three thousand years from home . maya / manu

It doesn't feel like much of a party. Not that Manu's ever been to one, anyway. When his family celebrated with champagne and hors d'oeuvres, he remained hidden away. He wouldn't like it, they said, laughing and singing while he sat in silence in the upstairs bedroom. Manu was just a guest in the place that was refurbished to be his home. It's similar here, in the middle of the colosseum. Somber faces travel the grounds, all guests of honor for the big event. He doesn't belong among them. His classes on how to be Panem's patriot should not have put him here. Manu rolls the sleeves of his shirt past the elbows. Perhaps it is the intrusive thoughts and contradictions in his mind that have led him to receive such a punishment.

The twenty-three faces around him bring forth uncertainty. The game has not started yet but scenarios pose a threat to every finger and face. Two outcomes will be presented tomorrow: live or die. Probability tips the scales toward death. It begs the question: what does Manu want? Glittery stars can only grant wishes and answers for so long. The final breath and the last image presented to him… what can be achieved from it?

Subconsciously, he answers the question. To know. Is that too much to ask? The strict guidance he has been given suggests the answer is yes. If Manu isn't allowed to know something, there must be a reason. The mind guards against new things to protect the brain from those pathogens. He's already sick, though. Everything he shouldn't know is getting through to him, and the possibilities of what he can learn grow exponentially.

Brave the pain, Manu. Death is an illness that's well spreading through the bloodstream. Knowing that he doesn't know is better than not knowing. That phrase sends a strict cold through him. He's stretching into disobedient acts and it should result in punishment. He remembers when they slapped him numb across the face. None of these tributes will punish him like that, surely. Not tonight, at least.

Manu keeps his hands slid into the back pockets of his jeans. He's nervous to speak to those around him. They must be so different. But at least they look like they know.

He wants to know, too. So badly.

He approaches one of the kids alone in the colosseum. Groups are too much for now. "Hi. Um…" How is this supposed to work? Manu pauses. He can't just ask them 'what do you know?'. He stumbles through his speech. "Do you want to talk? Tonight might be our last chance to just talk." She has every right to knock him in the face if she wants, but he carries on anyway. "I want to talk. But I also want to listen, um."

Every fiber in his being warns him that this is a mistake. ('To know' is a dangerous mission. Knowledge leads to questions, and questions are bad for you, Manuel. Questions will labor your loyalty to the Capitol.) A hushed pain-filled exhale escapes him. He'd receive punishment for stepping this far if he was at home. That tiny question alone is enough to make him scared.

Can a boy of bones tolerate the whole truth if something this small has all of him breaking?