Chapter one, Bless them all for being liars
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Let's begin; how do you kill somebody?

There are thousand ways to tear someone apart. Septimus Crain has memorized them by heart. To make a fine champion is to accept the death of your opponents, the mentors had taught them in their first year at the Academy. Then the boys had awkwardly gazed at each other with a sense of sorrow. To win is to accept the death of your friends.

There is only one question he must ask: how do you kill someone? It is easy to pretend, to look away and applause as the canon echoes through the screen. Then it only becomes the fall of a district and not the death of a person.

Four's dead, the boys would yell in the cafeteria. Which one? There was always someone to ask the question, a boy too curious not to know. The male, mutts killed him. The conversation would end and his name would never be pronounced. He would share the same name as the tribute the following year. And again and again until a tribute from that district wins. Then it becomes Finnick Odair, the victor from District Four. Not just Four. Except the boy next year is not so lucky and he is forgotten too. They become piles of names without anyone to remember them by.

The tributes they sent last year, does anyone remember them? Their faces had long blurred along the different boys who had to quit the Academy. There are two types of people in District Two; those who are strong enough to be a career, and those who are not. There is nothing in between, only rotting corpses.

Septimus had grown attached the idea of being victorious. Ever since his father embraced him for the last time and he hugged his sister goodbye, he knew there was only one way to come back home, and it was by being a victor.

What's the worst thing that could happen? The list was heavy yet the mentors would briefly gaze at it. The boys were barely nine of age when they were asked questions which the words barely made sense to them. The worst outcome? Is it to be coward or to die?

To be a coward. (To die should have been the right answer.)

They asked the question again, this time individually; what's the worst thing that could happen to you?

I could die not trying, the boy next to Septimus had answered, gaining a confused look from him.

Quint. He remembers the name, even now.

The mentor had smiled and Septimus had shook his head.

Do you not agree? He didn't know the name of the boy. He was a grown adult bargaining a boy half his side with questions he did not understand.

If you die trying, you're not good enough.

Septimus was seven years old when someone first asked him if he knew how to kill somebody. You kill them, simple as that. His father had laughed at his reply. Show me, he had said with a vicious smile and with pride, his son replicated the crime he had watched on the screen picturing the games.

It was at this exact moment that he knew his son had the potential to be something greater than himself. It was moments like this, when young Septimus would stare at the games without blinking that made his father proud. Not when he was teaching his younger sister to read or when he taught her to write, but when violence was seen in his eyes.

Every time he thinks of the past, Septimus shakes his head. Nothing good ever comes out of the past. It makes him sick to his bones. Perhaps it doesn't help that he hasn't seen the sun nor the sky in weeks. The last time his skin had met fresh air, his hands were covered in dirt and he was shoveling to build a grave. The sun was burning against his skin, sweat was covering every inch of his body while the smell of death reeked over the woods. The worst part was Septimus couldn't even smell it anymore. It wasn't making his lips frown or making his eyes cry. It was almost a fragrance that smelt like a foreign home.

That is the worst part, deaths are all insignificant.

He can not recall the name of the tribute the year he was welcomed in the Academy, nor can he remember the name of the tribute last year. Thomas, Titus, Tilius— he can't remember.

Some boy on his level cried. Septimus remembers the discomfort that overcame him when the boy started to weep. He learned the next day they were friends. His mentor was quick to shake him, to be a champion is to be alone. To be a victor is to prove them you are the one deserving.

Septimus had already seen the damages from too close, as if he had received free tickets to take part of a show he had no interest in.

Suddenly he's back on the training mats, his eyes are bloodshot and his ears are ringing.

It's his name again. They're yelling it in his ears, he can feel the name in his veins, the anger in his bones.

There it is, that name again. Quint.

Back at the question again, Septimus believes there is no right way to kill someone. There is only once critical rule; make sure the dead stay dead. Burry them deep in the woods, throw the shovel from a cliff, make sure they can not dig their way out of their own grave.

Ghosts have a way to come back and chase their hunt, but ghosts are empty and nothing can not be an accessory to murder. And if ghosts are not real, neither is Quint.

               In front of him, the view is shortened by the mirror that stands tall in the room. It reflects almost every corner of the room he is in. It isn't the size of the mirror that allows him to see the mattress on the floor or the wardrobe the size of a cabinet. It is rather the size of the room. 47 steps. It takes him forty-seven steps to walk along the walls of the room.

Septimus looks at his own reflection in the mirror and he almost gets sick. One of is his eyes is a reddish color, infected in a fight he had won days prior. Even the harsh bruises around his neck are still present. It almost makes him flinch as he takes a closer look. His scars are a dark shade of a blue turning yellow. It is slowly healing. The deep cut on his neck is still visible, only this time, it is slowly starting to heal.

"You should have listened to me." A strong voice says making Septimus's heart skip a beat. "You are no good to anyone looking like a dead man."

Immediately, Septimus' posture tightens when he recognizes Ryker as the man behind him. He has grown used to the strong smell that follows his presence. He smells of an old perfume dipped into cognate and cherries, a smell that can be recognized even in a room full of strangers.

"I'm fine." Septimus says as he passes his hand on his practically shaved head, a smirk forming on his bruised lips. "The bruises are healing."

Ryker shakes his head at his answer. "Don't get arrogant with me son." His words are harsh, almost as if his tongue has been replaced with a snake. "Arrogant people are always the last one to stand. When you think you have something, you don't."

Septimus shakes his head and jerks away from the mirror so he can have a direct look at the older man. "I'm not going to die, I promised you that a while back."

At age ten, Septimus knew he had the potential to achieve great things. At twelve, he made sure everyone knew how great he was. At age fourteen, he swore on his life that he would be a champion. Now, he has to prove it. He has to show the world that he has what it takes to win the games. He already has the scars to prove it. Enough reasons to die, enough ways to kill.

"Many promised the same before you." His voice is low as he takes a step closer to Septimus. The boy can feel his hands on his shoulders, his breaths on his forehead. "We have only won two games in twelve years, only two."

We. Ryker always had a funny way with words. There was never a we when it came to the games. He should know that; he teaches young recruits to never trust anyone, that you only play the game in solitary. To be a champion is to be alone. Ryker has never won the games, he has never been near volunteering. Yet, he raises boys into tributes. Not victors, just tributes.

Septimus might be the first. 

"Do you realize how much hope the district has put in you? They have no doubt you will win." Ryker says in a low voice, almost as if he surprises himself with his next words. "I have no doubt you will win, but you have to prove us right."

And proving them wrong would require his own death.

"Winning does sound like a good option." Septimus replies while shoving his shoulders away to get Ryker's hands off of him. He can feel the discomfort in his arms, almost as if weights have been added on his back.

He knows he has to win. The constant reminder of it is no longer needed in his mind. He has seen death, he has smelled it and felt it between his own fingers. He knows he is not ready to taste it just yet. Winning is no longer an option when death is the opposite result. And he certainly does not need a reminder.

Many boys before him have blindly been lead to their own demise. Septimus remembers watching the games last year when suddenly, District Two's tributes were slaughtered by a girl from District Five. He had never heard such a loud silence in the Academy. For the first time in years, he could hear the ventilation and the raindrops hitting the concrete. It was almost as if everyone had died with them, almost as if the entire school was mourning the victors that should have been. It wasn't a matter of them being children. No, it was about District Two, about how weak it made them all look. It felt like a threat.

"In all the years I've been here, I have never believed more in victory than I do with you." His eyes narrow but a smirk stands tall on his lips. Ryker takes a step away from the boy, yet Septimus can feel him just as close. "You're going to win. Everyone knows it. You, my boy, are a champion."

Septimus scoffs. It is all he can manage to reply. Saying he agrees is an understatement. Why would he not agree to win? Why would he chose to agree with death?

"I'll just have to prove them right."

He hopes his words come out steady but instead, they come out shaking. He knows he sounds unsure and his eyes close as he waits for Ryker to comment. Even for a fraction of second, Septimus wonders if he will catch on his lies. Hoping is the first mistake he makes. Ryker always knows the truth, he always sees Septimus before the boy can even catch a glimpse of himself.

"You're scared?" It's a question.

He is asking a genuine question and it makes Septimus frowns. "I'm not doubting my odds."

"That's not what I asked you."

"No." Septimus believes it this time. "I'm not scared." Septimus shakes his head. He has no reason to doubt his strength. He has trained for years, he can run for hours, he can pick up any weapon and have a high chance of killing.

You should not be scared, a mentor had told them years prior. You cannot not show them you have fear.

The boys had agreed. Septimus had agreed.

What are you most scared of?

Nothing. His answer was fast, almost too fast.

They asked him again. What scares you?

Nothing. He thinks about his friend.

What does?

He thinks about Orion and the rest. Them being better than me.

               "The odds are in your favor." Ryker knows it. He knows his name won't be reaped from the bowl, he knows no one else will try to volunteer before him. The Academy itself has no second thoughts over Septimus' claim. Ryker has recommended his name a thousand times and never once was it refused. "You have always striked first, do that in the arena and you will be the last man standing."

"And you're going to watch me kill them." You are going to make me kill them, he wants to say but keeps quiet.

It wouldn't matter how many words Septimus would spit at the man before him. His answer would never change, you are a victor or you are nothing at all. Septimus used to find it ironic how Ryker himself had never volunteered for the games. Now he is used to his words of encouragement. It helps he is skilled in combat and strategies, his training as a Peacekeeper had served him right. Now everyone in District Two knows Ryker's name and he never had to play against death.

"I have taught you to kill." Ryker grips Septimus' shoulders. He can feel his fingernails dig in his bare skin. "I taught you everything you know. When no else believed in you, I raised you myself. I gave you everything."

Septimus swallows. He has nothing to say.

"You will not bring shame to us." Ryker starts while Septimus looks away. The pressure he adds upon his old bruises makes him fling but Ryker only presses harder, keeping the boy from moving away. "We already lost our best asset to District Four, we can't afford losing you too. You are our best shot, you're my best shot."

Septimus jerks away, forcing his features to keep a composed expression. Shame. It is a word that has always send shivers down his spine, it makes his cheeks burn and it forces his rib cage to grow uncontrollably. Shame. He hates that word. He almost fears it. No, there is no doubt; he does.

And Odair, he hates that name. He hates anytime salt is smelt around the kitchen, or when the sound of wind imitates waves crashing against rocks. Poor sweet Finnick who made District Two careers look like fools.

His arms feel heavy against the contour while his mouth is shut opened. "When have I ever brought shame to you?"

"Never." Ryker replies, removing his touch from the boy.

Septimus smiles at that. It isn't a smile that reaches his eyes. Instead it is more of a smirk, a small gesture increasing his confidence.

"Don't get your hopes too high. You still look like a dead man and we can't have them think you are weak." Ryker adds on, pressing his fingers against the wound on Septimus' neck. The pressure makes his veins boil but he refuses to jerk away. He won't allow himself to prove his point. "We can not have them know you ever lost a fight, let alone almost died."

Septimus' jaw tenses and he levels his gaze at Ryker. "It was a mistake."

"And Orion had to interfere, other wise you would be buried underground." Ryker declares, making the boy look down.

At the mention of the name Septimus shakes his head vaguely but he only nods and resigns himself to silence. He knows not to interfere with what Ryker has to say. Most of the time, he is already speaking the truth. It is harsh and severe but never once has he lied to increase fear. No, Ryker is someone trust worthy, a mentor with experience. He would have never lied to Septimus, not when he is his most precious weapon.

"A reckless mistake."

"You would be dead." Ryker hisses. "You don't die for a mistake."

Septimus remembers watching a fight a few years back. There was this boy, he was faster than an eagle flying to catch its prey. Septimus had watched his movements with eager and that was when he noticed the small pocket knife hidden behind his waistband. His opponent never did. The boy had thrown a few punches, enough to make his face bleed but also enough to make his opponent exhausted. It was at this crucial moment Septimus realized no one fought fair. The boy lunged forward, jerking the knife into his neck. Septimus remembers the blood and the eyes of betrayal plastered on the boy's face.

No one can play fair against death.

               Septimus snaps his head to the side. That's when he sees it, the one sight that makes him look like another dead tribute from twelve or eight. On his back, near his collarbone, lay deep bruises. It almost makes him sick remembering that he has not won all of his fights. It sends cold shivers down his spine and it makes his shoulders readjust themselves. Ryker is quick to catch on the boy's behavior.

"Make sure to hide them properly." Ryker says through a winced smile, his eyes staring deep into his back. He isn't looking away in some sort of disgust or remorse. Instead, he looks right into his scars, remembering each days they happened. They were lessons to stay alive, Ryker had said many times, nothing more than a way to forge a victor. "You have an entire district to make proud. You can be proud too."

Septimus gulps, running to grab his black shirt. He doesn't think any less of his words. District Two is counting on him— they need a victor. The last one they had was a complete disgrace. It makes everyone tense. The forges are filled with worried men working more than they gain money, children no longer stare in awe at the games. Instead, they look away the second tributes from Two are being slaughtered like mortified lambs. Perhaps it was all they ever were; fools pretending to play God and now without their masks, they are faceless.

"You did good, Sept." Ryker stops the boy from fidgeting around his room. "You did good."

"I'll do good when they announce my name as the victor."

"And they will." His words are quick, almost as if he fears they will give the boy too much power. "I should have put you in that arena long ago."

Septimus agrees on that. He has dreamed of it for years.

By the time he has dressed completely, a smile reaches the expression of Ryker. He stares at the boy with wide eyes, the same way a father would admire his newborn son.

Septimus is wearing all black, the allusion of attending a funeral doesn't leave his mind. Instead, it grips his head, forcing him to give more thoughts into it as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. He can't unsee the poor fabric brought by District Eight and the neckline gives him a similar look to all those other boys getting reaped. It makes him cringes but it hides his scar.

It almost makes him look like a grown man, like he has not always been a boy offered a place in a war for entertainment.

Carefully walking towards the exit of the room, Septimus stares down, looking at the hallway like he has done his entire life. The walls are plain, a simple shade of grey while the lights flicker constantly against them. It makes the entire building look abandoned, as if it had been used as a child's tomb. It is large in size, it would be easy to get lost in its various hallways and locked rooms. Even the back exit seems impossible to find.

In all the years Septimus has spent there, he only ever managed to find the main exit. It is the same one that had been used by Peacekeepers when the bunker was still maintained for the Capitol's military. Except now, it is guarded by loaded guns and no one can enter or leave without their mentors' approval.

Septimus knows the way towards the training center. He has been there on his own countless of times. It might be the only place in District Two he is truly familiar with.

The sequence is easy; left turn, right, then right again.

The hallways are empty of any sound except from their footsteps. There are no guards lurking in the hallways or students chasing each others to get their daily runs. They are completely alone.

Every members of the Academy stands in the training center where the parade will be held. Septimus knows that in a few seconds, he will be met with faceless new generations of careers. Faceless new strangers.

Left turn. His steps are fast and calculated.

There is a tradition in the Academy where each day before the Reaping, the career chosen to volunteer makes a speech. He won't see the female careers. Male and female careers are always separated so no relationships will be formed. It makes the killing easier, less doubtful.

You can not betray someone you don't know, Ryker told him when he first took a look at the girls during Reaping Day. His warnings would have worked if he had not already been familiar with the elite female career.

Gloria, he hasn't forgotten her name.

Right turn. Ryker slows down so Septimus can follow his pace. He pats the boy on his shoulder, a gesture to try and reassure him.

Right turn again.

It is the sound of Ryker coughing that makes him realize they have stepped foot in the square. Suddenly, he can feel hundreds of breaths against his skin, almost as if they are all preying on him.

The first thing he sees is the line of young boys around the age of nine years old. They all look anxious, their legs are shaking and their eyes are looking everywhere around the room. From the fighting rinks to the racks of weapons, they can see it all.

He remembers when he was their age, he remembers the speech the tribute had made. I will come home victorious, he remembers him saying, I promise to make you proud. He ended up being killed by mutts from the Capitol. It was a real shame.

"At ease." Ryker says loud enough so his voice can travel around the room. A loud bang is simultaneously heard and everyone has changed their position. "Today we celebrate victory. We celebrate the man that will bring pride to our district."

Septimus readjust his posture from the entrance of the door. Ryker already stands in the middle of the room, in front of everyone.

"Many have heard of his name, many have seen him fight." Ryker adds, a smile reaching his expression as he looks back to Septimus. "He will be victorious, that my friends I have no doubt."

Jealousy and pride. It is all Septimus can read on their expressions.

"Today I present you Septimus Crain."

The sounds of cheering interrupt the silence. It brings a smile upon Septimus' lips. He hasn't feel that way in a long time.

His steps are fast, yet he takes the time to look at the men standing before him. He sees the group of boys formed in symmetrical ranks and the open windows of the level above them.

"I started exactly where you are." Septimus says and they all turn quiet. He watches the youngest boys in the front line, they are so small he can barely see them as warriors. The older ones are in the back yet he can see their bloodlust from where he stands. It is the one thing they all share. "I have trained with some of you, fought against people that are no longer with us. I have seen tributes come and go but I will come back victorious."

Cheers interrupt him again. He can feel his hands shaking as he tries to remember every words he wrote on his notebook. He knows the text as if he is reading it, but making it sound believable is the true challenge.

"I will not let you down like many have before me." He is looking for a familiar face in the crowd but all he sees are strangers. "We haven't had a worthy victor in years—"

Aye. They all say in unison, making Septimus frowns. He just wants to get it over with. The thought of standing in front of so many strangers makes his cheeks turn red.

Bless them all, he wants to say. Bless them all for being liars killed by children.

His eyes can't focus on one chosen place. He keeps looking at the glass room on the second floor; he wonders if they are watching him. If while watching him do his speech, they are doubting his claim. He shakes his head, a smile reaching his expression and his cheeks almost turn red.

"I plan on winning this year's game as one of you will next year. And the one after that." He wants to say his name, Orion. He wants him to know he hasn't forgotten him but it would be useless. He's going to leave tomorrow. "Fighting is the easy part, we are used to it."

He watches their faces, searching for another familiar face while he begs not to see him. He is dead by now, Septimus should know. Ghosts are not real.

"You might say, I know how to kill." Septimus starts, stopping halfway through his movement so he can briefly look at Ryker. "We know how to think, how to react before they even know we are coming. That's what we know."

He looks away from his mentor, his gaze returning to the crowd of careers looking at him in admiration. "We know what to do with weapons, we know how to use them so we can rise victorious."

Even if all the careers before us bled to death.

"The thing is— we're not the only one who knows how to fight." Septimus frowns at his own words. Ryker helped him write his speech, half of the words he says aren't his. "We can't just run in there and hope for the best. We have to be the best. They have to know we can survive through anything, that we can win without doubt."

"Rest reassure that we have learned from the best." Cheering erupt and from the corner of his eyes, Septimus can see Ryker shushing them. "I plan on showing you exactly how it is done."

Have you ever been in a fight?

He was asked this exact question on his second day in the Academy, at age nine.

He shook his head. No.

The boy next to him answered the same.

The fight began in no time and the two boys were thrown in the fighting ring. Punches were thrown loosely, their movements were unsure. Are you okay? The boy shook his head and Septimus was thrown on the ground. By the time he looked up, all he could see was the back of a shirt with the letter q.

The boys all around them had cheered while he sat defeated.

This time it is Ryker that claps first before the rest follow after him. He looks up one last time at the glass window and he sees the lady in white staring back at him. There is nothing else to do, no reason to carry on a spectacle before the execution. They don't want him dead just yet. The District needs a spark of hope, something to believe in.

     And he will show them exactly how to kill.

Author's note

My writing is all the over the place but here's the updated version of the first chapter! I didn't change anything major but hopefully the dialogue flows a bit more smoothly. And please do not hesitate to correct me if you find any mistakes, english is not my first language! Thank you all for reading this