrugs. “We start moving.”

At first, Hax briefly entertains the thought that maybe the Gamemakers really are incompetent, and that they’ll all freeze to death, as they trudge through the snow. It’s an immense relief when he spots the glint of orange against the white. “Over there,” he motions.

There’s a din of snapping and rustling branches when they near the structure; about waist height, emitting a—warm!—orange glow, to Hax’s amazement, in a circular radius around it. A small bag leans against it. Footprints in the snow.

Hax spots the two terrified tributes clinging to the tree immediately. “Please don’t kill us,” one of them sobs. “Please, you can have anything, anything, please—” She screams. An arrow sprouts out of her leg. The other tribute scurries higher up into the branches. Hax can hear the District One girl nocking another arrow.

The rest of them run after the tribute on the ground. Hax gets there first. It’s not like she’s going anywhere, though; she seems frozen in fear beyond the arrow in her leg. Tears and snot mix on her face.

“Please don’t, please don’t,” She babbles as Hax unsheathes his sword. “I want to live. Anyone, please! HELP! HEL—” Her scream cuts off with a choking gurgle. Blood spills out of her throat.

A cannon fires overhead. Hax feels faintly nauseous. He wipes the sword off on her jacket and tries not to look at the tribute’s face. Behind him, he hears another cannon. There’s a soft thump, and he turns around to see the other tribute’s body on the ground. “Nothing on her,” he says.

“Nothing here, either.” District One boy nudges the body with his foot.

Two girl squints at the glowing structure. “What’s the thing?”

“I think it’s a heat lamp.” Hax places his hand against the orange surface. Up close, it’s not actually that warm after all. It’s still a godsend compared to the rest of the arena. He narrows his eyes at a panel near the base. “It’s activated for now. But looks like it can be deactivated.”

“They’re going to shut it off to force us to move.”

“Probably,” Hax says. He sighs.

He takes first watch that night and hopes no one hears him throw up.

-

Hax squeezes his eyes shut reflexively, then opens them with a wince. He resists the urge to rub at them. “Rowl, they hurt,” he says, voice nearing a sob. “Rowl—”

“Shhhh,” Rowl murmurs. “Don't touch them. Where are your eye drops?”

“I have them on me somewhere.” Hax fumbles at his jacket with his right hand, left clamped over his eyes. He pulls out the tiny bottle and lines it up roughly over each eye, squeezing hard. Excess liquid runs down his face like tears.

“Better?” Rowl asks.

Hax sighs shakily. “Better,” he says. His vision is blurry; all he can see are blobs and patches of light and color, but the pain recedes somewhat. It'll be back later, but that's something for a future Hax to deal with. “Rowl, do your flowers…?”

“Yes,” Rowl says. He turns to look at his arm, picks absently at one of the flowers running down a garland of vines. Elegant and beautiful in the way they twine around and twist in and out of his skin, strategic folds cut in the sleeve of his shirt to allow flowers to sit both below and above the fabric. “It gets the worst when they grow; the roots go down to bone now, you know? Poking holes in my muscle. My arm aches every morning. ”

-

It's been a while since the last day he heard cannons.

It makes Hax uneasy, because he figures the Gamemakers must be getting antsy about the lack of action. He braces himself for whatever sadistic bullshit they'll be coming up with soon to keep things interesting for the viewers.

They're camped by a heat lamp at the edge of the arena, on the slope of a jagged mountain. They'd tracked the Ten boy here, but all they'd found were traces of an abandoned camp by the time it got dark and they'd had to run for a lamp.

The next morning, the lamp burns a merry orange still when a shadow blots out the sky. With a series of sharp cracks, the face of the mountain falls towards them, crumbling into chunks of rock and ice and snow.

District One girl curses when the avalanche tears through their supplies and knocks the half-unstrung bow out of her hand. Shards of ice hit her in the face and slam her into the ground. Hax doesn't bother with trying to grab any supplies and starts running.

The way down is precarious. His feet slip against the shaking ground, but he doesn't have the time to look carefully for footholds when the entire mountain is coming apart. He steps loose on the side of a rock and his heart flies up to his throat in panic. He blinks and jerks to the side by instinct and narrowly avoids getting crushed by a mass of ice and snow. It tears a gash down his leg instead.

By the time he makes it down, Hax is nauseous with exertion. He sits down heavily on a tree stumps and takes inventory. The ankle on his leg that isn't bleeding feels funny, inflamed. Behind him, the mountain has been completely leveled. The empty space in the ring of jagged peaks sticks out like a tooth gap. He has no idea where the rest of the Careers are, but he has effectively nothing on him except what he'd been wearing. His sword, strapped across his back. Several throwing knives. Rope. A handful of jerky he'd tucked away; they'd agreed to pool their food, but Hax is smart enough to know that keeping your best interests in mind means keeping things from your allies, sometimes. No food, otherwise. No sleeping bag.

He needs to recover some of their supplies. He's fucked, otherwise. With a sigh, Hax tries to stand up, and panics briefly when his aching muscles refuse to obey. He jerks himself forward and succeeds this time, trying to shake the limp out of his gait as he walks.

Hax spends hours tracking down the scattered packs, which is time almost completely wasted in the end. The avalanche had sent their supplies tumbling far into the surrounding forest in all directions. Hax opens up a torn bag to find the cans inside smashed, their contents congealing in a soupy sludge. A rapidly freezing puddle of liquid seeps out underneath, smelling like rot. Useless.

When the next few bags he checks are like this as well, Hax starts to suspect it's by design. Had to level the playing field, he thinks, with a bitter quirk of his lips. It's by sheer luck that he finds a sleeve of crackers, half crushed in the snow; a tin of some spongy protein. A ripped thermal blanket that might keep him from freezing to death at night, if he wraps it around himself right. The packet of dried fruit he finds is open. Hax mourns as he discards any piece that's been touched by the snow. It leaves him with not much at all. He suspects the snow and ice are made of some artificial liquid. No real water would spoil food this fast.

Hax walks farther, ringing the perimeter of the destroyed mountain. His eyes widen when he spots the burlap bag in a clearing, marked with the notch they used for food. He has it in his hand—heavy, it must have a lot in it; mostly edible, he hopes—when he hears the footsteps.

District One girl steps into the clearing. She's missing an eye. Half her face is an open, bloody mess, and there's no way the ice is normal if it's corrosive.

Hax gives her a tired smile. “Have you seen the others?”

“Drop the bag,” she says. Her throat is hoarse.

Hax freezes when she notches an arrow at him. His eyes widen.

“I said, drop it,” she repeats, louder.

Hax turns and runs. He hears an arrow whistle past his head, and the only reason he lives is that he anticipated having to duck.

The blanket is so much worse than his sleeping bag. He feels cramped and pinched, having to shuffle his knees close to his chest to minimize surface area, and impossibly still cold.

Two girl's cannon goes off that night. Hax feels nothing for her.

-

Hax stares at the bottle of painkillers in his hand.

He's been prescribed them for his stupid fucking eyes, two a day, with water. He frankly has too much bullshit to deal with to be in persistent physical pain on top of everything. He takes the pills.

The next day, he stops getting the headaches that made him want to brain himself against the nearest hard surface. It's a pharmacological miracle. His eyes still hurt.

Hax is terrible at being organized, but he really tries to be diligent about his medication. He takes two a day between too many media appearances and showing his face at a menagerie of Capitol events and terrifyingly, meeting the president.

It's some odd day, sandwiched between all his other days, that he forgets on. He'd been invited to a party the night before that stretched well into the early morning, and Hax hates not getting enough sleep; by the time he gets in the car the only reason he hasn't picked a fight is that someone spiked his drink with something so strong that he can barely walk straight. Three hours later, he has to get up for a media appearance. His head is ringing. His mouth feels like cotton. None of his joints bend right. Microphones bristle like lances at his face. Then he has a photoshoot, Mongey's saying something about his Victory Tour happening soon; the ring lights are blindingly bright, his mentor won't fucking talk to him. Rowl's in one of his moods where he's a bitch to everyone and Hax has no patience so he yells at him too.

So Hax forgets that he'd already taken his meds. He drops two pills in his glass of water and gulps it down. Then he passes out on his bed, hoping he won't wake up.

Incredibly, Hax wakes up and he feels…good. He gets up and glides into the overly fancy bathroom and turns on the sink and just stares at the running water. Distantly a part of him is screaming to not waste fresh water, about how difficult it is to filter the salt out, but that doesn't seem so important right now. He puts his hand under the spray. It feels good. He giggles.

Everything in his head feels floaty. It’s oddly nice. His dreams have been lurid, terrifying, ever since the arena. This must be what a normal dream feels like, the good kind. He looks out the window and admires the way the sun illuminates the clouds.

There’s a knock. He drifts over to the front door and opens it.

“Hey,” Mongey says. “You good to start getting ready now or do you need another thirty minutes?”

Hax blinks. Was it really that late? “Now is fine,” he says. Mongey comes in.

“Dude, are you okay?” Mongey asks as he’s gluing rhinestones to the corner of Hax’s eyes. “I’ve never seen you this quiet.”

“I’m okay,” Hax says. He gives him a big smile. “I woke up today and nothing hurt, Mongey, it’s incredible.”

“That’s awesome, Hax.” Mongey’s brow furrows. “There’s like, nothing else?”

“That’s it, I think.” Hax exhales. “I don’t think I’ve had a single good day since the arena, you know? Like it’s always something hurting or just all the other shit and everything is so overwhelming and stressful—I think I’m just really enjoying having a break from that.”

Mongey’s packing up his supplies when it wears off. Hax blinks and suddenly the mirror is too bright again, there’s a headache spiking between his eyes and he realizes, very clearly, that he has to spend hours being polite and courteous to people who will treat him as a kind of exotic novelty. He tries to summon back a sliver of that peaceful equanimity and finds that he can’t.

It’s so much worse, he decides, to feel like shit when you’re aware of how much better things could be.

The next time he knows he’s going to have an especially stressful day, he takes an extra two. The haze isn’t as strong this time, which is actually a good thing—he keeps clarity of thought, it just blunts the sharpness of everything. He gets used to taking four.

Then he swallows his four pills at night one day and wakes up the next day and he still feels like shit. He’s not dealing with this, he decides. He downs another two right there. So he’s taking six pills now, and everything is fine.

He adds another two in the middle of the day because that’s when they usually wear off. Eight pills goes much faster than two so he has to submit a request for a refill for his medication, and he requests extra while he’s at it. Pain worsening in severity, he writes, in the provided explanation section.

It’s when he’s up to ten that he starts wondering if there’s something wrong with him.

-

His leg isn't getting any better, and Hax is starting to worry.

He's done the best he can with what he has; cleaned it, made poultices out of the few plants he could identify growing in this temperature, bandaged it with strips of his jacket. The bandages have rapidly discolored with pus and there's an almost warm pain radiating through the bone. Hax would almost welcome the change from bitter cold if it didn't hurt so much.

Well. It's probably contaminated with synthetic Capitol antigens. He doubts he can heal it naturally.

“I need antiseptic cream,” Hax shouts at the sky. “Antibiotics. Ointment. Anything that works for my leg.”

It's not going to work, Hax thinks with a sinking feeling. Getting medicine sent this late in the Games must be expensive; but Hax doubts his mentor had tried much at all to raise the money needed.

His mentor hates him. He's probably pooled District Four's funds on their other tribute, if that was something that mentors could even do.

There's no silver parachute when he packs up his camp and works his way painfully through the forest, praying he doesn't come across another tribute. There's no silver parachute when he finds another heater and collapses against its orange surface, dragging the thermal blanket around him. There's no silver parachute when a single cannon fires, and Hax looks up that night to see District Four's female tribute illuminated against the sky.

His lips thin. So that's it, then. The price for being willful; for not giving thought about his mentor, his trainers. He can't expect any help from them.

Fine, Hax thinks. He can make it on his own.

-

The expression on Mongey's face worries him, all pinched brows and hard eyes and a persistent frown. He looks…upset? Nervous? Angry? Hax can't tell, but it can't be anything good, as he moves to sit down in the chair.

He glances at himself in the mirror and then looks anywhere else. He hates looking at himself; part of it is his new eyes, that flare in pain whenever he looks at something too bright; and the blue-white hair, pale eyelashes of his new face doesn't help. Part of it is that the face in the mirror is not him. He flinches whenever this pretty stranger moves and blinks in time with him. A stranger that stole his voice and life.

His eyes land on the myriad of makeup brushes Mongey's laying out. He still marvels at how Mongey can keep track of all of them.

“You're scheduled to meet someone really important today,” Mongey says. His voice is unhappy. “The instructions I got were serious as hell. You have to look real nice for whatever this is.”

Hax blinks at him. “Who, Snow?”

Mongey shakes his head. “Don't think so. But look, Hax. There's different kinds of Capitol folk, right. Guys like me, well, we're richer than probably even the governors out in the Districts, but we still have to work for our paychecks. No offense, but I wouldn't have sponsored you in the arena. It'd probably cost me a year's worth of income to even think about sending a loaf of bread. Maybe less than that, now, though. If I do a good job with you, they'll probably bump up my salary a bit. The really good stylists, they can actually make a lot.”

Hax would want Mongey to get paid more, he thinks; Mongey's been good to him. He would say that, but Mongey has his eyes narrowed in concentration, brushing something onto Hax's face, and Hax is scared to mess him up.

“But the people who can afford to sponsor tributes, especially the ones who sponsor big? Those guys are completely different. Those are the guys writing the paycheck of guys like me.” His mouth tightened. “Rich guys, important guys…I don't know. Be careful, Hax.”

“Thanks, Mongey,” Hax says. It's not the party look, the fairy one. The prep team helps him into a strange bastardization of his pre-Games interview look with entirely too many skin cutouts. The pants are some odd design consisting of a pair of shorts, and then loose pants that leave his lower thighs open. Then it's jewels and glitter and hairspray or setting spray or something like that; Hax will never be able to tell all of these Capitol products apart. Mongey directs them to leave the coat open.

He isn't silent on the car ride there. Hax is never really silent. He's quiet, though, talking only to himself; practicing his smile, that upbeat friendliness that he has to consciously inject into his interactions now. He's too tired for it to come naturally anymore. There’s a strange undercurrent of anxiety running through him, that he tries to settle unsuccessfully.

The car stops in front of a huge mansion, all stately columns and shining windows. It’s probably incredibly in fashion with Capitol design trends. Hax doesn’t give a shit.

He takes two pills, then pushes the car door open.

The sitting room is nice, if incredibly opulent. Hax feels like a stain, like he’ll ruin something just by touching it. He settles for gingerly perching on a fur-lined couch and tries to not worry too much about it.

“Hax!” There’s an old man standing at the doorway. Hax can tell, because even when his skin is smooth, his eyes are old. His face barely wrinkles when he smiles at Hax. He blinks and the man is standing across from him. “Oh, it’s so nice to meet you at last, my boy.”

“It’s nice to meet you too, sir,” Hax says politely.

“Your Games were simply incredible,” the man says. “My eyes were drawn to you as soon as I saw the Arena; so perfect, a snow creature returning to his habitat. And you performed so beautifully within it. It was almost a shame we had to draw you out. But they cleaned you up so nicely, now.”

Hax doesn't know what to say to that. Luckily, he doesn't have to say anything. With a sharp motion, the man beckons two Avoxes over, giving them imperious instructions.

“Come,” he says to Hax. “The dining table has been set. I do hope you'll enjoy what I have prepared for you.”

The first thing, Hax thinks, is that the table is entirely too big, laden with too many dishes, for just two people. Avoxes line the walls discreetly, setting down plates, filling their glasses.

The second thing is that an incredibly faithful rendition of a seafood bake is placed in front of him, the one he'd had back in District Four. He bites into it and the bluefish meat is flaky and tender, with no aftertaste. The dish is buttery and more perfect than anything prepared in the Districts could be.

The dishes are incredibly rich. Hax has learned how to eat only a few bites from everything, so he can manage the sheer quantity of food presented to him without offending his hosts, and without using the vomit inducing agents; but even then, he feels stuffed. He hopes it doesn't show on his stomach.

They're back in the sitting room. The man is studying him. “Did you like the food, Hax?”

“It was really good,” he says, which he would've said even if he hated it.

A smile. “I'm glad. Ah, I'm quite lucky to get a chance to get to know you better. I sponsored your Games, you know.”

“I didn't have sponsors. I didn't get a single parachute.”

At this, the man's face sours. “Yes, that. A truly unpleasant situation. I laid down quite the exorbitant sum, just for that odious person—your mentor, was it? To disappear the money as soon as it transferred into his hands. Went to back that girl from your District, I suppose.” He scoffs. “I don't know why anyone would. Nothing special about that one. Rest assured, myself and others have gotten the Gamemakers to look into things. He has been dealt with appropriately.”

Which means the man is dead. Hax doesn't know what to think about that; he hadn't liked his mentor, but he hadn't wanted him to die, either. More reason to drive his old District trainers against him, but with his Games behind him, their opinion matters little now. The citizens of District Four will welcome him like any other Victor, likely, for the year of prosperity he'll bring.

“There were other ways of sponsoring you, though.” Hax snaps his attention back to the man. “I have quite a few connections in the media, you see. Now, the programming these days is quite the byzantine nightmare; scheduled so far in advance, with so many tiny moving pieces to make it work. An interested party, though, with enough money, could change the broadcasts across all of Panem to focus less on your competitors, and more on your narrative, dear boy.”

The man smiles. “Citizens cannot sponsor a story they don't know. And if the price of sponsorship for any loaf of bread, first aid kit, increased prohibitively this year? That would be even greater deterrent. You may not have received sponsorships, but few in the arena did.”

Hax's mouth is dry. “I see.”

The man chuckles. “It cost me a pretty penny, truthfully; myself, and a few others. And it's not easy, to successfully influence the Gamemakers—they have so many vying for their attention, always. But I had to see you win, no matter the obstacles some backwater District teacher posed.” He leans closer to peer at Hax, and Hax is suddenly incredibly grateful for the coffee table that separates them. “You are worth it,” he breathes. “Even more of a marvel, up close.”

“I'm very grateful for your support,” Hax says automatically.

Then the man's hand lands on his thigh, soft palm resting against the exposed skin, and Hax realizes the table isn't so big, after all. He breathes slowly, in and out, and tries not to panic.

“It's a shame,” the man says softly. “I've been barred from making certain kinds of appointments due to some—ah, incidents. But I simply had to book some time with you, Hax. You're a wonder. Perhaps in a few seasons, I'll be able to revisit this arrangement. They do say victors are very grateful towards their sponsors.”

The man withdraws his hand. Hax doesn't trust himself to speak.

He gets home and scrubs at that spot on his thigh until it turns red and raw.

-

Rowl’s been busy recently; it’s been a while since he and Hax have spent time together for something that isn’t televised.

“Did you know?” Hax demands Rowl, as soon as he sees him. “That the sponsors—They—”

“You had a client already?” Rowl's voice is quiet.

“I don't think so, not like that.” Hax shakes his head. “That man—he said he wasn't allowed to, at least right now.”

Rowl lets out an exhale. “That's—good,” he mutters. “Better than the alternative.”

“He kept looking at me,” Hax says. “He kept saying these—insanely creepy things. He put his hand on my thigh.” He shudders.

Rowl is silent, for a long time. “I'm sorry, Hax,” he says eventually. His voice is weary.

“Do you…?” Hax trails off.

Rowl is silent.

“It's wrong, isn't it?” Hax says quietly.

“Yes,” Rowl affirms. “But we can't do anything. Victors are in debt to the Capitol until we die. This is one of the ways they collect.”

-

Hax's reaching for the pill bottle when he becomes conscious of the weight of Rowl's burning stare. He freezes. “It's for my eyes—”

“Don't bullshit me,” Rowl says. His eyes are hard. “Do you think you're the only Victor who's abusing meds?”

Hax's face grows hot. He feels oddly indignant. “Everything sucks,” he spits. “Everything sucks, and I'm in pain all the time, and I need to jump through six different hoops if I want to do anything but I can wake up tomorrow and they'll spontaneously decide I need a new surgery. I can’t go on a walk around the block by myself but I have to let them change my entire face if they feel like it—I have no agency, Rowl, can you blame me for not wanting to be consciously aware of that all the time?”

Rowl purses his lips. He looks disappointed. Somehow, that makes Hax feel worse than the anger. “Your life sucks,” he says. “Big deal. Would you rather be dead in that arena?”

Hax recoils. “No, definitely not.”

“Well, there you go.” Rowl waves his hand dismissively. “You wanted to live badly enough that you were willing to fight and starve and kill for it. Don’t waste your life like this.”

“Like that’s so easy for you to say—”

“You think I like my life?” Rowl shouts at him. “I hate it here! I hate everything about it! I think about how easy it would be to step off a balcony all the time. The only reason I don’t is because I fought this hard to cling onto scraps of it. We’re survivors, Hax. We chose to pick life, no matter how wretched, because we couldn’t let go of that instinct to struggle against death.” He’s breathing hard, opens his hand. “Give me the damn bottle, Hax.”

“No,” Hax spits. “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

“Who am—I’m looking out for you, idiot!”

“Yeah, so you killed your way through an arena five years before I did; does that make you an expert on everything, now?” Hax tightens his grip on the pill bottle. “This is my way of surviving, Rowl.”

Rowl looks frustrated. “It’s not living, Hax. Your skin will separate from your muscles, and you’ll be dead within ten years. Is that what you want?”

Hax clenches his jaw. “I’m not going to let it get that far. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” Rowl says grimly. He lunges at Hax and knocks the bottle out of his hand. For a moment, Hax is stunned at the abruptness. Then, he and Rowl both lunge for the bottle clattering across the floor.

“Give it back,” Hax snarls.

“No,” Rowl says. Hax punches him. Aggravatingly, it doesn’t make Rowl drop it.

“You think this changes anything? I’ll just get another refill.”

“I’m telling Mongey,” Rowl says resolutely.

A frustrated scream. “Mongey can’t tell me what to do!”

“He can, if he says it’s interfering with your ability to make public appearances.” Rowl steps back, slipping the bottle into his pocket. “Give it up, Hax.”

Hax half-screams, half-sobs. “What do I do, then? Doesn’t make the rest of my life any less shit.”

“You can yell at me,” Rowl says. “Punch me. Kick me in the shins, if it gives you peace of mind. I don’t care.”

“That’s not even remotely the same,” Hax says.

Rowl shrugs. “I’ll think of something else. But it can’t be pills.”

“Fine, I guess,” Hax says. “If you’re offering.” Then he steps on Rowl’s foot, hard.

“Fucking ow.”

Hax grins. “You offered.”

He’s still really mad. But if Rowl’s letting Hax take it out on him, then Hax is going to take him up on it, for all it’s worth.

-

Hax is back in the arena.

He has this nightmare a lot. He knows the flesh isn't literally rotting off his leg; the snow he shuffles through wasn't really stained red with blood, sticky as he squelches through it. If anything, it should be a dull brown, his rational brain points out. Blood oxidizes quickly.

Nevertheless, the snow is blood red. Lifeless limbs reach from bodies half-buried, their lightless eyes staring accusingly at Hax.

This is the part that is real. District One girl is camped in the heart of the forest. She's smart enough to know to trap the perimeter. She has something Hax needs. He spotted the glint of silver of a descending parachute, and knows now it truly must have cost a damn fortune if his sponsor's word was to be believed.

As soon as he sees it, he sets off in her direction. Hax's leg is failing him but half her face was torn off, last he saw. If her mentor wanted to keep her alive, there's only one thing that she could've been sent. His progress is miserably slow. He hobbles---can't run, not on a ruined leg. He ran out of packaged food a while ago, and hunting has been poor.

So, he's been tailing her, a wounded wolf hunting another. Gambling everything on an educated guess.

The fight is miserable. Neither of them are in a state to properly use weapons. One girl grapples him and sends them both crashing to the ground, reaching for his throat. Hax fumbles for a knife and stabs at her putrefying face. Then his hands become too slick with blood to hold it and he leaves it stuck there. She socks him in the face, and Hax sees stars as his head thuds against the ground. He spits bloody teeth at her.

He bites her hand. She pulls his hair. They roll around in the increasingly filthy snow.

In reality, Hax gets a lucky hit in against the milky, inflamed socket where her eye used to be. She howls in pain and thrashes. Before she can recover, Hax reaches up with two hands and snaps her neck. He crawls over to the tiny tub of ointment they literally fought to the death over and unties it from the parachute strings. He slathers it all over his leg and then passes out.

In his bloody, shadowed nightmare, Hax isn't strong enough, quick enough. The District One tribute gets her hands around his neck and squeezes, batting away his increasingly ineffectual blows. Hax's entire body is alight with panic and terror, centered around the horrible, constructing pain in his neck as she squeezes and squeezes—

Hax wakes up screaming. His bed sheets are stained with sweat. At first, when he sees the figure in the doorway, he thinks of the District One girl, here to finish the job at last. Then his vision focuses.

It's Rowl in his sleep clothes, a slit cut down the right sleeve to let the flowers through. “Hax?” He says softly.

“Nightmare,” Hax croaks out.

Rowl walks in and sits at the foot of the bed as Hax cries silently.

“Stay here tonight?” Hax asks quietly.

Rowl reaches for Hax's hand and holds it gently. “Of course,” he says.