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A/N: Hi everyone! This is a rewriting of ‘The Murderess,’ a fic I wrote at the age of 17 when I was much less mature. I was inspired to remake this fic after reading and watching A Ballad of Songbirds and Snakes. I want to see how different I can make this fic as a more experienced writer, and I also want to take another stab at the Hunger Games Universe while still relying on my original ideas since I really enjoyed them. Full disclaimer, this is not going to be a more sophisticated version of the original fic. Some names have changed, some events will not happen or will have different meanings. I will be leaving the original fic up for everyone who still wants to read it, since I know many people did enjoy it. This is mostly a rewriting for myself that I want to share with everyone!
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Morning of the 72nd Hunger Games
The morning sun flickers over the tree, embracing me.
The branches sway in the wind, leaves dancing on their limbs, the gusts and twirls so gentle I feel it caress my face. One branch creaks, I feel the tree sway beneath me, and I know I’m no longer alone.
My eyes remain closed, nostrils flared as the scent of mint joins the pine. I unclench my hands from the branches overhead, holding the one between my legs to turn and face Misha as he reaches me, a mischievous smile plastered on his face that suggests he meant to startle me.
“Today’s the day,” he says. “You have to come down sometime.”
“You say this as if I don’t already know it,” I say, head cocked and raising my brows at him.
To him it’s a day like any other, with the added benefit of finishing his work early. He has no reason to worry (not truly) for the rest of his life. He’s safe, and he seems to have convinced himself that I am, too.
“You’re oddly confident,” I notice. “As if you have the power to remove my name from the bowl.”
He shrugs, lifting himself onto a branch just above my temple. “And what if I did?”
“I’d throw you off this tree. You know what needs to happen today.”
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t have to be that way. When I turned eighteen, you told me that if I hadn’t been reaped by then, I probably never would be. And I wasn’t, that year. I get to enjoy the same mundane job for the rest of my lowly little life.” He leans forward, batting his eyelashes. “Can’t I hope for the same on your behalf?”
“You’re not going to convince me to change my mind,” I say, slipping my way down the tree. He follows, disappointed. “Things aren’t the same as they once were. I used to think I’d be fine working this ‘mundane’ job if it meant I had my siblings. But Gretya’s pain worsens every month. There’s only one way we’re going to afford that surgery.”
Misha huffs, catching up to me and blocking me from moving any further. “Morgan…” He reaches out to hold my cheek but I catch his wrist, squeezing and forcing his hand away.
I plead, “We had an agreement. It’s over.”
“Because you decided to end it. Just as you’re deciding to end this. There are no guarantees. We can rely on Dev’s hustle to–”
“You two are so stupid,” I snap. “You can’t possibly believe that’s a long-term solution. The only way we’re going to get that kind of money is if I win.”
“Look around, Morgan!” he shouts. “What do you see? We’re not in a Career district. We had a Victor last year, they won’t let there be another one. Because of what Johanna Mason did, they will be watching you and they won’t wait to find out what you’re hiding. You will be the first one that they kill and then we’ll have nothing. Gretya will be just as injured as she was before but on top of it she’ll be miserable. She needs you, can’t you see that?!”
“She needs me to do something that doesn’t put her at risk of being shot. If someone finds out what Dev is up to, the Peacekeepers will execute us all as rebel sympathizers or accomplices– you think it matters to them that Gretya’s a kid? She stands to lose more if I don’t do this.”
He sits silent for a moment, hands twitching as if they’re yearning to repeat the actions he used to find instinctive. Holding me, telling me that everything would be fine, promising a life that could come after I went through this final reaping. It stopped being an option a long time ago and he’s yet to be convinced that this is the only legal way to meet our goal.
Rebels don’t fare well in this country.
He used to joke about my grey hairs, a product of the stress that came with each Reaping, with caring for Gretya before and after her injury. We used to be closer than this, we used to find solace in each other in ways that only friends can. More than friends but not promised to each other because until we’re all clear of the consequences of the Dark Days, it isn’t worth it to get hurt. It slows us down, it weakens us. Someday, maybe, but not now.
Not ever, I’ve decided, because he hasn’t respected my decisions in a long time.
Misha isn’t exactly family. We only met two years prior, when I was transferred to a job in a mill following Gretya’s accident. It paid better than my desk job with Daupha and the other thin-fingered women who can type orders as fast as the stronger citizens of District Seven carve planks. He showed me how to navigate the job, and though we quickly realized how alike we were, we had made an agreement that we wouldn’t let it go further than ‘meaningless.’
He’s never been good at keeping his word. Not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. He has a face that you immediately want to trust, with wide eyes that radiate innocence and a smile that can make even the most grumpy vendor at the market give a chuckle because Mosha is simply that caring, he exudes it and with every playful flick of his calloused hands through his dark curls, he brings light and people believe in him.
If only he believed in me. Enough to care for me despite it all. He wants more but can’t give me the simplest thing: faith. How then, can I truly believe that it’s possible for him to care in the way he craves? How do I know that feeling won’t turn to a violent emotion, bursting at the seams?
“Fine,” he says, thinking it futile to argue with me. He’s right. He won’t win, he can’t stop me no matter what he does. And deep down, maybe, he knows I’m doing this for the right reasons. To him, it’s suicide. To me, it’s salvation. “Come on, Daupha will want to get started on your hair.”
We climb down the rest of the way, descending fifty feet until our feet touch the soft mossy ground, boots sinking for a moment before we break into a run. Our strides are matched, we run the same route we take between mills, back home, to the warehouses. As horrible as it is, it’s home.
I wonder what it would be like to be a deer, running freely through the trees in a world where hunters and wolves don’t exist. How beautiful it must be to extend one's legs, to feel the ground bounce with each bound. No Reaping, no Hunger Games.
The grass and dirt fade into a stony path, unpaved with small pebbles that often get stuck between the creases of my boot. When I run this fast, I feel them leap up to tap against my ankles. The boots protect me from bruises, and I like to believe it’s made me stronger. Around us, the dogs announce our arrival into the neighborhood, pups yapping and startling the small children that are already nervous for today.
Misha continues even after I’ve reached my family’s cabin. I remove my boots at the entrance, the floorboards creaking as I make my way to the kitchen, where Gretya is awake and having her breakfast.
When she was born, I didn’t think she was my sister. She bawled and pumped her fists, head covered in pale gold tufts of hair that my grandmother had had, a woman I never met. My father was so proud of her; Gretya had his mother’s hair and our mother’s eyes, a rare beauty in the District and with skin so smooth and pink she looked like one of the porcelain dolls I’ve seen at the Black Market, brought from the Capitol decades ago when our first Victor won his games.
But soon I loved her, and she was only my sister for a short time before I had to become her mother, for we no longer had one.
I see that her legs are already fastened in her metal-rodded brace, angled so poorly that she is wincing and wiggling, unable to find a comfortable spot. The only thing that relieves the pain for longer whiles is laying flat, but she’s yet to master eating like that. It isn’t conducive to any of the activities one needs to survive.
When our parents died, I didn’t think she’d live. She was so frail, she stopped being able to sleep, and when we finally found the right herbal mixture to put her down, her nightmares began and they haven’t stopped since. Anguished and malnourished, she fell off the rock wall the physical education instructors use to teach us how to climb trees. Without the ability to move on her own, she began to shut down. Day by day I lose more pieces of my sister.
It’s up to us to keep her breathing. And it’s up to me to make her realize that surviving and living aren’t the same thing.
Two years, she’s been falling apart. Two years, our older brother has been stealing from his warehouse to sell tools and molds to a vendor in the Black Market who gives us just enough money to buy Gretya small doses of morphling. Two years, I’ve been preparing to win the Hunger Games.
And two years ago, Misha and I’s spark went out.
He and Devan think it’s stupid. They think the Black Market is sustainable, they think the morphling will begin to work soon, now that Gretya can’t grow properly and her muscles are getting used to the numbing.
Sometimes I think they forget how our parents died. Believing the same thing was possible, believing they could pull one over on the Capitol. No one can, it’s why we’re here. To them, I’m a pessimist. To myself, I’m simply being realistic.
To win, we have to play. And to play, you have to be reaped.
My job makes it easy to train. While my brother designs, restores, and builds furniture for Panem, I work in mills. The first three days of the week, I’m up in the trees with a rope around my waist, either trimming, chopping, or applying pastes to seal woodpecker holes. The two days after, I’m running messages back and forth between the mills and the warehouses, preparing for the next two days where we will organize shipping, carving and carrying planks and furniture to the appropriate train that will take them to their next destination.
I’ve learned to build my strength. I’ve learned how to run. I’ve learned how to throw an ax like Johanna Mason and to wield six-foot-long steel pruners as a spear like Blight Vindict. Daupha’s son, Fletcher, a burly carpenter in Devan’s warehouse, has taught me to fight. For the past two years, I’ve readied myself like a Career to be reaped at the age of eighteen and bring home another victory for District Seven, one that will come with enough money to give my sister the surgery she needs and keep my brother from meeting the same fate as my parents.
Most of my family thinks it’s a stupid plan.
Daupha tries her best to be supportive even if she worries I’m in over my head. After my parents died, she began to take care of us, having only one son and a husband bedridden with a fungal infection that’d spread to his brain and left him unresponsive for years. She found me my first job when I was fifteen, helped me transfer to the mill at sixteen, and has taught Gretya everything she knows about the calculations at her desk job so that my brilliant little sister might have a shot at becoming a manager at the warehouses one day.
She was the one who told me that I’d likely have to volunteer for this. It’s unlikely my name will be drawn simply because I want it to. If I want to win, I have to make a statement.
After all, isn’t this all just a game?
(A game that requires me to kill people. I have to have blood on my hands to save my sister. Gretya believes it isn’t worth it. But after everything we’ve lost to the Capitol, I don’t think there’s any other way to use the system to get what we need.
If I have to become a killer, so be it. Better to be the predator than the prey.)
“You’re back!” notices Gretya, smiling up as I kiss the top of her head. “Daupha’s waiting for you.”
“She did a lovely job on your braids,” I say, admiring the way Daupha wove them around her head like a swirl. “Who helped you get ready? You’ve got your brace on early today.”
“Fletcher,” she says. “He and Devan had an ‘errand’ to run before the Reaping.”
I find it hard to fake a smile, knowing what this means. If Devan’s roped Fletcher into this… it’s only further proof that my plan has to work.
I don’t care if I have to die trying. Anything will be better than watching the people I love die again. My life will be on the line regardless of what I do.
“I thought I heard you,” says Daupha, emerging from my room holding up a forest green dress she’s stitched together using an old curtain Gretya’s brace tore through last week. Her thin hands grow more age spots each year, but remain as precise as ever when it comes to her stitching. She’s yet to require glasses, but I notice how she squints holding up the hem for me to see, the wrinkled around her eyes extending to where her grey waves coil close to her ears. “Here, I thought you might like something nicer than your usual frock.”
“Daupha, it’s beautiful,” I whisper, feeling the thick fabric in my palms. My fingers trace the design on the curtain, and I realize she’s made a square neckline to match the dress I usually wear, given to me by my mother. “Thank you. It means a great deal to me.”
“You can still change your mind,” says Gretya in a small voice. “You don’t have to. I don’t want you to, Morgan.”
I turn to her, kneeling beside her and cupping her face so I can kiss her forehead. “But I do, little one. You’re thirteen, you deserve more from this world and I will make it provide. You saw the Games last year, you saw Johanna play that game with the other tributes. I know how to play games too.” I tickle her nose with mine, eliciting a weak giggle. She laughs seldomly now and I miss hearing her giggles, back when she toddled through the halls into the arms of our waiting parents.
I can’t bring them back but maybe I can give her a new spirit. New legs, new life.
I sit in a tub filled with water, scrubbing myself as Daupha combs my hair, then forms two braids on each side, rolling each into a small bun, the hairstyle my mother used to wear every day. When I’m dressed, I retrieve our wheelbarrow from the shed and carry Gretya into it, fluffing her seat with an old patchwork quilt that smells like mint; Misha must’ve sat on it the last time he came.
“Where are those boys?” chides Daupha, nervously looking around as we begin the slow walk to the square. It would be much faster if we didn’t have to wheel Gretya there. The year she was hurt, she was still too young to participate in the Reaping and was allowed to remain home. But now, the Peacekeepers would dare to drag her out if we tried to leave her behind. Better she comes on our terms.
“Here, Ma,” says Fletcher, jumping up behind her and tapping her head. I notice a burn on his arm, darkening the already damaged skin and ridding a small patch of dark hair. He kisses her cheek before she can notice, and she ruffles the top of his dark, coarse head, making it painfully obvious that he didn’t wash it because he was too busy with my brother’s mischief.
With him are Devan and Misha, all three of them wearing button-ups that once belonged to my father. Devan looks so much like him, the same pensive eyes and hair with a texture of pine but the color of mahogany, serious and sunburnt and already wrinkling his forehead from how much he frowns and furrows his brows.
The boys have stopped growing now that they are twenty, so I suspect the clothes will finally last them longer than in recent years when Daupha and my mother had to add a new hem to their pants every month to account for their legs elongating so often.
Devan announces casually, “We had to find Misha.”
I know this isn’t true, considering Misha brought me home. But Devan’s eyes meet mine and he begs me to stay silent, to not voice my opinion about his ‘hobby’ the way I normally do. If only he wasn’t so narrow-minded, if only he could realize it wasn’t just him that would suffer if this went south.
“I was hiding,” says Misha, winking at Gretya. “Thought it would be fun to make the Peacekeepers chase me around.”
“You’re silly,” she tells him, shaking her head and smiling. “You’re not faster than them.”
“Yes I am! I’ll show them, one day. I’ll be as quick as Morgan and I’ll run laps around all the Peacekeepers in the district.”
Fletcher clicks his tongue to motion for him to be quiet, the square nearing. The market has been closed for the day, booths stripped down to make space for everyone who must stand before the stage to potentially hear their name. The boys are free to stand wherever they’d like, and usually they pick the wings where the camera crews stand, hungry buzzards fiending for a good scene to broadcast to the Capitol.
We part ways, leaving Daupha with the wheelbarrow. I carry Gretya until we reach the roped lines, and proceed until both of us have been checked in. Then, I follow the path to where the thirteen-year-olds stand, placing Gretya beside her friends and tightening her brace until she’s able to stand unaided.
“We’ll see each other in a bit,” I promise, kissing her head again. “And after all of this, things will be better, I swear it.”
She nods defeatedly, watching me stride to the front, where the other eighteen-year-olds wait. I do my best to remain calm, to focus on my breathing even as the crowd thickens and I feel as though I might suffocate. Everyone smells of nature, and I almost miss when Misha would stand two rows ahead, the only person in this entire district that smells of mint. It was something different I once looked forward to.
I realize how strange it is to be here after all of it, after the choices Misha and I made, after the way we started to know one another only for it to come crashing down when he decided he simply couldn’t respect my plan. I wish things were different. I wish his parents and mine were still alive, I wish we were free to explore a relationship without fear of retribution from the Peacekeepers at the mill, without worrying that focusing on ourselves will be detrimental to our odd little family.
Am I selfish for this? I wonder, as I see Mayor Allardyce leading in Rupalia Spectral, our district’s escort. No, I do it for Gretya. For our family.
I wonder if I want to die, deep down.
Capitol fashion is still strange to me even after eighteen years of watching Rupalia come with her oddly styled and colored hair. This year, she’s dressed in all blue and her curled hair is a metallic silver. As she tests the mic, the three surviving victors of District Seven are escorted to their chairs on the stage.
Last year, there were four: Placidus Odinshoot, winner of the 13th Hunger Games, was the first person from District Seven to win the Games and has a standing record of killing the most tributes. Not even the Careers have come close to single-handedly killing ten people in a regular Games, and even if someone in the second Quarter Quell beat the record, they didn’t live to tell the tale. They take turns, they move in packs, and with each year come new and vicious tributes that all rip off pieces of the meat that is the Hunger Games and leave no opportunity for anyone to kill so many in one go.
Johanna Mason is our newest Victor, winner of the 71st Hunger Games. She was in my class but had the benefit of staying in school longer, which limits my memories of her to the things we used to do together as children. Beside her is Blight Vindict, winner of the 56th Hunger Games. Then, Raff Lascius, winner of the first Quarter Quell. I don’t blame him for hating this District, considering that his year, he was voted into the Games. He’s always been disagreeable and I believe that becoming a Victor has only worsened that. Placidus never liked him, that much was known.
The clock strikes two. I close my eyes again, ignoring how Mayor Allardyce drones on about the history of Panem, a history I know all too well. I think only of how the aftermath of the Dark Days, these wretched Games, can be used to bring my sister peace, can make her miserable life a tad easier when I win them.
“It is both a time for repentance and a time for thanks,” intones Mayor Allardyce, concluding the speech. I open my eyes as Rupalia takes her place in front of the working mic, and she presents us the Victors as if we’ve never met them before, as if we have no idea that they’re vicious killers. Still, we know the price we pay to survive. They were unlucky and they persevered. In a sense, I admire them as much as I feel for them.
I may be standing beside them in a year. And Gretya may have working legs by then.
I hear her tell us about how wonderful Victor’s Village is, how each of them has their own house, how their food is plentiful and their families are taken care of. The only one with any family left is Raff, and that only consists of his elderly mother, a woman so old and sickly that she hasn’t attended a Reaping in at least a decade.
I imagine my family being moved to Victor’s Village. Daupha, her husband, Fletcher, Devan, Gretya, and perhaps Misha too, all in the same house with our own rooms and closets, a large kitchen and spacious backyard. Gretya’s walk to school will be easier. She’ll never have to put her name in that bowl more than the required number of times. And even then, I could have the influence to prevent her name from ever being said.
I could save them all. All I have to do is this. Become this. A Victor.
“Happy Hunger Games!” says Rupalia, fluffing her hair and tapping her long spider-like fingers against the mic. They look even lengthier given the sparkly blue nails that reach out like talons as she approaches the ball bearing the names of the girls. “And with that, we kick off our 72nd year!”
I clench my fists, breathing in heavily and preparing myself to shout ‘I volunteer!’ when another girl’s name is drawn. Whoever she is will not expect it, given volunteers are rare in all non-Career districts.
Her hand slithers over the slips of paper, she reaches deep into it and closes her eyes as she plucks up one small square. Withdrawing it, she unfolds it and reads out, “The female tribute for District Seven is Morgan Reeves.”
It must be fate. I’m convinced. It has to mean I’m truly ready, why else would it come out? With my head held high, I stride up to the stage, shaking Rupalia’s hand and taking my place beside her. I can see Daupha holding onto Fletcher, both Devan and Misha’s jaws tight. Gretya looks like she might lose consciousness.
Despite it all, it feels right.
“Morgan Reeves,” says Rupalia pleasantly. She doesn’t know me, she doesn’t pity me, why would she? Everyone in the Capitol is convinced this is the greatest thing in the world. “Any volunteers?”
None. Just as it should be.
“Very well, then,” says Rupalia. “Let’s give a big round of applause to our female tribute!”
No one claps, as is the norm. The Districts don’t celebrate this, it’s only an awful reminder of the past rebels’ failure. A spit in the face from the Capitol. I clap for myself in my head, managing a reassuring smile to my sister. I will make this work, I have to. Surely Johanna and either Blight or Raff will help me refine my skills and I will bring District Seven another victory.
Rupalia clears her throat. “And now for the boys.” She strides elegantly to the other end of the stage. She reaches into the glass ball, a bit more decisively plucking out a small square. She unfurls it and hesitates. Immediately, we know something is wrong. She stutters out, “The male tribute for District Seven is… Griffin Allardyce.”
I hear Mayor Allardyce’s wife let out a scream from the left wing of the stage. The Mayor’s eyes begin to water as his timid and frail twelve-year-old son shuffles up from the very back, eyes wide as saucers. The Mayor and his wife had tried for years to conceive and Griffin had been their miracle. It was terrible he should be ripped away– everyone felt it. Griffin had never done anything to anyone, he was so very sweet. And at least in our District, a Mayor’s child has never been reaped. I’ve scarcely heard of it happening elsewhere.
Gripping the sides of his pants as if he’s attempting to stop himself from running or soiling himself, Griffin climbs up to the stage and stands beside me.
In my mind, he barely reaches my hip. In a moment, my plan collapses. I look down at this trembling boy, I see a male version of Gretya staring up at me, and I realize I never imagined that paired with me would be someone I might know. I hardly expected it would be a classmate; I left school years ago. Friends are scarce because there are so many different mills and given Daupha’s influence in getting me a better job, I’ve been placed with people who are older than me, all unable to participate in the Games.
I never considered that I’d likely have to ally with someone in my District. That I’d likely have to watch them die or kill them to bring myself the victory that would save my sister. In a single moment it all blows up in my face and I realize the severity of it all.
Was it fate because I was meant to win? Or is it a punishment for having thought I could play the Capitol? That I could outsmart the other tributes and selfishly covet the money I need for my family?
I realize I may have just signed my own death sentence.
“Griffin Allardyce,” Rupalia repeats. “Any volunteers?”
None. Who would volunteer? Griffin has no older brothers or cousins. His friends are all the same age as him. The older boys in our district wouldn’t give themselves up for a boy they don’t know. Everyone pities Griffin but no one would die to save him.
We live in a selfish world. Maybe I’m a worse part of that than I ever realized.
Rupalia speaks up as the air seems to grow heavier around us, “Let’s give a big round of applause to our male tribute!”
It is with a strained voice that Mayor Allardyce takes her place, standing beside Griffin and I and reading out the long and dull Treaty of Treason, that reminds us what we’re walking into, who we’re now prisoners of.
We are taken into custody immediately after, Peacekeepers advancing on the stage and escorting us into the Justice Building, before either of us can make any attempts to escape. We’re guided into individual rooms, with plush chairs, velvet couches, thick fluffy carpets, and ornate designs on the frame of the room, holding up the smooth forest wallpaper.
There is a large window letting the afternoon sun in, allowing me to bask in the light as I lower myself into the armchair. I take a breath and steady myself, preventing any panic from washing over me. Then the door opens, allowing my family in, with the exception of Misha.
“Well, you got what you wanted,” says Devan curtly. “Are you happy?”
“Far from it, actually,” I say honestly. “But the plan remains. I just– I don’t– I don’t know how I’m going to deal with Griffin Allardyce. I can’t kill him!”
“So you let him die,” says Devan. “You save yourself. If you think fate is in your corner… you take advantage of it. You be selfish.” He kneels in front of me and I’m able to see the pain in his eyes. He looks so much like our father, face stern with evident disappointment but also a profound sadness he can never put into words.
Devan was always as stubborn as him, struggling to express himself. With his eyes, he tells me that he is worried, that he will miss me, that he hopes this pans out because for a moment, I believe, it’s hitting him how dangerous it would be if I don’t win. If he is eventually caught.
“Come here,” I say, pulling him into a hug. I whisper in his ear, “Take care of her. Wait for me, I’ll come back to all of you. Mama and Papa will give me their strength. For Gretya. It has to happen.”
He holds the back of my head for a moment, letting out a sigh before he pulls away, helping Gretya lean down to hold me. “You’re gonna be fine,” says Gretya weakly, holding back tears. “You said you would, so you’d better.”
“I will be, little one,” I promise. “I’ll be just fine. Your legs will be better in no time. No more pain. You’ll be able to run like the rest of us. Why, I bet you’ll even fly like the woodpeckers.”
She smiles and rests her forehead on mine, letting me rub her back comfortingly. As she draws back, Fletcher shakes my hand and ruffles my hair, then steps aside so that Daupha can kiss my cheek and hug me, muffling a sob into my shoulder.
“You come back to us, my girl,” she pleads. “I’ve already lost your mother, I don’t want to lose you, too.”
I press my cheek against her neck, “You won’t. I’ll be back before you know it.”
The Peacekeepers open the doors, forcing them back out. I’m left alone for only a moment, their solemn faces stuck in my mind. I pace the room, unable to hear anything that is going on outside. Mayor Allaryde and his wife are probably next door with Griffin, who is probably losing it. That poor kid. I don’t know what to do, what to think. But I know that I will never be able to kill him, nor will I be able to live with myself if he dies.
Maybe if I help him win, he’d pay for Gretya’s surgery. He’s a good kid. His parents don’t need the money. They’re the same age, he might take care of them if I protect him…
When the doors open again, Misha comes in alone, and almost immediately cracks a smile, joking, “Well, I could get used to rooms like this if you come back a Victor.”
“Finally come to terms with it?” I ask.
“Far from it,” he says, pulling me onto the couch. “You’re strong, Morgan, you’ve learned everything you can. The Mentors will teach you more and you’ll take over that arena, won’t you? With any luck there will be trees and you will be able to wait it out or drop from above. Do whatever you can, you hear me? I’ll be waiting for you. Waiting…” he cups my face again, frowning when I draw back.
“Misha, no,” I plead. “Just because you’ve accepted it doesn’t mean things can be as they were. Maybe when I come back we… we can see what this becomes. Friends, friends with benefits, I don’t know. But nothing else matters now. I’m thankful for you, all the help you’ve given us, the comfort you’ve brought me in the past. Take care of them for me, please.”
I know it hurts him but he nods and kisses my forehead. “I’ll wait for you for a thousand years.”
I manage a smile and gently push him away as the Peacekeepers enter again. He’s escorted out and I know that I’ll have no visitors, I know that the next time they return, it’ll be to take me to the train.
I wonder to myself why things couldn’t be different, why I had to be born in this world, in this district, to have these things happen to my family. It’s cruel and I wish to be in front of President Snow himself, to kill him and settle this once and for all. If I’m to have blood on my hands, the blood should be his.
The Peacekeepers come, leading Griffin and I to the train station. On the platform, I see Johanna and Blight boarding, while Raff makes his way to the Victor’s Village. I look back for a moment, I take in the view of the trees and the falling sun, I breathe in the pine and the absence of mint and I promise myself that this won’t be the last time I behold it.
The cameras snap picture after picture, and I’m tempted to ignore them. But the game starts now and I force a wistful smile onto my face, glancing into the nearest camera before stepping into the train. Griffin follows, and as soon as the doors shut, the train begins to move, pulling me far, far, far away from everything I’ve ever known.
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A/N: I didn’t want to reuse Rachel Cook as a faceclaim but also didn’t really pick another one so I’ll say Eden Masliah is my reference for Morgan this time around. Again, be prepared for a lotttt of changes in the story. The original will always remain available if you prefer that version or want to reference it before reading this. Comment for more!