² MANIA ─ catching fire

[ 002 ] the short end of the stick

LATER THAT DAY, Iko had all the victors of District 2 gathered around the island in Atlas' kitchen. Alecto hung by the doorway, as though she weren't one of them, rather, a child kept on the outskirts of a conversation between adults, pretending she didn't feel the world tilting beneath her feet, pretending she couldn't smell the thick miasma of tobacco on her father's breath or the knives of fear snuck through the gaps between his ribs, pretending she couldn't see Iko stealing quick gulps of his liquor from the cabinet under the sink when their backs were turned.

There were nine of them left: Kaye, Lyme, Brutus, Atlas, Minerva, Evander, Enobaria, Iko, and Alecto. They were the greatest, the champions, the warriors, the survivors. Once upon a time, there might've been more, basking haloed in the glory of the afternoon light, time in their hands and an altar born at their feet out of the concrete with every step they took. But the years had gone by, age and ailment pruning the numbers down to the nine left standing in Atlas' kitchen, lounging against the kitchen island and the counter, seated atop wooden stools and drinking out of glittering champagne glasses. Granted, they're still the largest pool of victors out of all the other districts. When the old victors passed away, the Capitol broadcasted little memorials of them, showcasing snippets of their most exciting moments during their Games, but otherwise didn't mourn.

"Thank you all for coming," Atlas said, bracing his palms against the edge of the kitchen island. He swept his stony gaze over the room, acknowledging each and every one of the victors.

Mummified in her silence, Alecto stood amongst victors she used to idolise on TV, a ghost hanging behind her father's knees. Now, she is one of them. Even though it'd been two years since she came home bearing a crown and the reverence of the people who once doubted her, the wound of victory felt fresh. She still tasted Nikolai's blood in her mouth. But when she'd run his own sword through his spine, she was certain he was dead. He was dead and she was buried and no rage could excise the noise inside. Victory came at a cost. But victory promised them freedom.

"In a few months two of us will be going back into the arena."

This didn't sound like freedom.

"They'll expect us to jump at the chance to win glory for our district again," Atlas continued, a muscle working in his jaw. "So we're going to choose now, before we get put on the spot and make decisions that bear a multitude of consequences. Two tributes, two mentors. And then we're going to fight. At the very least, one of us won't make it out, but one will. Remember that."

In a room filled with people who once lunged forward to volunteer with the ferocity of a thousand suns, like violence was their blood and their hearts beat to the momentum of the fight, the silence bleeds through the walls. Hesitance flickered over their faces. District 2 earned notoriety for the combat excellence and disciplined brutality of their victory-hungry dogs when it came to the Games. From an outside perspective, one might expect the seasoned warriors to be more than happy—raving, even—to jump headfirst into the fray. They'd expect to see the victors of District 2 lunging towards the stage, volunteering after one another, savagely desperate for another round in the ring.

But even dogs of war grew old and tired. The general consensus was that once they'd won, once they'd brought glory to their district, they'd get to rest. No more of the gruelling training that'd whetted the joys of their childhoods into sharper points. Once they'd won, they were granted a reprieve from the pain. They'd get to live life outside of the Games, they'd get to enjoy their spoils and breathe without thinking about how they were going to survive one day after the next because they didn't have to. Not anymore. Nobody wanted to get back into the arena, even though they wore their victory and every scar collected along the way like medallions.