Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Buckley

July 14, 75 ADD

"Ma. I'm telling you, something's not right!"

"Not you too! It's bad enough your father and brother have lost their heads!" She hollers from the kitchen. What she's doing in there with only candlelight for company, I have no idea.

I can't shake it. The coverage has never gone out like that. Not even when Owen blew the cornucopia sky high last year. But the second Katniss fired that arrow into the sky, all the screens went black. The one in our apartment, the small one down in the bakery, even the massive ones out in the square. Their light bleeds in through our windows non-stop during the games, lending aid to my insomnia on that yearly stretch of sleepless nights.

Peeta's games — well, the first ones — were the worst. Too hollowed out by panic and guilt to rest unless my body physically forced me to. It wasn't until Katniss found him, cleaned him up, got him into that cave, that I manage to drag myself from the window to the couch. Not my bed. Not the room I shared with Peeta. The room he'd still be in if I wasn't such a coward. On the couch though, I finally collapsed into sleep.

Then Peeta came home. He moved out. He hid away. Isolated himself as he tried to climb the insurmountable mountain that must be healing and adjusting to life after the games. Even if he hadn't lost his leg I bet it would be near impossible.

Then Peeta went back to the Capitol, this time as a Mentor. Owen's games were a bit easier to endure, but not much. I know my baby brother, Know his good nature, his heart. Knew the moment he stepped on that train that there was nothing that could stop Peeta from getting attached to those kids. Knew it ripped him apart to watch them suffer. To watch the girl, Mira, die. To watch Owen fight and kill and nearly die himself.

They've never cut the cameras before.

Yet somehow, they brought Owen home. And not long after they brought him to the bakery looking every bit the lost limping puppy he is. The Capitol might view him as this charming scoundrel, but spend five minutes with him and you'll see through the facade. He's just a kid. A scared, angry, desperate to please, kind of kid.

Everything has been so weird since the Quell announcement. Well, it was weird before that, but the announcement kicked things into high gear. The fact that most of the district was out of the reaping did little to lift peoples spirits. Not when the number of peacekeepers doubled over night, heightening the already high tension in the air twofold. Not when the mine shifts kept getting extended, the wages kept getting cut, the boxes from Owen's Victory kept getting delayed later and later until in May they just didn't show up.

Peeta went nearly radio silent after the announcement. And I may not have Peeta's social wit or Rye's 'exceptional eye for numbers' but even my thick skull picked up on a few things. I know something is going on with Twelve. Know someone very important is less than happy with us, looking to punish us. Punish those surprising upstarts from the backwater district for throwing their precious games off balance.

They've been more aggressive than ever about forcing people to watch. Peacekeepers going around at random intervals, ensuring everyone with TVs have them tuned in, and those without are in the square or somewhere else there's public viewing. But now the screens are all black. In fact, all of twelve is black.

The second the coverage cut, the peacekeepers moved through the crowd. Shoving people back in the direction of their homes, clearing the square. On another day, I think they would have fought back. That combination of starving masses, unyielding commands, and the living symbol of their oppression would have turned District 12 into an arena of its own. On another day, I might have even joined them.

But there's something odd tonight. Despite the cut power, an electric current thrums in the air, like a storm inching closer on the horizon. So everyone shuffled on home. Or did they?

On the edge of the square is a single flicker of sunlight. A flash of yellow in that sea of black. It's gone just as quick as it appears. Maybe I really do need glasses like dad keeps saying.

Then the light appears again. Closer this time. Right next to the door of the Cartwright's cobbler shop. Then another bursts to life further down the block, by the grocer's. Then another by the florist's. The apothecary's. The butcher's.

Something is wrong. I just don't know what. If Ma would stop her shrieking for one minute, maybe I could think. Maybe I could figure it out.

"Ma! Enough! I mean it!" I shout. Dad and Rye aren't home to hear her tirade at them as it is.

"Don't tell me when it's enough!" She screeches back, resuming her ranting to an audience of one.

I don't have time to reach for patience, nor do I have much left for her. I follow the sound of ear-piercing racket into the apartment kitchen and take her by the shoulders, shaking her hard enough to bruise. I'll apologize in the morning. Unlike her, I'm willing to own up to it when I'm wrong.

"Ma! They've cleared the square! Why? Why lock us in our homes? And what's happening with the arena? I'm telling you, something is wrong! I think we need to go!"

The idea bursts out of my mouth before it even reaches my brain, but the moment it does I know in my gut it's the only option.

"What? Go where?" She answers, eyes trying to focus around her confusion.

"I don't know. Just…just away from here!" I shake her again and a few blonde strands fall free from her usual tight bun. Fuck, how am I going to convince her? Peeta could do it. But Peeta isn't here.

"Boy! Have you lost your mind?" She yells next, shoving me backwards.

"Think about it Ma! They cut the coverage! They cut the power! When have they ever —"

A knock sounds down below — hesitant at first, then determined. A rapping at the bakery's back door. I'm rushing down the stairs before I can stop myself. Mother's order of 'don't you dare!' falls on deaf ears.

The kitchens are dark. The bakery long closed up for the night. But the summer air and residual heat from the ovens leave the room stifling. Still, the eerie silence left in the wake of the fridge's familiar hum sends a chill up my spine. The knocking sounds again. That flicker of sun appears at the window. A lantern. It's our turn for these odd nighttime visitors.

I move through the black, crossing to the drawer where we keep all the rolling pins. I've spent half my life in these kitchens, I don't need light to find them, to feel my fingers wrap around the heavy wood tool. Raising the pin over my head I whip the door open. It slams into the wall with a harsh bang.

Sybil Barlow. Of all the girls in Twelve.

Sybil is like me, or more accurately I was almost like her. Her sister Sage went into the games the year before Peeta, and Sybil approached me at school the first chance she could after Peeta's reaping. She didn't say much, just swept me into a quick hug with a quiet whisper of 'it's a very awful thing.' The difference is, my brother made it home. Still an awful thing but not nearly the unenviable pain she must have suffered. I haven't spoken to her much since then. She doesn't speak much at all anymore. But she surely speaks now. Her voice comes rushing out of her like a river.

They're fleeing. She tells me. Taking off into the woods while the power is out. The Barlows and apparently most of the rest of the Seam, anyone they can convince to go. "Something is wrong, Buck! Don't you feel it?" She begs. The shifting shadows of her lantern dance across her pretty seam features. "We can't wait any longer!"

I don't have time to ask her who this 'we' is, because she has to go. Has to try the next house and the next. She leaves with one last plea to 'Get everyone and head for the woods!'

I'm back up the stairs in a flash, snagging one of the candles from my mother in the kitchen entirely to her objection. But I don't care. I grab the biggest bag I own and begin shoving my clothes in. Snag some for Rye too.

Shit. How are we going to get Rye and Dad? Maybe we can get to the village if we cut through the meadow. Or if we run we might be able to catch up to them? Ma's never been that fast though and the last thing she'll want to do is run after them through the pitch black district, even if something is very, very, wrong.

Fuck. Ma.

With my bag as packed as I can get it, I break for my parents room and grab a bag for them. She bursts in after me. "What are you doing?!" She screams, swatting at me and ripping her belongings out of the bag faster than I can fill it.

"We have to go!" I yell back, stepping out of her range and chucking the bag at her. "Take everything you want to save! Make it quick!"

"We are not going anywhere!"

"Ma! Something is wrong! People are fleeing! We're going with them!"

"Fleeing? You're even more of an imbecile than I thought you were!" Her stomping feet and familiar insults follow me down the hall.

"Ma! If it's not real…if it's just an overreaction then we lost a night tossing and turning at home. But if it's real? If there's something wrong? If something is coming, we don't want to be in the district when it comes!"

"This is all her fault! That seam trash!" She snarks next, shifting to one of her recent favorite rants. Her. Katniss.

Apparently, somehow, all the rising tension in Twelve, the sudden silence from Peeta — and in Ma's darkest, most rage addled ranting — the Quell itself; well none of that would have happened if not for Katniss Everdeen. When Ma's feeling a bit more logical, her choice of words is more careful. Her tone softer, more understanding, more willing to admit that all of our victors have played a part in pissing Snow and the Capitol off. That even in that, the blame cannot be fully laid on Peeta, Katniss, or Owen. That they are just trying to survive. That they found a way to play the game. Personally, I've always found their resilience, their adaptability, admirable in its own way no matter how dangerous. Ma has no interest in being logical tonight.

She's never been big, not physically anyway. She doesn't weigh much more than our heaviest flour bags if I'm being honest. And well…I lift those over my head every day. I couldn't live with myself if I left her behind. Let her be angry. Let her hit and scream and thrash, but at least then if shit does go south, I can sleep at night knowing I tried; knowing I didn't abandon my own mother to face the Capitol's rage on her own.

I secure my bag on one shoulder, and throw Ma over the other.

I'm probably not as careful as I should be on the stairs. But I can't see shit with the power off. I rely entirely on muscle memory and instinct to get us to the back door. To set her as gently as I can on the back stoop. Her shrieking reaches a fever pitch.

We're leaving. We have to.

The smell of rosemary floats from the kitchen on the wind. It was my job to turn off the ovens. To smother the coals. I know I did it. Didn't I? Yes. Right before I put tomorrow's bakes in the fridge for proofing. Will anyone bake them now? Surely not. All that hard work. All the delicate braiding on the rows of cinnamon raisin sweet bread will have gone to waste.

We have to go. But I can't step off the stoop without checking just one more time. I couldn't live with myself, not if I was responsible for the one spark it would take to burn the bakery to the ground. Dad would never forgive me.

So I step back into the kitchen, move quickly to the dark ovens. The coals are smothered. I know I smothered them. The metal is cool under the hand. No hint of still simmering light shines out. But I have to check. A hum fills the air. Is the power kicking back on? I tug the handle of the creaking ancient metal door.

Then all I know is overwhelming pain.

Tyler

July 14, 75 ADD

"Boys grab your bags. We have to go."

"What" Willy asks, voice groggy from sleep as he lifts his head from their bed.

"Get your bags. Like we talked about!" I repeat, pushing his hair back off his face. He needs a haircut, but that's a problem for tomorrow.

Willy leaps into action immediately, carrying himself with a seriousness well-beyond his years. He grabs both his and Alex's little backpacks from under their narrow bed. Shoves his feet into his shoes and tugs a sweatshirt over his own head before doing the same for his little brother.

Be Alert. Be Ready. Stay Alive. Haymitch's voice rings around my head. The last thing he said that night before the reaping. The night I went to the Village to speak with Owen. Be Alert. Be Ready. Stay Alive.

I scoop Alex into my arms, take Willy by the hand and burst out the old front door.

I'm not the only one who's had their hackles raised. Matilda McCarty, the eldest daughter of our neighbors, swings their door open after a singular knock. She's a good kid, always looking out for her siblings, always willing to keep an eye on Alex and Willy when I have the afternoon shift in the mines and can't get them from school myself. And like far too many of us she has a fallen tribute in her family too. Her uncle.

Malcolm McCarty was a few years older than me and had the ill-odds to get his name plucked at my very first reaping. He made it a few days but struggled in the harsh mountain terrain. In the end, he slipped while attempting to scale a cliff face to higher ground. He wasn't the first nor the last to lose their life that way. The Victor that year, Blight Cedar, won largely because of his innate ability to hold his footing on even the slimmest of ledges. All those years in the trees of District 7 paid off I guess.

I never met Malcolm. But in the last year, I've gotten to know his brother, Michael — Mick — well.

It was Haymitch who suggested I reach out to him. That 'Mick might know a way to help.' Not help to move on or make peace. There's no way to truly make peace. But Haymitch thought he might have a way to help me at least survive. To not cave in completely to the endless abyss of grief that threatened to suck me into the dark.

My own personal cliff face. One that felt impossible to climb.

It's certainly not easy, even now. Some days I can do nothing but cling to the narrow ledge, begging for any semblance of strength. Others, I'm so filled with anger, with rage, at what they did to her — to my Mira — that I think I could scale the mountain all the way to the Capitol. Let it lift me all the way to Snow's own front door.

Such thoughts I kept to myself for a long time. I had to focus on Willy and Alex. Being there for them. Being strong for them. What other choice did I have? But the last night of the Victory Tour I couldn't keep it in any longer.

None of us Belles were much in the mood for celebrating so we dragged ourselves home the moment the ceremony ended. The boys fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillow. But I wasn't so lucky. When have I ever been lucky?

I needed to get out, just for a minute. Get some air and some space in a place that wasn't full of memories of her. Of her things, still left in their places. Always meticulously returned to their places. None of us had the heart to move them. We still haven't.

The sound of the McCarty Family's return that night was my saving grace. I slipped out and caught Mrs. McCarty on the way to her porch. Knew from the deeply pitying glance she laid my way that she'd say yes to any favor I requested of her, even looking after the boys for a few minutes, even at that late hour. But she marched into her house, grabbed a bag, and pushed by into mine without a word.

Knowing the boys were safe, I did something I'd never dared. I walked through the dark to the meadow and slipped under the fence. A while back, Owen mentioned there were a handful of weak spots if you knew where to look, and even with his vague hints, one wasn't too hard to find.

Freed from the lines of District 12, I took my first real breath in months. No. In years. Maybe my first since we lost Poppy.

I see her everywhere. In the bright flowers for which she was named. In Alex's easy smile and open heart. In Willy's inherent insight. Something he never could have gotten from me. I see her in every memory of Mira's quiet wisdom. In my girl's ability to bring harmony and hope to our household despite the absence of her mother.

I couldn't do anything to help my boys. Not in that moment, anyway. So I just walked. Walked until I couldn't walk anymore. Through the falling frost and cold winter winds. Weaving my way through the dark. Until I came upon a trunk that was bent just so, its branches reaching out like claws, desperate to rip me to shreds.

I don't know how it started — or really why — all I know is that when Mick McCarty came upon me red blood had long stained the fresh white snow. My blood. Dripping from the countless scrapes and bruises that covered my hands.

Blood on snow. No. Cement. Staining everything it touches. Never to be washed away. Never to be returned to its source. Never to be made right again. The world tilted on its axis as memory flooded my mind. Mira.

It felt like that night. The night she was actually taken from us. But this time I let myself feel it. All of it. And Mick just let me. Let me shatter and sob like a child smaller than Alex under the weight of it all. After what felt like an eternity, when I started to calm, Mick stepped forward. With a handful of clean snow in one palm and some bandages in other he cleaned up the cuts as best he could.

All the while he talked. Talked about the pain, the ache, the emptiness that still persists for him even after all these years. But more so, he talked about what he does to manage it, and what he — and some others — do to fight back.

I attended my first group meeting one week later.

Haymitch was right. It helped. Being around people who shared that specific shade of grief. Hearing their stories. Knowing them beyond just their names and faces. It made the world feel just the slightest bit less cold. Or at least made the cold more manageable.

Then came the Quell. In that Haymitch was right too. Be Alert. Be Ready. Stay Alive.

None of us knew exactly what we were preparing for, just that the rising tension in the air would break eventually. That we needed to seize whatever chance we could and act when it did.

The coverage was cut. The power shut down. The Capitol is angry. Something is coming. Anyone can see it. And now to fulfill that last promise to Haymitch, stay alive. To do that — to keep District 12 alive — we need to get as many people out as possible.

I'm not the only one who's been spurred into action. I see Eden Aspen, whose son Noah was killed three games ago, already banging on doors down Elm Street. Wyatt Asher, whose girlfriend Lily, was stolen four games before that. They were planning to get married as soon as they made it through the reaping. The slim metal band he never got to give her remains around his neck to this day, and it catches my eye as he runs by the McCarty house.

I need to help. But I can't do that with the boys in tow.

"Okay, boys, I need to leave you with Matilda for a bit, okay?" I kneel down so we're face to face.

"What's wrong, Pa?" Willy asks, immediately.

"It's all going to be okay." I kiss his forehead. "I promise. Remember what we talked about? That we might need to leave?"

"Into the woods?" Alex realizes, panic chasing the sleep from his eyes.

"You're going to be together. And you're going to be with Matilda. And soon enough I'm going to be with you too!" I say, sweeping them both into my chest where its safe. "In the meantime though, I need you to promise me something."

I lower my voice and squeeze them tighter. "Stick together. Be brave. Be strong."

"Like Mira." Willy's voice reaches my ears.

I choke down my own fear, there's no time for that now. "Yes. Like Mira."

Mick McCarty bursts out the front door, breaking the quiet moment. "Oh good! Tyler you're already here! We won't have a lot of time! We gotta move! Now!"

He's right. We have to move. I need to do this. For Poppy, who always believed a world could really exist beyond the games. Who made me believe life was worth living in spite of them. For Mira. The living proof of that life, of all the possible good this world still holds despite its darkness. For Willy and Alex who made that life so full, who might just be able to really see a world beyond a games. And if I fail to give them that, well at least I damn well tried!

They'll be alright. They'll be together. I'll see them soon. Matilda will look after them, until then. But now is the time to fight in the only way we can.

I place one last kiss upon their brows, the smell of soap and sleep still clinging to their hair. "Listen to your brother." I whisper to Alex. "Keep an eye on him." I request of Willy, letting them out of my hold.

I pass Alex's bag to Matilda and step off the porch. "I'll see you soon! I promise! I love you!" I call out to them, hiding my nerves behind the most reassuring smile I can manage.

"Love you!" Alex throws back.

"See you soon! Be safe!" Willy adds, taking his brother's hand.

They'll be safe. They'll be together. I'll see them soon. With those assurances to settle me, I accept the oil lamp Mick holds out in offering and together we slip into the dark night.

"What's the plan?" I ask him, rushing along to keep pace.

"We're fanning out! Grabbing anyone we can and sending them to the fence line. You and I are in charge of getting corralling the folks closest to town!"

"What about the townies?" I ask, thinking of Peeta's father, who always slips two cookies into my order for the boys.

"Barlow, Asher, and McCoy are handling the merchants!" He answers, breaking into a run. "Hurry!"

We do the best we can: banging on doors, waking folks, trying to convince them quick to pack up their stuff and run. Or just run. But most don't want to believe us, and I can't blame them. When you've spent so long just keeping your head low, desperate to survive the day, the week, the month, the year, it's hard to believe that for once action might be the only way to keep your head at all. Especially one as daring as fleeing the only home you've ever known. So of course they're hesitant. Of course they're unsure. That is…until the first bomb falls.

It's in the distance but it's loud. Filling the air first with a high pitched hum and then a crash of thunder that sets off a ringing in my ears. The dark night becomes blindingly bright for just a moment before it fades into a eerie glow of orange and yellow a handful of streets over.

The town center, I realize. The Mayor's House? The Square? The Bakery?

Then the second bomb falls. The third. Chaos rushes in.

People pour out of their homes from every direction. Dressed in whatever clothes they happened to fall asleep in. Shoes carried in hand or frantically shoved on their feet. Children hoisted into their parents arms. Mothers and grandmothers and great-uncles taken by the hand and hurried along.

"Make for the fence!" Mick's voice rises over the din of panic.

"Run for the woods!" I join in.

We usher people along as best we can, throwing open every door still closed. Dragging the more stubborn out onto the streets. Another bomb falls, closer this time. I see a few blond heads mixed among the black and brown and hope that even one might belong to a Mellark. That Peeta's entire family isn't already gone.

I keep running. Screaming to 'get out' and 'make for the woods!' until my throat becomes scratchy and sore. The smoke and ash filling the air doesn't help. It makes everything cloudy, messing with my vision. My chest aches with the exertion but I force myself to keep going.

For Peeta, for Katniss, for Owen, for Haymitch and everyone who's ever gone into the Games I keep running. For Poppy, I keep shoving others forward. For Alex and Willy, I keep yelling. For Mira, I keep fighting.

Mira. My good, strong, brave girl. Who pushed past her fears. Who never abandoned her friends. Who fought for all the people she loved. Yes, for Mira. I have to do this for my girl. I have to make her proud.

There's just a few more houses. I need to get to those last few houses. I push my exhausted limbs just a little further. Another clap of thunder breaks through the sky. Loud even over the raging fire that climbs higher and higher with each passing second.

That orange on the periphery of my vision becomes all-consuming. Heat shoots up my spine. Distantly in my mind, I recognize the hazy feeling of pain prickling across my skin. I stumble, my knees slam into the dirt.

And when I rise, only one image stands clear among the rapidly blurring world. My Mira. Beautiful. Alive. Just within reach. As easy as breathing, I run straight into her open arms.

Gale

July 14, 75 ADD

"Make for the fence!" I remind them. "Like we talked about!"

I got Ma and the kids together first. Grabbed the bag she caught me packing on reaping day and woke the boys. The commotion had her and Posy bleary-eyed but awake and within ten minutes of the coverage being cut, all us Hawthorne's are on the move.

"What about you?" Ma asks, grabbing the sleeve of my jacket while I'm still within reach.

"I've got to get to the village. Get Prim and Mrs. Everdeen!" Katniss would never forgive me if I left them behind. If I ran and didn't try to take them with us. Like we talked about all those months ago, after Sparrow's tour. The day she told me about what happened in Eight.

There had been talk in the mines long before that. A unanimous acknowledgement that something was coming. That something had to change. But that was all just talk. Childish fantasies of rising up, of fighting back. At least until Katniss gave me just a bit of hope. Gave us all a bit of hope, to be fair.

She's never been able to comprehend it, not truly anyway, the impact she can have on people. The way she can inspire something in others. But the moment she stepped in for Prim, I saw it. Watching a scrawny kid from the Seam volunteer for the Games. Watching her starve and fight and bleed to get out of there. Watching that girl, my best girl, win — crowned a victor of all things — well that was enough to light a fire under anyone, especially the people of Twelve.

With their win, suddenly starvation was a distant memory. Well, it was less immediate anyway and even that brief respite meant something. When all your energy isn't stolen by the heaving burden of worry, by ensuring you make it to the next pay day, by surviving to the next meal; suddenly you find the strength to think, to talk, to plan.

I didn't participate nearly as much as I wanted to. Knew that to take a more active role in my shift-mates' discussions would place another target on my back. And the one I already wear is big enough as it is: Best Friend to Katniss Everdeen, Known Hunter Poacher, Desperate Seam kid with too many mouths to feed. Still, I listened. Took in every morsel of information and intel I could pick up on and stuffed it down my throat to keep silent. Only adding a vague comment here and there when I couldn't. Maybe when Katniss was ready to hear them, those morsels might do her, and all of us, some good.

"I'm coming with you!" Rory declares. "I'll help you get the Everdeens out!"

"No! You need to stick with Ma! You're the one who knows the best spots to get through the fence." I cut him off. "Remember where we're meeting?"

"There's a lake, about five miles to the north east!" He recalls the map I drew up weeks ago. Just in case. "It's got a cabin for cover and fish for food!"

"Yes! Here!" I slip our father's compass from my pocket. It's heft a familiar weight in my hand after all these years. North East. If Rory just trusts the compass, he'll find it. It worked for me anyway. Rory has always had good instincts, even when he was young. Before I had a hunting partner in Katniss — I took him with me once or twice to get him out of Ma's hair. Yes. He'll find it just fine. And I can manage without the compass, hopefully my memory will kick in if I get close enough to the lake. If not…well…I'll figure it out. At least I'll know they're on the way to something resembling safety.

 "The terrain isn't too harsh, you'll manage okay. But it'll take some time, Posy will probably need to be carried for some stretches." I remind them.

"We'll be okay!" Ma steps in, hiking Posy higher on her hip. "Just be careful."

"You'll meet us there?" Vick, always the most quiet of my siblings, finally speaks up.

"Yeah, bud. I'll meet you there as soon as I can!" I promise, ruffling his hair. Every day he's inching closer in height to my shoulder and if I had any money to wager, I'd put it on him being nearly taller than I when he's finally done growing.

For now, though, it's Rory who stands the tallest among us. Sure, I've still got a good 6 inches on my second eldest brother, but the way he lifts his chin, rocks forward in his too-worn shoes, the way he looks me directly in the eye; well I wouldn't blame you for assuming Rory is the strongest of our siblings. Some days I near believe it too.

"I'll get them there." Rory clears his throat to declare.

"I know you will, kid." I squeeze his shoulder and pass him the bag.

There's this final moment where we time sort of stops. Like we're back to my first day in the mines, where no one really wanted me to go. That unspoken fear of possible finality thrumming through the air once more. I push it aside. Force myself to take a breath. Take a step.

I place a quick kiss to Posy's tangle of bedhead, already half asleep on Ma's shoulder once more. Her stuffed bunny — little more than scraps at this point, though it was always technically made of scraps — clutched tightly in her fist. Let Ma tuck me into a half-hug, just this once. Heed her warning of 'be safe' and accept her soft 'I love you' pressed against my shoulder. To be fair though, I do the same to Vick. Then to Rory.

No one says 'goodbye.' Because this is not a goodbye, just a 'see you soon.' It has to be. They still need me, so I have no other choice to but to make it out of here. For all the same reasons, so do they.

"Go! Hurry!" I order, leaping into action. I allow myself to look back once, grounded by the sight of them slipping off on quick feet in the direction of the meadow.

Usually, if I'm going to Victor's Village, I'd take that route too. But cutting through town is more direct and I have no time to waste taking the scenic path tonight. I'll stick to the back alleys if I have to. I can stay out of sight of the peacekeepers, especially in the dark. And for Katniss, it's worth the risk. She's always worth the risk.

I don't get far though, just to the outer edges of town. Voices break through the otherwise silent night. Once again, I'm reminded just how few people in Twelve know how to muffle their steps, know how to sneak through the underbrush and stay hidden. I tuck myself behind some boxes and disappear.

Two blond heads, huddled together in the dark, hurry through the streets past my hiding spot.

I think I've succeeded, kept myself hidden, and out of sight when a third person makes themselves known. "Hawthorne?" The man hisses. Fuck.

I turn to meet the face of Wyatt Asher. Nice enough guy. Quiet. Sometimes we share a shift when he covers for folks. I think he actually helped cover for me when I got whipped. Never did I think I'd find him out here, risking life and limb and peacekeeper imprisonment. But he's just as hopeless at keeping quiet as the Mellark's and his call of my name unfortunately gets their attention too.

"Gale?" The baker shuffles over. The other blond, who I now recognize as Rye Mellark, slips into the shadows with Asher and I.

"What are you doing out here?" Rye asks.

"I could ask you the same." I snark back. I don't have time for this.

"Something is wrong! You feel it right?" Asher leans around me to ask. "Katniss with the arrow! The coverage being cut! The power! They'll be angry!"

Two pairs of blue eyes find each other, a familiar glance of understanding passes between them. Bringing up old memories I thought I long ago buried. I realize none of need him to specify who he means by 'they.'

"What are you doing out here, kid?" The baker repeats.

"We're getting people out!" Asher hurries to say, hushing his voice in some half-attempt at secrecy. "A bunch of us! We're going around and trying to get folks to make a run for it into the woods."

"You sure that's safe?" Rye asks. Of course, leave it to a pampered merchant kid to be afraid of the woods.

"Can't be more dangerous than staying here!" Asher argues.

The Baker and his son lock eyes once more, a silent argument being waged between their gazes. I don't have fucking time for this.

"Excuse me! I need to go!"

"Wait!" The baker blocks my path. "Where are you going? If something is happening you've got to go get your Ma and the kids!"

"They're already on their way to the woods! I need to get the Everdeens for Katniss!"

"That's where we're heading too! You help get others out! We can get Asterid and Prim!"

No. That's my job. Keeping her family safe is my job. It's the one thing she's asked me to do. The one thing she's allowed me to do. I feel the hot fire of anger shoot up my spine. And what about the other brother? The baker's wife? Are the bonds of family so weak among the townies that they'd leave them behind?

"Really dad? Running? What about Ma and Buck?" Rye voices my own accusation aloud.

"We'll get Asterid and Prim and then swing back to grab them!" Mr. Mellark answers in a poorly convincing attempt at reassurance.

"Someone should have already made it to the bakery to warn them! Or is on their way there now!" Asher cuts in. "They'll be informed!"

"Even better!"

"You think Buck will be able to convince Ma to go?" Rye asks.

I don't have time for this. I try to shove past the baker again.

"Kid! Hang on! We're all on the same team here! We've got to have a plan!" He stops me once more and it takes everything in me not to shove him into the ground. I probably would too if I didn't remember Rye Mellark was one of the best wrestlers in his year.

"I have a plan! It's go get the Everdeens and then book it for the woods!" I argue. "That is the plan! I don't care what the rest of you do! But I promised Katniss! That is what I have to do! And nothing and no one is going to stop me from doing it!"

A heavy hum pierces the air. Then another. Then another. I know that sound. I've heard that sound. Fuck. "They're here!" This time I do shove my way past the baker and break into a sprint in the direction of the village. Two sets of footsteps follow.

More and more sounds join the din. People moving from the houses on the edge of town, the banging on doors and shouting of others trying to wake all the heavier sleepers. I weave through them the best I can but the streets start to get crowded as people push by, gripping the clothes of their loved ones, desperate to not be separated.

I'm ruthless in my attempts to shove past. To get through the chaos. To get to the Village. All my energy, my focus, my intent driving towards that one singular goal. For Katniss. I have to do this for Katniss. An immovable object slams into my chest and I hit the ground with a heavy thud.

"Gale!" A stern voice cries out in surprise. A voice I know very well from all those years at the hob bartering our kills for a few bowls of soup. I dive to help her up. She refuses any aid, ignoring my offered hand to give an affronted brush at her skirts.

"Are you alright?" I rush out.

"Good! You're young and spry! You can help!" Sae declares, shoving her bag into my hands.

"No I need to go help—"

"You okay, Hawthorne?" Rye Mellark calls, finally catching up.

"Is your family safe?" Sae asks. "Gale!" She shouts when I apparently take too long to answer.

"What?" I choke out, finally registering what's shes asking. "Yes! I sent them into the woods like half an hour ago!"

"Good! Then you can take Daisy—"

"Ma'am I need to go get the Everdeens! I promised Katniss! I—"

"I told you! We've got them, Gale!" Otho cuts in, out of breath. "You help here! These people know you better than they know us!"

"You heard the baker!" Sae declares, hoisting her granddaughter off the ground and passing her into my arms.

I make to object, to argue, to find any excuse I can to put the girl down and take off. For Katniss. I need to get them out for Katniss. But then Daisy squeezes her arms around my neck.

I see Jane Carpenter and her husband run around us. Jane was in my class, smart and bubbly. She married her sweetheart soon after Katniss got back from the games. I remember seeing them come down the steps of the justice building holding hands, imagined that maybe someday that would be Katniss and I. They hold hands now too. Running along, with as much haste as they can through the crowds. Her free hand securely across her stomach where the first hints of a pregnancy are just visible through her nightgown.

I see Otis Samson from my mining crew. He used to be on my father's mining crew. He's a grandfather now and still down in the mines. He's got a small bundle wrapped tightly against his chest as he hurries along his clan down the road.

I look to Rye Mellark, take a steadying breath. "About five miles northeast there's a lake. Meet us there."

I offer him my hand, he shakes it once.

"And Mellark, if they don't make it out of here you better not either. Because if you leave them behind to die, I'll kill you myself." I mean it too. I'm taking a big risk here, choosing to trust them. Choosing to put Katniss's greatest love, her most valuable possession, her very strength in their hands.

But if I do this, if I let myself believe they can keep Prim and Asterid safe, that they can get them out, then I can help Daisy and Sae. I can help Mr. Samson. I can help any of these people stumbling their way towards the fence line, a fence I've crossed hundreds of times. I can help them navigate the woods. Help them find safety and shelter. Help them survive until we figure out what comes next.

So I let them go, Otho and Rye Mellark. Let them break once more into a run in the direction of Victor's Village. And me? I hike Daisy higher on my hip, take the heavy bag from Sae's shoulders and start dragging her through the crowd by the arm.

I've never believed in the heavens. Only in my softest and least cynical moments do I let myself half-imagine the existence of anything beyond this life. A sweet old-hereafter, I've heard some people call it. But when those bombs start to fall, I feel something ancient in me come to life. Some age-old desire to cling to the possibility of something else. Yes, for those people trapped in the fire and fury, I hope something softer exists beyond the death and destruction that surrounds us.

I do everything I can. Pushing Sae ahead. Dragging whoever has stumbled in our path, young, old, it doesn't matter. Just get them on their feet and get them moving. I mutter to myself all the while. Desperate whispers of 'please' to an unhearing audience. I see the fence line up ahead.

Northeast. I need to head North East. Need to get to my mother. To Rory. To Vick. To little Posy. They're safe. They need me. I just need to get to safety.

I shove Daisy through the gap in the fence, pass Sae her bag once she's clear to the other side. Then, for the thousandth time, I slip under the wire.

I don't look back. I can't. Can't allow myself to acknowledge how bright the trees seem at this hour, how warm the night air feels against my skin. All I can do is take off into the woods, my well-loved, well-known woods. Finally fleeing District 12 like I've long dreamed.