#I Guess Im Just Frustrated That Such a Major Character Whos Ripe for So Much Potential Story is Instead Used Exclusively to Be Cute

[mumpsetc]

Not to forgivr III for anything but I think right now Bot’s in the middle-ish of finding themselves out? Like they talk with Floor about what they wanna be/look like, but they’re still messy on that front, and their arc in the future is about becoming mire solidly their own person

Though there is Some setup with Bot about them being notably courageous/“badass” with how they were the first person to approach the volcano, but imo that’s rather weak character writing. It’s like dumbing their personality down into “#girlboss, gender-unspecified robot coming of age edition”, with nothing of real substance to back that.

It’s like. I can see where this is going already- a sorta shallow, “finding yourself” type arc continuing through however many episodes that ends with Bot going home their own person, yay! It makes it so they can eliminate Bot anytime they want and still have a somewhat-satisfying narrative ending for them, y’know?

Good Point, They Do Still Have Some "Being a Person" to Figure Out Beyond Gender Stuff and Them Continuing to Do So Till They Can Be Neatly Eliminated Would Make Sense for the ii Crew. I Guess I'm Just Frustrated Because You Can Portray Someone In the Midst of Finding Themself and Have That Character Be Something. God You're Right Though Bot is Probably Just Gonna Become Generically Nice Generically Badass and All Complexity Their Character Could Offer Passed Over Because That Makes Them Less Epic Squee Adorable. I'll Be Surprised if They End Up With Any Negative Traits at All and Isn't Just an Uncomplicated Bastion of Good.

[withonly-sweetheart]

Reap What You Sow

part one

You've been reaped, and your partner is not the man you want to be spending a bloodbath with. But what if he's nothing like what you expected?

a/n: for the anon that's waited SO patiently for it... im still working on figuring out ur identity but im a bit slow... so.... i hope u like it i had to reread the book for this and WEUIORWPDOSWEIOR i have trauma from thg trust me

tw: major character deaths (if you can guess who ily <3) mentions of blood, gore, illnesses, blah blah all that stuff yk

wc: 7.8k

part two here!!

legacy, what is a legacy?

planting seeds in a garden,

one you’ll never get to see.

Autumn always brought the whispering winds, a tapestry of gold and crimson spinning through the forest, leaves dancing down from their lofty trees, becoming carpets of color rustling with ease.

Everyone sleeps in late today, wanting to spend as much time huddled with their family before the threat looming over you finally comes back to bite you.

The air grows crisp, a bite of cool delight, as you trudge through the fresh foliage, feet shuffling through the leaves fluttering onto your hunting boots. The last thing you need is to scare away potential game with your loud footsteps.

In the woods is the one place where your facade can fall, where you can shout all your frustrations at the lake below you, calming down as you stare down at it, blurred by your dangling legs. The ledge has always been precariously unstable, but anything to kill time before the Reaping.

Leaning back on your palms, you glance up at the sun searing your face, burning through your dark tunics that help camouflage you during hunts. You can’t consider yourself a good hunter, but at least what you bring in keeps your family from starving.

You strip the nearby bushes of their leaves, their raspberries, the leaves that you had once cultivated with your mother when she was still around. Although it wasn’t allowed, you both made a habit of sneaking into the forest after all the Peacekeepers had finished their patrols to check on your garden. 

You never told her, but you could never resist plucking a few unripe berries from their steadily growing stems, now grown wild and untamed. The taste of the young, still growing fruit from your childhood still lingers in your mind, and over six years later, make it near impossible for you to enjoy the sweetness of the ripe raspberries now.

A melodious chirp breaks through your thoughts, and you twist over your shoulder to see a familiar mockingjay approaching. Its vibrant blue and gray feathers shimmer in the dappled sunlight as it hops closer, a curious glint in its round, beady eyes. With a gentle nudge, you offer it a ripe berry, watching as it eagerly pecks at the fruit, savoring the succulent juices with delicate precision.

“You’re chipper today, aren’t you?” you ask it, keeping your voice light. Just as you expect, the muttation tweets back in the same tone, as if repeating your words back to you.

Only, coming from such a free, unshackled spirit, it means nothing.

<><><><>

The nicer part of your district is in the area shadowed by the forest, where none of the residents dare to step foot into what they deem unsafe. If only they knew the danger of hunger.

You pass the bakery, catching the eye of the baker’s son, uninterested, casting shadows on his face as he glances down at his mother’s feet. Her shouts are audible through the thin glass showcasing the elegantly decorated cakes.

You don’t know the boy, but you feel pity for him. Not once in the years following your mother’s death has your father raised his voice at you. He has resigned to heavy sighs of disappointment, which sting more than angry words, you’ll admit.

You stand before the same house in the Victor’s Village, the nicest houses of the entire district, crammed into one courtyard. Most of the houses are empty due to there only being two Victors in the history of the Games; Haymitch Abernathy, a drunken man you don’t socialize with, and Leon’s older brother, whose name you aren’t bothered or inclined to learn.

You raise your hand to knock but pause, praying he doesn't answer, that he’s not home, and that his mother, a much kinder, forgiving woman, comes to the door. After an agonizing moment, the door creaks open and, just your luck, his imposing form fills the frame above.

The first thing you notice is the red, blaring welt resting calmly on his face. You faintly wonder what happened before realizing that you don’t care. Neither does he, apparently.

“Back to grovel, little bird?” he sneers. 

“Actually, maybe I’ll just head to Haymitch,” you reply, making a show of the flimsy basket holding multiple, freshly snared rabbits. “He might have a use for fresh meat.”

You don’t miss the way Leon immediately clears his throat, leaning against the doorframe. “I suppose we could make a deal.”

Eventually you’re satisfied with the amount of money in your hands, and Leon looks equally ravished as he nods to you politely before closing the door in your face. You catch his eyes darting to your lips just as it creaks shut fully.

Whatever’s wrong with him shouldn’t bother you, right?

So why does it?

<><><><>

Chris raises an eyebrow at the offering. You nudge it towards him, and a smile slowly spreads across his face, overtaking his expression.

“It’s taken quite a while, huh?” he teases.

“You know how much it means to me,” you cheese. “And I want you to have it, just in case…”

“You’re not getting reaped,” he says, as if he’s already predicted who will be safe, like he knows. “Your name isn’t even in there that many times.”

You nod, face warm. "Just in case."

His grin fades. "Don't say that. Your name is drawn just a few times."

"Still a chance," you mutter grimly. "24 slips is 24 too many."

Chris takes your hands in his. "Listen to me. I survived, didn't I? You're stronger than any tribute here. You'll come back and we'll hunt together, I promise it."

His steady gaze gives you strength. You force a smile. "Okay. And may the odds..."

Your hunting partner, close friend, embraces you. "The odds don't matter. You do. Stay strong - I'll see you after."

Of course, the odds seem to be planting themselves directly against you. But you don’t mention that as you walk to the square, shoulder to shoulder, trusting Chris enough to watch your siblings as your father makes low conversation with the other miners.

<><><><>

The odds definitely hate you.

When they call your name, no one moves. You can feel the girl next to you stiffen, as if sensing your breath cut short, hand brushing against yours as you weave your way through the perfectly aligned rows of sixteen year old kids, kids that you went to school with.

If it were any other reaping, you would’ve looked down at them with scorn, glaring at them with a scowl, because no one wants to die, but no one volunteered for you. But the Quarter Quell brings with it new surprises, one being that the tributes reaped may not be replaced.

You suppose you should be glad it isn’t one of your siblings, because where you stand a chance, they would die immediately. Admitting this to yourself is how you temper your own fate. On the other hand, the other twist the Quell brings is that if you die in the Games, guess who also suffers?

Your family is publicly executed. You wish a slow and painful death to whoever thought of that, to President Snow, for picking it. Watching the competitions every year was something you could never stomach, choosing instead to cower in the other room, hands planted against your ears to block out the sickening screams of the dying tributes on screen.

"May the odds be ever in your favor," Effie says with a grin far too jovial for the situation, and you know that its her job to encourage you, but they ring hollow given what lies ahead. 

As you walk toward the stage, your breathing comes quick and shallow. A boy with dark hair catches your gaze, his expression as grim as yours. "It will be over soon," he murmurs, though you're not sure if he means the reaping or your life.

Reaching the steps, you turn to face the crowd, fists clenched. The escort swirls the strips of paper in the empty fish bowl, as if this is simply a game to her. She pinches one between her fingers and drags it out slowly before unfurling it and reading aloud the name.

“Leon Kennedy,” she declares. 

Of course getting reaped isn’t the last of your misfortunes. Although you don’t directly know him, you know what he’s capable of. He climbs on stage beside you, jaw working as if chewing over angry words. 

"No use raging at them now," you mutter under your breath.

Leon barks a short, bitter laugh. "I guess you're right. Small comfort, that." 

You don’t speak after that, settling into tense silence as your escort waits for the applause that never comes. The depressing gazes of all your loved ones, the people you know, and the people who don’t know you exist, proves to be too much, so you shift your eyes to the ground, pointed at your toes.

There is one more pair of eyes that land on you, eyes that you don’t wish to meet. But when Effie requests for the “lucky kids” to shake hands, you force yourself to drag your gaze from the ground, up his slender legs, the tendon that stretches when he looks down at you, challenging you silently, to his fingertips outstretched, waiting for your hand.

And when you finally shake on it, you remember just who he is to you.

Leon.

<><><><><>

You freeze in your movements, cradling the assortment of berries closer to your chest, the handkerchief tickling your chin. Pale, icy eyes trail down your body, sizing you up, searing everywhere they grace.

You know him, but he doesn’t know you. You’ve seen him, one of the nicer looking kids at your school, always well groomed, arriving to class on time and getting only the best grades.

But no one is perfect, and his flaws are in his arrogance, which doesn’t get any better when all the girls fawn over him, tripping over one another to catch even a flit of his eyes. What would they think now, of him watching you, a poor, peasant girl. You have to hold back a smile at the faint thought passing your mind.  

“Well,” he remarks, unable to hold back the smirk that tugs at his lips, “looks like I’ve finally caught the little bird pecking at my garden, hm?” You flush madly. So he has noticed the previous times you’ve snuck through the fence, collecting his family’s plants. 

"I…I meant no harm," you say meekly, lowering your gaze. "I was only gathering bits of food to help feed my poor family." Playing the pity card is a new low, even for you, but the consequences of mistakes ring through the square often, burned in your eyes, the whine of a leather whip, the sound it makes when it meets tender flesh.

"Hmm, is that so?" he considers, stroking his chin, grinning. "Maybe I’ll let it go, just this once. But you’ll have to pay up."

“I have no money,” you say quietly. “I… cannot pay you, at least not right now. Please, just two weeks-”

He cuts you off with a wave of his hand, eyes fixing on your trembling lips. "A kiss, sweet bird, and I'll let your theft go. What do you say?”

Perhaps you’ll suffice to get whipped. Anything over that.

“No,” you say firmly, stepping away, further into the sanctuary of the forest. “I won’t do that.”

“So you won’t mind if I tell the Peacekeepers?” he muses.

“I only took a little!” you plead.

“And I’m not asking for much in return, am I?”

You hesitate, torn between duty and danger. But survival demands sacrifice. Holding back a troubled, irritated groan, you allow him to step closer, lift your chin and capture your mouth with his own, firm but fleeting.

"Now fly home to your nest, little birdie,” he taunts as he breaks away from him, wiping your lips frantically, trying to get rid of the sweet taste of fresh bread and butter that mingled from his tongue to yours.

Does he kiss everyone like this? So hard, fast, as if he’s trying to consume you whole? You feel pity for all the girls he’s left behind with broken hearts, like lost puppies following him everywhere. 

The last thing you expect is to be longing for it again, reaching for the feeling of being held like that, of being wanted, desirable. And you find that nowhere else but with him.

Of course, that feeling only dims slightly when the Peacekeepers knock at your door the next day, pretending to lecture you about theft, but there are no consequences, surprisingly. You suspect it must be because half of your best customers are the officials, the ones meant to enforce the rules, since everyone in the area is desperate for meat.

You did what he asked.

He ratted you out, either way.

So why can’t you stop thinking about him?

<><><><>

Your father’s weary face is what greets you first in the velvet setting of the Justice Building, before flurrying footsteps escape the guard’s clutches and long, thin arms wrap around you, tears immediately staining the flimsy fabric of your tunic.

“I’m so sorry, dear,” he whispers to you, and as the twins reluctantly pull away so he can gather you in his arms, embracing you to what, horrifyingly, feels like the last time you’ll inhale his musty, familiar coal scent that lingers everywhere in the house.

“Chris will bring you food,” you instruct as soon as he meets your eyes, stepping away. “Don’t turn it down. When I get back-”

“When?” he muses, a sad light twinkling in his aged eyes. “You’re this confident?”

“You heard them!” you hiss, exasperated. “I have to come back. They’ll kill you if I don’t.”

“Don’t worry about us,” he insists. “I’ve already planned everything out.”

“What does that even mean?” If it were anyone else, you would’ve missed the subtle flit of his eyes to the Peacekeepers standing to attention behind you, listening in to your conversation. You realize there is something he cannot say with them here.

So you soften your face, cradle the twins into one last hug and use that as an excuse to pull him back in. Your father’s voice is so soft you can barely make out what he’s saying over the twins’ sobbing.

“District 13, we’re going to find them.”

“They’re dead,” you murmur. 

“If you come back, you know where to find us,” he says, adorning a sweet, solemn smile on his face as he withdraws, adjusting the collar of your tunic where it slants to one side. “Do you understand?”

The way he’s speaking makes it clear that he could be talking about anything now, so you attempt to match his expression, keeping your tone light. “Yes, Father. I’ll try my best.”

He pats your shoulder, nodding. “I know you will, my girl.”

When they call that time’s up, you ignore the twins’ protests and kiss them both on their cheeks, waving goodbye to their tear streaked, chubby faces, trying to imprint the image in your head forever.

The next person that comes in is someone you don’t expect. It’s Claire, the younger Redfield sibling; your hunting partner rarely discusses his little sister, so you don’t know her aside from seeing her during classes.

She offers no meager response, no subtle greeting, only grips your hands tightly, entwining your fingers with her own, pulling you closer. “Well? What’s your strategy?”

“I’m sorry?”

“For the Games?”

“I mean, I have to train hard-”

“No.”

“No?” You frown at her command, raising an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“There’s only one thing that you have to do,” she explains. “It’s how Leon’s brother won the Games way back when.”

“And that is…?” you prompt.

Her eyes are steely, unforgiving. “Keep Leon alive. The rest will come later.”

You’re frozen into a shock for about a second before you harshly release her hands, rough with years of hard labor, stepping away from her. “Excuse me?”

“You have to fool him into believing that you want an alliance!” she grumbles. “And I don’t think I can take any more of Chris’s groveling if you die.”

“Chris doesn’t grovel.” A corner of her lip quirks up.

“You don’t live with him,” she retorts, albeit gently. “Listen, don’t get yourself killed out there. You’re a smart girl. I know you can win.”

And she’s grinning and gone, a shitload of emotions dumped onto you, and a new outlook on the Games, and your potential partner. You’ve seen that method multiple times from the Victors, however convincing, and you nod to yourself.

You've got a winning shot if you have him, you know that.

You let a lazy smile overtake your face.

Well, at least until you kill him.

<><><><>

Of all the people in the Capitol, your stylist, by far, has been your favorite.

Your hands tremble as Cinna leads you to your prep team. Effie assured you this is his first year as a stylist, and he has "big ideas" to make an impression.

"Everything will be alright," he says gently, meeting your fearful eyes in the mirror. His deft hands make quick work of transforming you into someone else, someone you don’t recognize.

As your raw nerves are plucked and primed, Cinna talks soothingly of his plans. "The fire theme is overdone. I want to show you not as a beast to fear, but as a symbol of hope that cannot be extinguished."

Looking in the mirror, you gasp - you’re swathed elegantly in a flowing carbon-fiber gown that resembles burning coal embers. Wings of delicate gold wire sprout from your shoulder blades like a phoenix rising.

"Cinna, it's...incredible," you breathe.

He smiles warmly. "Panem will remember you, but not as a killer. You’re going to be our dream."

Your old fear returns as you reach the chariot. But seeing Cinna’s admiring grin from across the stable, you stand tall, finding courage in his vision.

And then Leon approaches, flanked by his stylist and prep team. They beam at you, drinking in your matching outfits, which you don’t remember agreeing to. But even you can’t disagree that you stand out from the starkly contrasting duos of tributes. 

Your heart pounds as the chariot ride nears. Catching you tense up, your panicked expression, Cinna tilts your head up with his finger. 

"Chin up, girl on fire.” He exhales. “Own who you are."

You climb up the ivory steps, paintings of flames licking the side of the chariot, spreading onto the horses’ flanks, matching the design on your perfectly trimmed, crescent shaped nails.

“Girl on fire, hm?” Leon says jokingly, although his voice is quiet. Neither of you have interacted since the Reaping, and it feels strange to be talking to a man that once held your life in his beautiful, beautiful hands.

“I think I’m gonna throw up,” you mutter as the chariot lurches forward, unused to the sudden jolt of movement that doesn’t require you to use your legs.

“Seriously?” You lift your head just enough to catch Leon giving you a concerned look, just as the new day’s rays hit his face, bathing his skin in an ethereal glow. You don’t expect him to tug you upright as the crowd gets a glimpse of you, entwining your fingers tight with his.

The way he clutches your hand makes you smile, drunk on a feeling you shouldn’t have, so you use your free hand to wave. The roar shakes you to your core - but it's not hatred, it's adoration. You’ve stunned them all. You beam at the cheering colors.

You test out blowing a kiss to one part of the crowd, where you see a little girl jump and scream for your attention, and everyone reaches out as if they can grab it, holding it close to their chests, as if there’s something caught in the space between their fingers and palm.

It gives you a sense of unmatched power, knowing that everyone is looking at you, that the Careers are definitely glaring at you, because they are so used to getting all the attention that now that you are captivating everything with the golden, flaming arches unfurling from your back, they aren’t pleased.

For once, you’re glad that you have Leon to grip, eyes flickering from the firelight of your wings, dancing down his simple, elegant suit that seems to blend with the darkness and reflect the flames.

You realize that his hand has gone white, so you move to release your grip, but he pulls you back, a pleading look mingling with the fireflies blinking in his waning eyes.

“Please,” he whispers. “I might fall off.”

You laugh softly, but the cameras don’t miss anything. You both have been getting a significant amount of screen time compared to the other tributes, so when you finish your rounds, waving up at President Snow, the distaste curling your tongue disappears when Leon hops down and offers you his hand.

You accept it gratefully, cameras lingering on you both before switching to another duo. While Cinna gently removes the flaming wings, smiling proudly, Leon twists to grin at you, so genuine you could fool yourself into thinking that everything that comes out of his mouth is true.

“You’re pretty cute when you’re on fire,” he says simply. “You should wear gold more often.”

“You don’t look too bad yourself,” you say before you can stop yourself. And then you remind yourself of what Claire said - he’ll be planning to kill you. You have to kill him before he can get to you.

So because whatever you sow, you must reap, you lean closer, knowing all the tributes are glowering at you, the attention undoubtedly set directly on you, distributed unevenly. You cup his cheek gently, deliberately, enjoying the flash of confusion rushing through his eyes.

And you peck a soft kiss to his jawline.

<><><><>

Just like the opening ceremonies, your training uniforms correlate with one another’s perfectly - looking out of place with everyone else wearing totally different things.

"Remember, these next days will determine your survival," Haymitch says as we enter the Training Center.

You steel yourself, knowing the horrors that await below. But seeing Leon’s steady, calm gaze as you descend among the other tributes, sizing each other up like prey, you realize that there’s nothing to doubt.

Rather than cower, you both stand tall and match strides, sticking with each other through every station. Of course, there are things that Leon is better at than you lack in, and vice versa. But instead of tripping you up, he helps you through it, just as you return the favor by explaining how to properly tie a knot, identify edible plants and start a fire.

No one will doubt your alliance. If anything, you wish for people to join your team, however temporary. But there is only a shadow trailing you everywhere, a boy that reminds you of your little brother, with his square, soft jawline and wide, innocent eyes.

He can’t be older than nine, so you take pity on him and keep your voice louder so he can overhear. Against all odds, you don’t want him to die.

Just like you don’t want Leon to die. You catch yourself watching him more and more, oftentimes keeping an eye on him while he stretches, admiring the tight coils of his body, so perfectly sculpted, like a statue from marble.

He must feel you looking, because he cranes his neck to spot you peering at him, then chuckles as you rush to finish your double knot from rope.

Leon doesn’t miss any chances to make snarky comments, whether it be during spear throwing, or the twenty minutes spared for lunch. 

But you never underestimate how dangerous he can be. Glimmer gives you the barest definition of a sneer, and within moments, with just a flick of his wrist, a knife sails past the tribute's throat. 

Her expression, plastered with shock, shows her thoughts.

Message received.

Slowly but surely, day by day, you earn everyone’s respect, however hesitant or however grudgingly, but you never miss the way they whisper as you stroll past, conversing with one another about which activity you’re going to excel at today.

“So, tell me.” Haymitch leans back in the dinner chair, hands resting on his stomach as the hazy look in his eyes fades away, the effects of the wine he had thirty minutes ago wearing off. “What can you do?”

“She’s the hunter.” Leon shrugs. “I can’t do much.”

“You carry around all that coal,” you point out. You’ve watched him from the forest, where he wheels the barrows filled with heavy, dusty blocks of coal back and forth, a fine layer of coal dust settling over his skin.

“Of course. My greatest weapon,” he deadpans. “Coal.”

“I meant your strength,” you grumble. “Be optimistic, can you?”

“You’re telling me.” Leon chuckles.

“Enough bickering,” Haymitch groans. “So, hunter, what’s your special gift?”

“I can… uh… well…”

“You’re not making this easy for me, are you?” Haymitch shakes his head, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Can’t you use a bow?”

You shake your head.

“Knives? Daggers? Spears?”

“Leon can use a knife,” you add. 

“Real helpful,” Haymitch drones. “Okay, here’s what’s about to happen. Leon, you’re going to teach her how to use a knife. And she’ll teach you to hunt. Deal?”

You’re pretty sure that’s what you’ve been doing, but for the last day of training, you agree to at least try your mentor’s advice.

Which is how you find yourself in this situation.

You sneak a glance back at Leon, who seems occupied, so you turn your attention back to the knife, gingerly picking it up and trying to mime a stabbing motion on an invisible target. Your face flushes crimson when you hear some restrained laughter behind you.

"Shut up!" you cross your arms and pout, turning away from him. "You’re supposed to be teaching me, not laughing at me."

You hear footsteps behind you, and before you can look over your shoulder, he's crossed the room and is standing against you, his arms encasing yours and fingers gracefully planting themselves against the hilt of the knife.

You glance up at him, but he clicks his tongue.

"Eyes down here, birdie," he says, and his low voice in your ear sends flames shooting from where his fingers meet yours and up your spine, straight to your head. Your chest twists as you suddenly have a name for the fire that ignites in the pit of your stomach, unmistakable and blunt against everything else fighting for a spot in your head. "Hold it like this."

"Got it," you mumble, your voice coming out even quieter than expected. Your pulse thrums under his, blond hair brushing the side of your cheek, azure eyes darting from you to the knife.

Leon abruptly pulls away, and you let out a breath you didn't know you were holding. He takes an edged breath, and your heart slows. You palm the knife in your hand, turning to face him and twisting it through your fingers slowly.

"Careful," he murmurs. "You might cut yourself."

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you attempt dryly. 

Neither of you laugh.

<><><><><>

It irks you, to say the least, that none of the Gamemakers are paying attention to you. They’d rather make small talk about how divine the feast spread out in front of them is, or what they’ll be doing over the weekend, and it pisses you off.

So you reckon that to get their attention, you’ll need to show them you’re worth watching.

Their obliviousness makes you smile inwardly as you will your heartbeat to slow as you stalk towards the jovial crowd, drawing closer with each steady breath. Under cover of noise and distracted chatter, you were gaining.

The group is joking about how no one has impressed them yet. You’re about to change that. You crawl the final length on hands and knees, careful touch mapping the terrain so each advancement felt natural. Upwind, you find cover behind a silk curtain draped over a table and readied yourself. When laughter rises loudest, you strike.

Your arms wrap tight around a target, not quite caring who it is, twisted in an inescapable hold, your other hand covering their mouth to muffle their cries. The rest of the Gamemakers gape at you as you release the woman in your grasp.

She stumbles away, collapsing to her knees, gasping for air. The other examiners stare in both amazement and fear, searching your eyes soundlessly. 

“Thank you for your consideration? May I be excused?” Without waiting for an answer, you bow slightly.

And you take a step back, letting the shadows accentuate your face, saluting with a grin before melting back into the shadows, feeling worse about yourself than you were before.

You don’t expect the smile on Haymitch’s face, nor the slight amusement on Effie’s when they exchange a look as you explain your story.

“Well,” Leon says with a huff. “Now mine sounds boring.”

“You let your anger get the best of you,” Haymitch deduces, nodding. “Good. We can use some spirit.”

“But you said I needed to compose myself.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“What?”

Haymitch leans back, a faraway look coming over him as if recalling another time, another Games. "We’re both still human. It’s in our nature to best those looking down on us.”

There seems to be an underlying meaning to what he says, but you don’t bother trying to figure out what it is. Instead, you tilt your head at Leon, gesturing for him to continue.

“How’d you do?” you ask politely.

“Not bad,” he admits. “Nothing showy like you. I just did what I did to Glimmer.”

“Immediate 12,” you say, shaking your head in fake remorse. “You exposed yourself to her, too.”

“But she’s pretty dumb,” Leon argues. “I think she’ll be out quick.”

He’s not wrong, you can say that much. There’s definitely competition, you know that, but there are certain tributes you know you don't need to stress over.

Leon admitting to his inferior performance startles you. He's changing, adapting to the game of puppetry they're slowly starting to implement onto you, preparing you for the games.

And you keep your eyes forward.

<><><><><>

In the room, stylists twist Leon's hair into elaborate patterns that fall over his eyes, casting shadows over his pale blue irises. He gives you a crooked smile with the side of his face as a makeup artist dabs his cheekbones with powder.

Leon's wearing a sweater that matches yours, except unlike you, he looks like he's been attending private school over the summer, spending his days playing polo and betting on horse races, a luxury only District 1 has.

You don't understand why Leon needs makeup. He already looks fine, but you suppose "fine" won't suffice for the Capitol’s games. You realize you’re glaring at him and quickly look away.

"Alright, let's go over this," Haymitch drawls, standing near the edge of the couch you’re sitting on. "You need to make it seem like you've been close friends with him, kept in touch for a long time."

"Got it," you say, slightly bitter. "Why couldn't you do this?"

"Because I’m not your mother."

"Aren’t you mentoring us?”

"That depends on how today goes," Haymitch says, but a small smile has crept onto his face. He shakes his head and glances down at you, eyes flitting to the complex camera system. "Do what you need to. Remember what's at stake here."

You nod and mimic the action before he walks away. Someone shoos all of Leon's artists away, sending them scrambling like a school of fish. And they’ve called your names, the district interviews being set with both tributes. In what world they assumed this would help the kids about to die to open up, you couldn’t imagine.

You see none of this confusion reflected in the preppy interviewer, Caesar Flickerman who is sitting near you, smiling eerily.

"So, you two, you look cozy over there," he says, waggling his eyebrows in a way that makes you want to throw up. "Let’s hear a little about you two, huh?" He turns, wide eyes boring into you.

Your intro is somewhat unsteady, the way he’s worded the question throwing you off. "Well, uh… we’re…”

"We've been friends for a long time," Leon finishes for you, leaning back in his chair and spreading his legs. It sends warning bells ringing in your head, the informal posture, but you only hear the crowd swooning, so maybe it has something to do with his charming personality. He smiles warmly at the camera and the interviewer's own only grows.

"You’ve been friends since your childhood, yes?” he asks, directing a pen towards the both of you.

"Uh..." Leon's eyes cut to you.

"Yes," you say for him. "We've pretty much known each other for our entire lives."

"Mhm, yup," Leon affirms.

"Now, here's the biggest question on everyone's mind," he says, leaning forward in her seat. "Your story, from what I can tell, has its rocky start, but from what we can see on the cameras, something is blossoming between you. I mean, you both got an 11! Something doesn’t seem quite right.” As if on cue, scripted, the audience laughs. Caesar waggles his eyebrows cartoonishly. “Care to explain?" He lets out a boyish giggle.

"I'm... sorry?" Leon tilts his head, and by the confused look in his eyes you see he doesn't understand the full length of what the man said.

"I understand what you're implying," you begin, “but-”

"Wait, what, you do?" Leon turns to you, raising an eyebrow. "What does he mean?"

"Go ahead. Tell him what I mean," he says, long, curved eyelashes fluttering. He waves the camera over and you feel the gazes of what feels like the entirety of Panem on you.

It's Leon. He'll laugh at the implication and wave it off. He’s just some guy. You don’t care what he thinks, do you?

"He, along with the rest of whoever 'everyone' is, thinks we're together." The room holds its breath, Leon's expression unchanging. Then he smiles.

"Are we?"

"No, stupid."

"Women," he says, scoffing and turning to look at the other side. The camera zooms in on his face, and you can see a smile creep onto the side of his face.

"Leon has very readable emotions," you say, immediately getting his attention. He snaps back to you, eyes meeting yours in a challenging glare. You sit forward and he copies your movements, his glare cast downward as yours is cast upward. Your faces are so close that your noses could be touching.

"My lovely partner, as you can see, has visible reactions to everything I do. I guess I'm just too handsome for her to leave alone," he says smugly, a smirk curving his lips.

"Fuck off, you self-absorbed prick."

Leon leans forward. "Wow, are we giving them something to talk about?"

You meet his gaze without flinching. "No.”

He smiles strangely. "Your readable reaction says otherwise."

Your temper flashes. "Don't flatter yourself. I couldn't care less.”

“So, you two, hm?” Caesar Flickerman interrupts, glancing at you both, raising an eyebrow inquisitively, most likely trying to change the subject. “I didn’t expect that, now did I?”

“Neither did I,” Leon mumbles, trying to make it seem like a joke with a quirk of his mouth. “But here we are.”

Since you’re not responding, the interviewer keeps the questions to Leon, who responds with as much wit as he can muster.

“You should be proud to call such a…” Caesar struggles to grasp the right word for your personality. “Fierce young lady, your partner.”

“She isn’t my partner,” Leon replies casually.

“Then who does she belong to?” Caesar leans in, propping his head on his elbow. The fact you’re being objectified by this man, while you sit right in front of him, makes you want to lean over and punch him, crack that chiseled jaw, but Leon just scoffs.

“No one. She’s her own girl.”

You stare up at Leon, who looks back down at you from the side of his eye, slanting to meet your height. Something about that comment feels both complementary and insulting, as if he can’t decide on his opinion of you.

Maybe he’s trying to make up for what he said earlier. Or maybe he doesn’t care. You’ll admit that it bothers you slightly, the fact that he’s so unbothered by everything and that anything he says doesn’t pass you.

Then, finally, your interview is over, the buzzer ringing in your ears.

“That seems about all the time we have, folks.”

You don't know what to expect, but it's not the roar of protests that greet you as you stand and exit the stage, seething but as formal as you can manage.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Haymitch doesn't look any happier than you feel, but you dismiss it with a shrug.

“They could perceive it as…” Cinna shakes his head. “Trouble in paradise?”

“What part of this situation is even close to paradise?” You blanch. 

“The food?” Flavius suggests, voice as close to a helpful chirp during a quiet hunt, doing nothing to quash the anger that sears the back of your neck.

“Wait, seriously, listen to me-”

“The last thing I’m doing is listening to you, Leon,” you hiss. You turn back to your mentor, hands brushing.

"You both are excused," Haymitch mutters at your expression.

<><><><>

But something doesn’t sit right with you, so you storm over to Leon’s room, knocking rapidly.

A loose white shirt hangs low beneath his hips, covering his thighs and presumably shorts. He opens the door with blurry eyes, rubbing them, blinking down at you, tilting his head in confusion. “Need something, sweetheart?”

You scowl at the pet name and push your way past him. He gets the idea and closes the door behind you, locking it before turning to face you. His fingers tangle his already tousled mess of golden hair as he exhales slowly.

“What… happened back there?” you ask tentatively. 

“Haymitch… he wants us to play the romance card.”

A beat of silence passes. “Even if not one, but both of us die?”

“I guess it brings in more sponsors?” Leon shrugs helplessly, yawning, mouth stretching into an ‘o’. “Is that all you have to say?”

“What you said back there, did you mean it?” Leon arches an eyebrow. “About me… being… my own person?”

“I mean, yeah?” He cups the back of his neck and stretches, flexing his bicep. “It’s not like we’re complete strangers.”

“Of course not,” you mumble. “How could I ever forget?”

Leon chuckles. “Don’t tell me you still haven’t gotten over that.”

“Might be simple to you,” you say, “but I could’ve died.”

“Because I kissed you?”

“Because you ratted me out!”

Leon shakes his head. “That’s where you messed up. I didn’t say anything.”

You pause. Everything that you’ve assumed about him over the past six years, judging his character because of the strong belief he put your life in danger, seems to vanish. “You didn’t?”

“That was my brother. He saw us.”

“He did?” you exclaim.

“You didn’t think you were the only one to suffer the consequences, did you?” He attempts to keep his tone airy, but there’s something heavy behind it. Immediately, your mind goes to the morning of the Reaping, to the red on his face, to the close bond between the baker’s wife and Leon’s mother, and you make the connection.

“Oh, shit, Leon,” you murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

“Still want to be coached separately?”

Your lips twist into a grimace. “That’s not what this is about.”

The only response you receive is a small shrug. “Anyways, there’s nothing you could’ve done about it.” His eyes sparkle with unshed tears, but he keeps his voice steady. “I hope you know that even if you hadn’t… you know, kissed me, I wouldn’t have said anything.”

He ducks his head, not wanting to see your hesitant nod.

“I’m not a bad guy,” he says quietly, as if trying to convince himself. “It’s just… all anyone would talk to me about was my brother, the second Victor of District 12. There was no one for me.

“And you came into my life, just… there, and you were separate from the life that I had, all adoration for my brother. You gave me attention.”

“But what are we?” you press, more insistent. “I can’t play a game with you like that. I need to hear it straight.”

"You know what we are," Leon says, meeting your gaze. His eyes, however much they've darkened over the years, are still his, full of confusion. There's something different now, though. There's something guarding them, some kind of emotional barrier to keep from showing too much. Something he’s keeping.

"I used to think I did," you say. "But I don't think I do anymore."

“And what is that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.”

"I don't know." Leon mumbles. "How am I supposed to know? You don't fucking tell me anything, and it’s been almost a decade." His feet shuffle on the floor.

"A decade?" You laugh dryly. "Well, we are getting pretty damn close to that milestone, aren't we?"

Leon’s eyes flash dangerously. “You know it isn't that simple.”

“But it is,” you retort. "You don’t care.”

Leon leans in closer, voice dropping to a fierce whisper. “If you think I don't care, then you’re more naive than I thought. You have no idea what was really at stake.”

You match his tone, eyes glittering. “Enlighten me then. Go on, tell me how much you care."

"Why can't you just-

You lift your chin defiantly. “Just what, Leon?”

A muscle ticks in his jaw. “Get out.”

“You know what?” You brush past him, feeling his eyes linger on your back as you open the door. You don’t spare him another glance. “I think I will.”

<><><><>

The gong sounds and you launch from your metal circle, sprinting toward the Cornucopia with the others. Adrenaline surges through my veins as you spot a backpack and dagger nearby.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see one of the boys tackle another to the ground. A sickening crunch and the cannon fires - the first death in mere seconds.

Grabbing the supplies you were eyeing, you spin to flee but freeze in horror. Two Careers have Leon pinned, knives flashing as he fights like a cornered animal. Without thought, you whip your new dagger at the nearest attacker. It sinks hilt-deep in their neck with a wet thunk.

There is only a moment of shock before Leon retaliates, slashing at the second boy. Before long, they’re both crumpled on the ground as Leon picks through their freshly deceased bodies.

Your eyes meet amid the screams and clashing steel. For an instant, understanding passes between you blood-soaked survivors. Then you nod, turn, and run as fast as you can from the massacre, finding safety from the pounding of boots.

You rush into the thickening forest as more cannons boom, signaling the end of the initial slaughter. None pursue you further into the shadows of the trees. You slump against a trunk, chest heaving.

And yet your thoughts wander to how Leon is faring, to the crestfallen look on his face that surely must adorn his expression, because you could’ve allied with one another.

But you know it’s best this way.

There can only be one winner, after all.

<><><><>

You’ve had your eye on her since you woke up. She’s too loud to miss, like a clumsy deer separated from its family. She crashes into everything, making a racket, and she risks giving away your location, too.

So you track her.

Your footsteps are light, albeit not completely quiet. Still, your victim, the girl from District 5, has not noticed, and you adapt to the shadows, moving as one with them, as if you’re truly just back on a hunt in District 12.

How proud would Chris be of you? He would finally accept your hunting tread, finally praise you, stop teasing you for scaring away potential game. You long for his comforting presence here, but he is not here, and the one person who is…

Well, the person who just happens to be one of your next targets.

But for now, you watch the girl that stalks towards another clearing. She waits, cautiously glancing around every two seconds, wasting precious time. You’re just about to take another step towards her when you notice the subtle change, unmissable to your trained eyes; the shift of colors in one specific area.

The leaves are brighter, less natural, as if placed there intentionally. You do not say a word as the girl fails to see the thin strings glinting sunlight in her way, sharp and silent, waiting for her. One at her feet trips her, and before she can catch herself, the strings slice into her skin. She lies there, whimpering, held up by the threads, before the one pressing at her stomach finally cuts through.

She tumbles down, dripping crimson. A moan passes her lips, pained, like an injured animal, but somehow, she manages to take a breath and twist her body around, craning her neck to assess the damage.

For a second, it seems as though all is okay. And then the lower half of her body slips down, and crumples a few inches away from her. Her entire digestive system, coated in glistening blood, splays out in front of her, slumping into the dead leaves.

From this angle, you can see her open her mouth to scream, but only a gurgle comes out as her mouth fills with blood. She catches sight of her bow, the one she wore to the interview, the one you had noticed her clutching dearly to her chest, lying on near her fingertips, and she strains to grab it.

Something snaps in her neck and she twitches for a moment before going still. Everything goes silent, as if nature itself is witnessing this moment.

The beautiful girl whose clumsiness was her downfall, whose name I never knew lies on the ground, a horrible, gruesome sight left of the woman who was once a daughter, a sister, a friend. She does not move again.

But the shadows around her do. And from those same shadows I hide in emerge the Careers, brutish, beefy boys that I had not paid much attention to at training, because you were too busy looking at that little brat.

You wonder which one of them has the brains to set up such a complicated, subtle trap, so cleverly placed that you might’ve missed it if she hadn’t already died. Just as you resolve to watch them cackle at the poor, dead girl, you notice another figure slip from the shadows.

And once they step into the sunlight, dappling their face in aligned patterns, you almost drop your knife onto the ground.

The boy standing there is someone you don't expect.

Leon.