#because that means you leave behind some of your herd for conditional approval

[luckiestboy]

Saw a post today that the RBS of were reading the url of someone (sapphic-boy) and just... Calling him straight?

what happened to people.... Not imposing a label onto other's or denying their own way of self-describing?

Also hot take the only group you should be trying to bar from labeling as sapphic or lesbian is cishet men because cishet men who do try to call themselves male lesbians are usually creeps.

The inverse goes with cishet women and labeling as gay/achillean through that's less common to see ig.

And I'm talking cishet specifically.

No, I don't care if some binary trans men label themselves as lesbian or sapphic while being men, the way someone's genderqueerness interacts with their sexuality is complex, our language can only do so much to convey that. Either way it's not like you're forced to be into the local lesboy or whatever. There's this funny thing called "you don't have to be attracted to every other lesbian or sapphic that's alive, just don't be an asshole to them."

[ears-awake-eyes-opened]

Slipping veils

(Hayffie catching fire during the Victory Tour.)

The long stretch of track between Districts 11 and 10 was in need of maintenance, making their ride much less smooth than usual. Effie’s side ached where the Peacekeeper had jabbed her with a gun, and the motion of the train only added to her discomfort.

“Poked” was the euphemism Effie had used to describe her encounter in the Justice Building. The steel had dug into a tender spot along her ribs. During the past several months she’d certainly weathered extreme ups and downs at her job. The stop in 11 had been full of downs.

“I do NOT approve of the actions of those Peacekeepers.”

She sat on a couch across from Haymitch. He slouched in a chair with his feet up on a coffee table, and he nursed a glass of liquor as he listened to her. When he wanted to block out her chatter without having to leave her, he closed his eyes and pretended to sleep. But his eyes were open now, watching her closely.

He wasn’t drunk enough yet to avoid seeing the toll that the day had taken on her. She propped an elbow on the armrest of the sofa and leaned her head on her palm. The pumpkin that she called a wig was mussed and a bit off-center. The ostrich feathers covering her sleeves slumped with her shoulders. Her clipboard detailing the next day’s itinerary was tossed on the seat beside her, and her cup of herbal tea sat on the table untouched.

“Perhaps in 11, the Peacekeepers have been overly conditioned to monitoring the handling of livestock,” Effie continued, “Because that’s what I felt like today. When we return to the Capitol, I MUST speak with the head of the department. My victors deserve better! Especially after Katniss and Peeta gave those beautiful speeches about Thresh and Little Rue.”

“Yeah. They deserve a hell of a lot better,” Haymitch spoke over the rim of his glass, “But those kids already have a lot to deal with, Effie. Let this lie for now.”

“I know there were shots fired in that square — three of them. Peeta said a truck backfired, but I’m not a fool.”

“The kids just want to protect your... innocence.” Haymitch chuckled a bit at his own use of the word. It was nervous laughter more than anything else. “I’m sure that’s how they see it.”

“Oh, those dears. This victory tour is supposed to be their CELEBRATION. Yet there they were being treated like cattle while trying to honor the families of the fallen tributes... even trying to protect me. Their faces have been as white as sheets. ...Well, not the yellowed atrocities that hang in YOUR windows, but white as normal sheets. The prep teams have had to add more color to their cheeks with each touch up. Something just... well, something is not right.”

“A lot of things aren’t right, sweetheart. But they happen anyway.”

The train jostled them. Some tea splashed from Effie’s cup onto the table, and Haymitch brought his other hand up to steady his drink. She flinched just then, holding her rib cage.

“What’s the matter?”

“That Peacekeeper jabbed me pretty hard.”

“Did she?” His mind began spinning the image he’d blocked out earlier of a gun pointed at Effie.

“The poor condition of these train tracks is doing nothing to alleviate my discomfort. One would think the operators would have had the entire system in perfect condition for an event as important as the Victory Tour. There’s another department head I must file a complaint with!”

Haymitch put his glass down on the table and moved to the sofa, initially squashing Effie’s clipboard then sliding it out from under him and setting it apart from their drinks. He knew she must be uncomfortable when she didn’t complain about his assprint on her itinerary. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even complained about him propping his feet up near her tea.

He reached across the waist of her shiny blue dress and gently brushed the affected spot with his fingertips. All he could feel beneath the fabric was more fabric. Unfortunately her corset was only armor against his hands, not other weapons.

He reached so quickly that she didn’t have a chance to object. Though objection was far from her mind. He rarely touched her unless he was holding her elbow in front of potential sponsors or leaning on her elsewhere to avoid falling down drunk. Any touch he offered when he wasn’t playing a part and when he wasn’t wasted was something she tucked inside her as a treasure.

As his arm rested lightly on her stomach, her gaze followed his sleeve up to the collar of the shirt she’d picked out for him that morning. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried to swallow whatever he was feeling. His eyes were grey ghosts of the man she’d fallen for long ago, even before she’d seen how much there was inside him. He looked tired in a way that made her feel the passage of time. He was still young to be so tired.

“Are you bruised?” he asked.

“I...” She released the breath she’d been holding. “I’m not sure. The barrel of the gun must have pressed between the stays of my corset.”

Rage flushed Haymitch’s cheeks. He could hardly stand the thought of the barrel of a gun being that close to Effie — close enough to hurt her. He hated knowing it had happened. All at once his hands were shaking, and he let go.

“With that plaster on, how are you gonna know if you’re really hurt! You could have a hematoma under there and not know it!”

“There’s no need to yell. The children are sleeping.” Why can’t you just touch me like a moment ago and let that be enough?

“Like hell there isn’t! I’m yelling because I’m pissed off. Go get out of that thing, and I’ll go to the bar car and bring you a sack of ice for your side. ...I need to refill my drink anyway.”

“I’ve been herded enough today! The last thing I need is YOU telling me where to go and what to do! And my corsets are NOT plaster!”

He’d seen and felt enough of them to know what they were — all satin and lace and ribbons and shit that made him forget himself. Just thinking about it made him want to take that ridiculous pumpkin off her head and bury his hands in her hair which he hadn’t felt in months. He wanted to do insane things like suck the vanilla perfume from her neck and fuck her for as long as his body would let him.

He felt the intensities swelling between them and shifted uncomfortably as his pants tightened in front. People in 11 resisting and getting shot... a gun pointed at Effie... her hurting... him yelling... her yelling back... and this is how his body was responding. Fuck. He didn’t try to hide it, but he was determined not to go to that insane place, especially now.

He pulled far enough away that no part of him was touching her. “You’re hurt, and I’m trying to help. I’m just trying to help you.”

She couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very wrong. Something bigger than the way they’d been treated in 11. Bigger than the fear she felt when his hand trembled and his face flushed and his voice pierced the space between them and bled right into her. She shivered and wanted him close. She needed him — so she could do this job, and at other times when he was too far away for her to even pretend that she had him.

Her tone was subdued, “I would appreciate you getting me that ice. Thank you. I’m going to my sleeping compartment to change. Will you bring it to me there?”

“Sure.” He picked up his glass and finished the liquor in one gulp as he walked away.

Effie scooped up her clipboard and left the cup of tea behind. She used her free hand to boost herself up from the sofa. Haymitch was right. She shouldn’t be in this corset. The stays were pressing painfully with each movement of her body and the train.

She glanced out the window. This stretch of track took them near the ocean. There wasn’t enough of a moon to see anything except a large swath of black beneath a starry sky. Such a pity to miss a beautiful view. The night drew a veil over the earth, and it pulled others from her thoughts. She could feel the veils slipping, even though she didn’t know what was underneath.

Her detailed schedule said she should be asleep then, but her mind was flopping all over the place like a fish washed up out there on the darkened shore. In that state, there was something undeniably comforting about being with Haymitch, before he became too drunk to forget her presence.

In the bar car he requested ice in a plastic bag and a small towel to wrap around it. He sat awhile at a table, giving Effie time to change and allowing himself a chance to calm down. He opted to not refill his glass, not yet. Nights on the train were always long, and there would be plenty time later to swim in liquor. Drinking any more now would just mean swallowing the dregs of his inhibitions. And he needed those. He needed those more than he wanted Effie.

“I’ve got your ice,” he announced outside her door.

“Come in. I’m as decent as I’m going to get under the circumstances.”

He opened the door. “I don’t care about decent, sweetheart. I’m just bringing...”

He stopped short when he saw her. She sat on the edge of the bed wearing pink silk pajamas. The orange wig was on its stand on the dresser, and her hair fell above her shoulders. Her real hair, golden like grasses in the Meadow just before the rains come. He’d spent months remembering the feeling of it, trying to forget, and remembering anyway.

She held out her hand, and he was almost drunk enough to take it, until he realized she was reaching for the sack of ice.

“The bartender wrapped it in a towel for you. He’s fixed ice packs for me plenty of times when I’ve knocked my head, usually on the floor.”

“Yes, I’m often the one to request those for you.”

Of course she was. Shit. He didn’t like this in-between feeling — sharp enough to recognize that he was being stupid, but not sharp enough to stop himself. At least he remembered what he’d come there for, and he placed the ice pack in her hands.

“I should go.” But his feet wouldn’t move.

“Can you stay awhile? Today’s been... unexpected. And I feel better with you here.”

Against his judgment, he sat down beside her. The neckline of her pajamas dipped far enough for him to notice that she wasn’t wearing anything underneath, but not deep enough to see the fullness of her breasts.

The one time he’d seen them she was drunk. It took iron will to not touch her then. The following summer they’d shared a bottle of gin, and he felt her through her dress without a corset in the way. It was brief, just long enough for her nipples to respond to his touch. Maybe it would have gone further if they hadn’t been interrupted. But sanity had prevailed.

Now here she was lifting the hem of her top to the tender spot on her rib cage. If she hadn’t been hurting, then he’d be sorely tempted to tell her to keep going... to take off her shirt... to take off everything... or let him do it... to let his hands know more of this soft Effie that he never got enough of... never, damn it... and he wouldn’t get enough of her that night either... or any night... because nothing was safe... nothing had ever been safe.

He was close enough for her to hear his breathing turn ragged, but she misunderstood. “It’s not that bad,” she said, “It’s just a regular bruise.”

“Shaped like the barrel of a Peacekeeper’s gun,” he seethed, lifting his hand and brushing his thumb across the bruise as gently as he’d ever touched anything in his life. Her body was slight and her skin so soft. In that moment, he flashed back to kissing the top of his baby brother’s head the day he was born.

He leaned as close as possible to Effie’s ear and whispered, “These walls can hear us... Do you understand?”

She nodded.

He whispered again, “If they hurt you again... I’ll kill them.”

“It’s.. it’s just a bruise.”

More whispers raised goosebumps on her arms, “Effie, I swear... I’ll kill them.”

She whispered back, and he shivered too in the feeling of her breath warming his temple. “Kill who?”

He hesitated before answering. “...Everyone.”

She didn’t know what was happening, but she could tell his intensity wasn’t an exaggeration. This feeling between them, whatever it may be, was real.

During each stretch of time they spent together, it kept getting harder for her to hold back. His drinking usually helped in that regard because it was easy to point out that the fragrance of a distillery is not a cologne and simply shove him away. But he’d been drinking that night same as usual, and she wasn’t shoving.

His thumb circled a wide perimeter around the bruise, and she took shallow breaths. She tilted her head up slightly, and his mouth was inches from hers. It would be so easy to lean forward and let it happen. “Haymitch...” she murmured, stroking the back of his hand.

“Don’t...” He held a moment in the feeling. Then he jerked away as if she was fire searing his flesh. The sack of ice fell to the floor. She reached for it and winced. He retrieved it and set it once again in her open hands.

He returned to whispering, “I don’t want the barrel of a gun pointing at you. If you kiss me... if I kiss you... then any shred of power I may have to protect you is gone. Do you understand?”

She shook her head ‘no,’ not because she didn’t understand but because she was starting to, and these were truths she wasn’t ready to accept. She whispered back, “What if I want to take the risk?”

He turned his head toward her, and their foreheads were touching. “Honey, if you want that kind of risk, then you’re a fool after all.”

He ran his hands through her hair. False lashes pressed to her cheeks. He had to take away at least that much of her. He needed it to keep going.

It might have been enough if she hadn’t moaned and slid her fingers through his hair too. He shuddered in the sensations, and he knew. There’s no way in hell this would be enough. Even though it had to be.

[aradias-crypt]

BH with a hero s/o headcanons

He would try killing you at first

Surely this one was obvious, no one is disillusioned enough to believe the source of all evil in the world would not attempt to off all heroes he sees.

And as a hero, it would be your ultimate goal to free the people from the dangers of villains, especially Black Hat. While you normally patrol your designated city, there has been the occasional meeting with Black Hat himself (usually when he is out collecting debts or working with contemporaries).

“If it isn’t my favorite little nuisance,” Black Hat grins, waving away his subordinates. He didn't need them for this. “Did my last attack teach you nothing? I may enjoy this little game of ours but I will not hold back any one.”

You land on the ground softly, “Should I take that as a compliment?”

“Of course, it is an honor for any human scum to be acknowledged by me.” He steps to the side, blocking your path as his soldiers enter the building behind him.

“What are you up to?”

“I would go on about my magnificent plans but that would be quite silly of me, don’t you think?”

“It would make my life so much easier.” Crystals grow from your arms, forming a shield and sword.

He smirks, shadows spilling from his body.

“But I enjoy w̴̘̲̻͈̌̀́͗͑̂̇͝at̸̢̟͓̗͓̥͈̮̼̃̄̔̄̊c̷͔̪̺̘͓̪͙͈̅͐̀̀͛͗̋̓̊̎͠h̸̡̟̞̖͍̲͊̋̀in̵͈͖͇̜̱̮̑̋̍͂͂̚g̷̮͐ ̵̧̧̧͈͍̜̫̜̬̫̮̮̔͝ỹ̵͕̗̤̍̍̊ő̷̡͕̻͙̤̤̮̣̉̂̂̂́͜ͅù̸̠̟̜̳̩̠̫̗̼̩͇̐͌͒̈́̊̍͆̑͊̚̕͜ ̵̼̲̗͓̖̒́s̵̨̢̼̟̼̬̳͇͍̩̙̓̅͒̏͌̓͂͆͜ư̷̪̞̟͖̓̒̂͂͊̓̔̇̀͜f̷̡̺̦̭̺̩͎̤̯̣̝̫̄͐̋f̶̛̫̗̺̟͖̓̉̀̋̓͆̕e̶̛̺̻̫̫̩̱̺͕͎̲͍̺͋̌͗̎̑̊͊́̃r̸̰͓̳̹͈̹̖͌̒̋̑͒͘~̵͎̯̳̓̆!̴̦̹͔̖̞̠̱̘̪̿̓͝”

He would protect you from other villains

It isn’t because he *shudders* likes you, but because you are the only hero who can amuse him. If another villain were to kill you, not only would you shame him for dying at such a lower villains hands and not his own, but because he would be bored.

You brace yourself for impact, forming a thick shell of diamond around you as the villain on the outside blasts you with gamma rays. You herded the civilians in the area far away, propping up lead walls to try and shield them from the radiation, but it left you with little energy and proper material to protect yourself.

‘They’re safe,’ you think to yourself, ‘That’s what matters.’

Slowly, you begin to feel nauseating waves pierce through your barrier.

You squeeze your eyes shut, not wanting to the the damage that will soon be done to your body.

‘This is it.’

“I’m starting to believe you truly have a death wish little hero.” A gravelly voice rasps from outside.

You look up, eyes wide as the light shining through disappears for a moment.

The villain screams, their attack ending abruptly.

You wait in silence.

The light slowly shines through again, but a shadow approaches from the outside. The outline of a hand reaches out and raps on your barrier.

“You can come out now,” Black Hat chuckles, his voice full of arrogance, “I took care of that pathetic trash. You’ve nothing to fear out here but me.”

Slowly, you would stop fighting

Eventually, you would get used to each other, no longer fighting like before. Meeting in public, you’d bicker more than swap fists. It would come to the point where other heroes would fight with his lackeys while you two debate whether the import taxes and tariffs war is good for anyone. Though Black Hat is rather relaxed seeing as how he isn’t “required” to pay them.

“I don’t understand how you can be so calm about this,” you blow on your cup of hot chocolate as you walk beside the ageless being, “you’re a businessman, this would cut your profits if people don’t pay for your goods right?”

He places a hand on his chest, “A being like me is exempt from such mortal affairs little one; I don’t need to hand over my money to anyone.” He hisses at the children gawking at him, his eye flashing red.

You shake your head, sipping your drink slowly. “You know, I forget you’re like this sometimes.”

“Powerful, awe inspiring, nightmare inducing?” He grins.

“Petty.”

You wouldn’t officially end your rival status

Black Hat is the paragon of evil and the standard all villains should strive towards almost being, it would not look good for him to be so... civil with a hero. The same thing goes for you, you may be used to him and a bit.. fond of him, but you couldn’t leave the League of Heroes! You were one of their top heroes! And you still were drawn to justice, no matter how much you enjoyed Black Hats satirical humor and general company, you didn’t believe villains were right.

This was something you two could agree on. Neither of you could afford to ruin your public appearance.

A secret relationship

Not that either of you ever made it “official” or anything, but you both agree to keeping your public and private lives separate. On the outside, you both would resume your fights and do your own things, but away from the public you could act however you wanted. This leads t the more domestic side of your “courting”.

Visiting your home

After a faux battle leaving you with a stinging gash, you decide to finally show bring your.. partner? Friend? Beau?? to your home.

“Its smaller than I expected.” Black Hat surveys the room around him, lifting up a bottle of mineral water from your table, “Do they not pay their heroes enough?”

You snatch the bottle from him, and swap it for a bottle of disinfectant, “They aren’t cheap like you. I just prefer something cozier.” You stick your tongue at him before drinking. The water soothes the building fever in your body and eases some of the aches and soreness you received from getting smacked around by him.

He clicks his tongue in distaste, “I could heal you ten times faster than mortal medicine.”

“You don’t seem like the healer type. And definitely not for free.” You walk to your bathroom and pull out your medical kit, taking out a roll of gauze, needle and wire. Turning around, you bump into Black Hat who steals the needle from your hand.

“You won’t be needing any of that,” he snaps his fingers, causing the items in your arms to disappear. “Except this.” He holds the needle in his mouth like a toothpick,”I will heal you in exchange for dinner. A good bargain considering the wasted use of my talent.”

You smile, “I’ll cook, as long as the hole in my arm doesn’t grow teeth due to your healing.”

He smirks and stalks down the hall to the kitchen, “That’s not a bad idea, I quite like it.”

You follow after him, “Do it and the first thing it eats is that car of yours.”

“I have plenty to spare.”

Visiting the manor

It doesn’t take much to convince Black Hat into taking you to the manor. Ever the show off, Black Hat makes sure the house is in its top condition before bringing you along with him. Seeing how Hat Island is stock full of villains and is home of Black Hat himself, no hero has ever gotten close to the island and come out unscathed. Until you.

This means you are wholly unprepared for the sight awaiting you.

“This sums you up pretty well.” You stifle a laugh. Before you is the home of evil incarnate. The lair of the monster children are told of at night. The domain of something so evil, he could destroy the planet and dust himself off as if nothing ever happened.

That entity’s home. Is a hat.

He sweeps you inside,”Of course, everything I own must have my stamp of approval.”

“Is the airplane also your stamp of approval?”

He grumbles,”Ignore that.”

- - -

“Your home feels a bit more like a museum and you the curator, but I admit it is very interesting.” You sit at his desk, admiring the artifacts lining the walls. You were especially interested in a piece of what seemed to be a spear.

Noticing your gaze Black Hat chuckles, “I take pieces of history, much of what you see now is because of me.”

“Including the plague?”

A sigh, “Good times.”

The rest of your time is full of questions and his retelling of history (though you take the stories of heroes with a grain of salt).

Final piece to the puzzle

There is no sound of wedding bells- and you highly doubt you could convince him to enter a Church or going to the government for that- so the two of you never truly get “married”. But along the way of your partnership, you both begin to realize that you are very, very fragile. So Black Hat creates a solution. No need to thank him~.

You lift a brow at the small box Black Hat has slid across his desk to you. Picking it up, you pause before opening it.

“Is this another shrunken head because I still haven’t gotten over the last one you gave me.”

He doesn’t look up from his newspaper, “Open it.”

“If something springs out I’m not making dinner.” You open the box.

A signet ring lay inside with the black hat symbol on the top.

“I..assume there is a reason behind this?” You take the ring out, twirling it between your fingers.

He folds his paper and approaches you. You look at him quizzically as he grasps your hand and holds the ring up for you to see.

“This, my little mortal, will keep you from harm.”

He slips the band onto your finger and pats your head, “I cant have you dying on me just yet.”

You lean forward on your palm, “With you here, what could hurt me?”

He leans in with a wicked, vulgar grin and eyes ablaze with want.

“Me.”

[readbookywooks]

20. "Peeta!" I scream. I shake him harder, even resort to slapping his face, but it's no use. His heart has failed. I am slapping emptiness. "Peeta!" Finnick props Mags against a tree and pushes me out of the way. "Let me." His fingers touch points at Peeta's neck, run over the bones in his ribs and spine. Then he pinches Peeta's nostrils shut. "No!" I yell, hurling myself at Finnick, for surely he intends to make certain that Peeta's dead, to keep any hope of life from returning to him. Finnick's hand comes up and hits me so hard, so squarely in the chest that I go flying back into a nearby tree trunk. I'm stunned for a moment, by the pain, by trying to regain my wind, as I see Finnick close off Peeta's nose again. From where I sit, I pull an arrow, whip the notch into place, and am about to let it fly when I'm stopped by the sight of Finnick kissing Peeta. And it's so bizarre, even for Finnick, that I stay my hand. No, he's not kissing him. He's got Peeta's nose blocked off but his mouth tilted open, and he's blowing air into his lungs. I can see this, I can actually see Peeta's chest rising and falling. Then Finnick unzips the top of Peeta's jumpsuit and begins to pump the spot over his heart with the heels of his hands. Now that I've gotten through my shock, I understand what he's trying to do. Once in a blue moon, I've seen my mother try something similar, but not often. If your heart fails in District 12, it's unlikely your family could get you to my mother in time, anyway. So her usual patients are burned or wounded or ill. Or starving, of course. But Finnick's world is different. Whatever he's doing, he's done it before. There's a very set rhythm and method. And I find the arrow tip sinking to the ground as I lean in to watch, desperately, for some sign of success. Agonizing minutes drag past as my hopes diminish. Around the time that I'm deciding it's too late, that Peeta's dead, moved on, unreachable forever, he gives a small cough and Finnick sits back. I leave my weapons in the dirt as I fling myself at him. "Peeta?" I say softly. I brush the damp blond strands of hair back from his forehead, find the pulse drumming against my fingers at his neck. His lashes flutter open and his eyes meet mine. "Careful," he says weakly. "There's a force field up ahead." I laugh, but there are tears running down my cheeks. "Must be a lot stronger than the one on the Training Center roof," he says. "I'm all right, though. Just a little shaken." "You were dead! Your heart stopped!" I burst out, before really considering if this is a good idea. I clap my hand over my mouth because I'm starting to make those awful choking sounds that happen when I sob. "Well, it seems to be working now," he says. "It's all right, Katniss." I nod my head but the sounds aren't stopping. "Katniss?" Now Peeta's worried about me, which adds to the insanity of it all. "It's okay. It's just her hormones," says Finnick. "From the baby." I look up and see him, sitting back on his knees but still panting a bit from the climb and the heat and the effort of bringing Peeta back from the dead. "No. It's not - " I get out, but I'm cut off by an even more hysterical round of sobbing that seems only to confirm what Finnick said about the baby. He meets my eyes and I glare at him through my tears. It's stupid, I know, that his efforts make me so vexed. All I wanted was to keep Peeta alive, and I couldn't and Finnick could, and I should be nothing but grateful. And I am. But I am also furious because it means that I will never stop owing Finnick Odair. Ever. So how can I kill him in his sleep? I expect to see a smug or sarcastic expression on his face, but his look is strangely quizzical. He glances between Peeta and me, as if trying to figure something out, then gives his head a slight shake as if to clear it. "How are you?" he asks Peeta. "Do you think you can move on?" "No, he has to rest," I say. My nose is running like crazy and I don't even have a shred of fabric to use as a handkerchief. Mags rips off a handful of hanging moss from a tree limb and gives it to me. I'm too much of a mess to even question it. I blow my nose loudly and mop the tears off my face. It's nice, the moss. Absorbent and surprisingly soft. I notice a gleam of gold on Peeta's chest. I reach out and retrieve the disk that hangs from a chain around his neck. My mockingjay has been engraved on it. "Is this your token?" I ask. "Yes. Do you mind that I used your mockingjay? I wanted us to match," he says. "No, of course I don't mind." I force a smile. Peeta showing up in the arena wearing a mockingjay is both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand, it should give a boost to the rebels in the district. On the other, it's hard to imagine President Snow will overlook it, and that makes the job of keeping Peeta alive harder. "So you want to make camp here, then?" Finnick asks. "I don't think that's an option," Peeta answers. "Staying here. With no water. No protection. I feel all right, really. If we could just go slowly." "Slowly would be better than not at all." Finnick helps Peeta to his feet while I pull myself together. Since I got up this morning I've watched Cinna beaten to a pulp, landed in another arena, and seen Peeta die. Still, I'm glad Finnick keeps playing the pregnancy card for me, because from a sponsor's point of view, I'm not handling things all that well. I check over my weapons, which I know are in perfect condition, because it makes me seem more in control. "I'll take the lead," I announce. Peeta starts to object but Finnick cuts him off. "No, let her do it." He frowns at me. "You knew that force field was there, didn't you? Right at the last second? You started to give a warning." I nod. "How did you know?" I hesitate. To reveal that I know Beetee and Wiress's trick of recognizing a force field could be dangerous. I don't know if the Gamemakers made note of that moment during training when the two pointed it out to me or not. One way or the other, I have a very valuable piece of information. And if they know I have it, they might do something to alter the force field so I can't see the aberration anymore. So I lie. "I don't know. It's almost as if I could hear it. Listen." We all become still. There's the sound of insects, birds, the breeze in the foliage. "I don't hear anything," says Peeta. "Yes," I insist, "it's like when the fence around District Twelve is on, only much, much quieter." Everyone listens again intently. I do, too, although there's nothing to hear. "There!" I say. "Can't you hear it? It's coming from right where Peeta got shocked." "I don't hear it, either," says Finnick. "But if you do, by all means, take the lead." I decide to play this for all it's worth. "That's weird," I say. I turn my head from side to side as if puzzled. "I can only hear it out of my left ear." "The one the doctors reconstructed?" asks Peeta. "Yeah," I say, then give a shrug. "Maybe they did a better job than they thought. You know, sometimes I do hear funny things on that side. Things you wouldn't ordinarily think have a sound. Like insect wings. Or snow hitting the ground." Perfect. Now all the attention will turn to the surgeons who fixed my deaf ear after the Games last year, and they'll have to explain why I can hear like a bat. "You," says Mags, nudging me forward, so I take the lead. Since we're to be moving slowly, Mags prefers to walk with the aid of a branch Finnick quickly fashions into a cane for her. He makes a staff for Peeta as well, which is good because, despite his protestations, I think all Peeta really wants to do is lie down. Finnick brings up the rear, so at least someone alert has our backs. I walk with the force field on my left, because that's supposed to be the side with my superhuman ear. But since that's all made up, I cut down a bunch of hard nuts that hang like grapes from a nearby tree and toss them ahead of me as I go. It's good I do, too, because I have a feeling I'm missing the patches that indicate the force field more often than I'm spotting them. Whenever a nut hits the force field, there's a puff of smoke before the nut lands, blackened and with a cracked shell, on the ground at my feet. After a few minutes I become aware of a smacking sound behind me and turn to see Mags peeling the shell off one of the nuts and popping it in her already-full mouth. "Mags!" I cry. "Spit that out. It could be poisonous." She mumbles something and ignores me, licking her lips with apparent relish. I look to Finnick for help but he just laughs. "I guess we'll find out," he says. I go forward, wondering about Finnick, who saved old Mags but will let her eat strange nuts. Who Haymitch has stamped with his seal of approval. Who brought Peeta back from the dead. Why didn't he just let him die? He would have been blameless. I never would have guessed it was in his power to revive him. Why could he possibly have wanted to save Peeta? And why was he so determined to team up with me? Willing to kill me, too, if it comes to that. But leaving the choice of if we fight to me. I keep walking, tossing my nuts, sometimes catching a glimpse of the force field, trying to press to the left to find a spot where we can break through, get away from the Cornucopia, and hopefully find water. But after another hour or so of this I realize it's futile. We're not making any progress to the left. In fact, the force field seems to be herding us along a curved path. I stop and look back at Mags's limping form, the sheen of sweat on Peeta's face. "Let's take a break," I say. "I need to get another look from above." The tree I choose seems to jut higher into the air than the others. I make my way up the twisting boughs, staying as close to the trunk as possible. No telling how easily these rubbery branches will snap. Still I climb beyond good sense because there's something I have to see. As I cling to a stretch of trunk no wider than a sapling, swaying back and forth in the humid breeze, my suspicions are confirmed. There's a reason we can't turn to the left, will never be able to. From this precarious vantage point, I can see the shape of the whole arena for the first time. A perfect circle. With a perfect wheel in the middle. The sky above the circumference of the jungle is tinged a uniform pink. And I think I can make out one or two of those wavy squares, chinks in the armor, Wiress and Beetee called them, because they reveal what was meant to be hidden and are therefore a weakness. Just to make absolutely sure, I shoot an arrow into the empty space above the tree line. There's a spurt of light, a flash of real blue sky, and the arrow's thrown back into the jungle. I climb down to give the others the bad news. "The force field has us trapped in a circle. A dome, really. I don't know how high it goes. There's the Cornucopia, the sea, and then the jungle all around. Very exact. Very symmetrical. And not very large," I say. "Did you see any water?" asks Finnick. "Only the saltwater where we started the Games," I say. "There must be some other source," says Peeta, frowning. "Or we'll all be dead in a matter of days." "Well, the foliage is thick. Maybe there are ponds or springs somewhere," I say doubtfully. I instinctively feel the Capitol might want these unpopular Games over as soon as possible. Plutarch Heavensbee might have already been given orders to knock us off. "At any rate, there's no point in trying to find out what's over the edge of this hill, because the answer is nothing." "There must be drinkable water between the force field and the wheel," Peeta insists. We all know what this means. Heading back down. Heading back to the Careers and the bloodshed. With Mags hardly able to walk and Peeta too weak to fight. We decide to move down the slope a few hundred yards and continue circling. See if maybe there's some water at that level. I stay in the lead, occasionally chucking a nut to my left, but we're well out of range of the force field now. The sun beats down on us, turning the air to steam, playing tricks on our eyes. By midafternoon, it's clear Peeta and Mags can't go on. Finnick chooses a campsite about ten yards below the force field, saying we can use it as a weapon by deflecting our enemies into it if attacked. Then he and Mags pull blades of the sharp grass that grows in five-foot-high tufts and begin to weave them together into mats. Since Mags seems to have no ill effects from the nuts, Peeta collects bunches of them and fries them by bouncing them off the force field. He methodically peels off the shells, piling the meats on a leaf. I stand guard, fidgety and hot and raw with the emotions of the day. Thirsty. I am so thirsty. Finally I can't stand it anymore. "Finnick, why don't you stand guard and I'll hunt around some more for water," I say. No one's thrilled with the idea of me going off alone, but the threat of dehydration hangs over us. "Don't worry, I won't go far," I promise Peeta. "I'll go, too," he says. "No, I'm going to do some hunting if I can," I tell him. I don't add, "And you can't come because you're too loud." But it's implied. He would both scare off prey and endanger me with his heavy tread. "I won't be long." I move stealthily through the trees, happy to find that the ground lends itself to soundless footsteps. I work my way down at a diagonal, but I find nothing except more lush, green plant life. The sound of the cannon brings me to a halt. The initial bloodbath at the Cornucopia must be over. The death toll of the tributes is now available. I count the shots, each representing one dead victor. Eight. Not as many as last year. But it seems like more since I know most of their names. Suddenly weak, I lean against a tree to rest, feeling the heat draw the moisture from my body like a sponge. Already, swallowing is difficult and fatigue is creeping up on me. I try rubbing my hand across my belly, hoping some sympathetic pregnant woman will become my sponsor and Haymitch can send in some water. No luck. I sink to the ground. In my stillness, I begin to notice the animals: strange birds with brilliant plumage, tree lizards with flickering blue tongues, and something that looks like a cross between a rat and a possum clinging on the branches close to the trunk. I shoot one of the latter out of a tree to get a closer look. It's ugly, all right, a big rodent with a fuzz of mottled gray fur and two wicked-looking gnawing teeth protruding over its lower lip. As I'm gutting and skinning it, I notice something else. Its muzzle is wet. Like an animal that's been drinking from a stream. Excited, I start at its home tree and move slowly out in a spiral. It can't be far, the creature's water source. Nothing. I find nothing. Not so much as a dewdrop. Eventually, because I know Peeta will be worried about me, I head back to the camp, hotter and more frustrated than ever. When I arrive, I see the others have transformed the place. Mags and Finnick have created a hut of sorts out of the grass mats, open on one side but with three walls, a floor, and a roof. Mags has also plaited several bowls that Peeta has filled with roasted nuts. Their faces turn to me hopefully, but I give my head a shake. "No. No water. It's out there, though. He knew where it was," I say, hoisting the skinned rodent up for all to see. "He'd been drinking recently when I shot him out of a tree, but I couldn't find his source. I swear, I covered every inch of ground in a thirty-yard radius." "Can we eat him?" Peeta asks. "I don't know for sure. But his meat doesn't look that different from a squirrel's. He ought to be cooked... ." I hesitate as I think of trying to start a fire out here from complete scratch. Even if I succeed, there's the smoke to think about. We're all so close together in this arena, there's no chance of hiding it. Peeta has another idea. He takes a cube of rodent meat, skewers it on the tip of a pointed stick, and lets it fall into the force field. There's a sharp sizzle and the stick flies back. The chunk of meat is blackened on the outside but well cooked inside. We give him a round of applause, then quickly stop, remembering where we are. The white sun sinks in the rosy sky as we gather in the hut. I'm still leery about the nuts, but Finnick says Mags recognized them from another Games. I didn't bother spending time at the edible-plants station in training because it was so effortless for me last year. Now I wish I had. For surely there would have been some of the unfamiliar plants surrounding me. And I might have guessed a bit more about where I was headed. Mags seems fine, though, and she's been eating the nuts for hours. So I pick one up and take a small bite. It has a mild, slightly sweet flavor that reminds me of a chestnut. I decide it's all right. The rodent's strong and gamey but surprisingly juicy. Really, it's not a bad meal for our first night in the arena. If only we had something to wash it down with. Finnick asks a lot of questions about the rodent, which we decide to call a tree rat. How high was it, how long did I watch it before I shot, and what was it doing? I don't remember it doing much of anything. Snuffling around for insects or something. I'm dreading the night. At least the tightly woven grass offers some protection from whatever slinks across the jungle floor after hours. But a short time before the sun slips below the horizon, a pale white moon rises, making things just visible enough. Our conversation trails off because we know what's coming. We position ourselves in a line at the mouth of the hut and Peeta slips his hand into mine. The sky brightens when the seal of the Capitol appears as if floating in space. As I listen to the strains of the anthem I think, It will be harder for Finnick and Mags. But it turns out to be plenty hard for me as well. Seeing the faces of the eight dead victors projected into the sky. The man from District 5, the one Finnick took out with his trident, is the first to appear. That means that all the tributes in 1 through 4 are alive - the four Careers, Beetee and Wiress, and, of course, Mags and Finnick. The man from District 5 is followed by the male morphling from 6, Cecelia and Woof from 8, both from 9, the woman from 10, and Seeder from 11. The Capitol seal is back with a final bit of music and then the sky goes dark except for the moon. No one speaks. I can't pretend I knew any of them well. But I'm thinking of those three kids hanging on to Cecelia when they took her away. Seeder's kindness to me at our meeting. Even the thought of the glazed-eyed morphling painting my cheeks with yellow flowers gives me a pang. All dead. All gone. I don't know how long we might have sat here if it weren't for the arrival of the silver parachute, which glides down through the foliage to land before us. No one reaches for it. "Whose is it, do you think?" I say finally. "No telling," says Finnick. "Why don't we let Peeta claim it, since he died today?" Peeta unties the cord and flattens out the circle of silk. On the parachute sits a small metal object that I can't place. "What is it?" I ask. No one knows. We pass it from hand to hand, taking turns examining it. It's a hollow metal tube, tapered slightly at one end. On the other end a small lip curves downward. It's vaguely familiar. A part that could have fallen off a bicycle, a curtain rod, anything, really. Peeta blows on one end to see if it makes a sound. It doesn't. Finnick slides his pinkie into it, testing it out as a weapon. Useless. "Can you fish with it, Mags?" I ask. Mags, who can fish with almost anything, shakes her head and grunts. I take it and roll it back and forth on my palm. Since we're allies, Haymitch will be working with the District 4 mentors. He had a hand in choosing this gift. That means it's valuable. Lifesaving, even. I think back to last year, when I wanted water so badly, but he wouldn't send it because he knew I could find it if I tried. Haymitch's gifts, or lack thereof, carry weighty messages. I can almost hear him growling at me, Use your brain if you have one. What is it? I wipe the sweat from my eyes and hold the gift out in the moonlight. I move it this way and that, viewing it from different angles, covering portions and then revealing them. Trying to make it divulge its purpose to me. Finally, in frustration, I jam one end into the dirt. "I give up. Maybe if we hook up with Beetee or Wiress they can figure it out. I stretch out, pressing my hot cheek on the grass mat, staring at the thing in aggravation. Peeta rubs a tense spot between my shoulders and I let myself relax a little. I wonder why this place hasn't cooled off at all now that the sun's gone down. I wonder what's going on back home. Prim. My mother. Gale. Madge. I think of them watching me from home. At least I hope they're at home. Not taken into custody by Thread. Being punished as Cinna is. As Darius is. Punished because of me. Everybody. I begin to ache for them, for my district, for my woods. A decent woods with sturdy hardwood trees, plentiful food, game that isn't creepy. Rushing streams. Cool breezes. No, cold winds to blow this stifling heat away. I conjure up such a wind in my mind, letting it freeze my cheeks and numb my fingers, and all at once, the piece of metal half buried in the black earth has a name. "A spile!" I exclaim, sitting bolt upright. "What?" asks Finnick. I wrestle the thing from the ground and brush it clean. Cup my hand around the tapered end, concealing it, and look at the lip. Yes, I've seen one of these before. On a cold, windy day long ago, when I was out in the woods with my father. Inserted snugly into a hole drilled in the side of a maple. A pathway for the sap to follow as it flowed into our bucket. Maple syrup could make even our dull bread a treat. After my father died, I didn't know what happened to the handful of spiles he had. Hidden out in the woods somewhere, probably. Never to be found. "It's a spile. Sort of like a faucet. You put it in a tree and sap comes out." I look at the sinewy green trunks around me. "Well, the right sort of tree." "Sap?" asks Finnick. They don't have the right kind of trees by the sea, either. "To make syrup," says Peeta. "But there must be something else inside these trees." We're all on our feet at once. Our thirst. The lack of springs. The tree rat's sharp front teeth and wet muzzle. There can only be one thing worth having inside these trees. Finnick goes to hammer the spile into the green bark of a massive tree with a rock, but I stop him. "Wait. You might damage it. We need to drill a hole first," I say. There's nothing to drill with, so Mags offers her awl and Peeta drives it straight into the bark, burying the spike two inches deep. He and Finnick take turns opening up the hole with the awl and the knives until it can hold the spile. I wedge it in carefully and we all stand back in anticipation. At first nothing happens. Then a drop of water rolls down the lip and lands in Mags's palm. She licks it off and holds out her hand for more. By wiggling and adjusting the spile, we get a thin stream running out. We take turns holding our mouths under the tap, wetting our parched tongues. Mags brings over a basket, and the grass is so tightly woven it holds water. We fill the basket and pass it around, taking deep gulps and, later, luxuriously, splashing our faces clean. Like everything here, the water's on the warm side, but this is no time to be picky. Without our thirst to distract us, we're all aware of how exhausted we are and make preparations for the night. Last year, I always tried to have my gear ready in case I had to make a speedy retreat in the night. This year, there's no backpack to prepare. Just my weapons, which won't leave my grasp, anyway. Then I think of the spile and wrest it from the tree trunk. I strip a tough vine of its leaves, thread it through the hollow center, and tie the spile securely to my belt. Finnick offers to take the first watch and I let him, knowing it has to be one of the two of us until Peeta's rested up. I lie down beside Peeta on the floor of the hut, telling Finnick to wake me when he's tired. Instead I find myself jarred from sleep a few hours later by what seems to be the tolling of a bell. Bong! Bong! It's not exactly like the one they ring in the Justice Building on New Year's but close enough for me to recognize it. Peeta and Mags sleep through it, but Finnick has the same look of attentiveness I feel. The tolling stops. "I counted twelve," he says. I nod. Twelve. What does that signify? One ring for each district? Maybe. But why? "Mean anything, do you think?" "No idea," he says. We wait for further instructions, maybe a message from Claudius Templesmith. An invitation to a feast. The only thing of note appears in the distance. A dazzling bolt of electricity strikes a towering tree and then a lightning storm begins. I guess it's an indication of rain, of a water source for those who don't have mentors as smart as Haymitch. "Go to sleep, Finnick. It's my turn to watch, anyway," I say. Finnick hesitates, but no one can stay awake forever. He settles down at the mouth of the hut, one hand gripped around a trident, and drifts into a restless sleep. I sit with my bow loaded, watching the jungle, which is ghostly pale and green in the moonlight. After an hour or so, the lightning stops. I can hear the rain coming in, though, pattering on the leaves a few hundred yards away. I keep waiting for it to reach us but it never does. The sound of the cannon startles me, although it makes little impression on my sleeping companions. There's no point in awakening them for this. Another victor dead. I don't even allow myself to wonder who it is. The elusive rain shuts off suddenly, like the storm did last year in the arena. Moments after it stops, I see the fog sliding softly in from the direction of the recent downpour. Just a reaction. Cool rain on the steaming ground, I think. It continues to approach at a steady pace. Tendrils reach forward and then curl like fingers, as if they are pulling the rest behind them. As I watch, I feel the hairs on my neck begin to rise. Something's wrong with this fog. The progression of the front line is too uniform to be natural. And if it's not natural ... A sickeningly sweet odor begins to invade my nostrils and I reach for the others, shouting for them to wake up. In the few seconds it takes to rouse them, I begin to blister.