Tani, 18
Golden swirls of glitter are glued to my face to match my stunning gold dress, which ends just below my thighs. Black satin gloves reach up to my elbows while my hair drapes gracefully down my back. I look truly beautiful, and yet I feel nothing. Because my best friend isn't here to see it, and there's absolutely no one else I want to show it to.
I don't want sponsors. I don't want allies. I don't even want to win. I just want Iskandar back.
"Your outfit doesn't fit?" I ask Kenneth, who has spent the last thirty minutes analyzing himself in a full-length mirror as we wait in the District 1 dressing room.
"It fits," he says without ever taking his eyes off of his body, encased in a golden tuxedo. "But does it capture the shining light of godliness that my soul emits?"
I smile to myself at his egotistical stupidity. My smile fades the minute he turns his shark's eyes on me.
"Take off your dress," he demands.
"What?" I ask in horror.
"Take off your dress."
"...No," I tell him, stunned.
"This tuxedo covers my chiseled body. I need something that shows more skin, like your dress. I have the thighs to pull it off, Tani. Switch with me."
"It's my dress, Kenneth."
"So?"
"So it's not yours."
"I don't understand."
"It belongs to me!"
"Tani, if I want something, that makes it mine."
"I'm not switching with you!"
"I can't believe you're speaking to me this way! I want you banished! Banished for eternity!" He points his hand at me dramatically, as if he expects lightning to come shooting out of it.
This is going to be a long night.
Revlin "Lin," 15
Silence. It's been so hard to find these last few days. I knew I would find it here, though. I always find it here.
A cool rush of air conditioning hits me the second I enter the library; I take a deep breath, inhaling the beautiful smell of pages and pages of knowledge. My feet immediately take off for the non-fiction section. The Dewey Decimal System, my old friend, leads me once more to the treasure I seek. I pause at the number I've been looking for.
616.8
Psychiatric disorders.
I pull down a green book labeled Psychiatric Disorders and the Mentally Ill Mind by Howard Overly. As I pull the book out, I discover behind it a human skull.
"Don't ever accept a dinner invitation from a man holding a human head on a platter," it tells me in an eerie voice. "That's a mistake you can't make twice."
"Hello, Keir," I say nonchalantly, returning my gaze to the open book in my hand.
"How'd you know it was me?" she asks as she steps around the bookshelf to stand before me, a living skeleton.
She looks like an x-ray; her stylists appear to have painted her body a deep, midnight black before adding a layer of glow-in-the-dark paint in the shape of her bones. A human skeleton from District 6, the medicine District. As far as costumes go, it's not bad, though it does lack the sex factor. Every other District portrays their female in a scantily-clad, prostitute-looking outfit that'll really make the men go wild, while Keir looks like a little boy in her costume.
"I knew it was you," I explain in a bored voice. "Because you spilled chocolate frosting on your ribcage. Chocolate frosting generally comes from chocolate cake. Chocolate cake is a comfort food. Your abrasive personality and generally uncaring attitude suggests some past psychological trauma has caused you to scare others away before they can hurt you. As a result of this, you're a very lonely person. Hence the comfort food, hence the chocolate frosting spilled carelessly on your wildly expensive outfit."
Her face contorts in an odd mixture of shock, hurt, embarrassment, and annoyance. I mentally record this reaction for later analysis.
"Gee, good job, nerd," she says sarcastically. "You read that in your stupid book?"
"I read that in several of my stupid books," I respond calmly and without lifting my eyes from the book currently in my hand.
"Whatever. Everyone's looking for you."
I wait a moment before turning slowly and cocking my head at the talking skeleton.
"They should be," I tell it. "I'm quite late."
"Well, they're really pissed. I heard the Gamemakers talking about punishing you in the arena. Blowing your big fat mouth clear off your face, stuff like that. So good luck with that."
She spins on her heel and stalks angrily to the door.
"Hey, Keir?" I call after her. She turns and waits in annoyance. "Did you come here just to warn me?"
"Don't flatter yourself. I had a little studying to catch up on." She lifts her hand to show me a small, red book she somehow picked up without my noticing.
The Karma Sutra.
"I haven't done the position on page sixty-seven yet," she says matter-of-factly, as though we're discussing something banal and mundane instead of her sex life. "And page ninety-three has a very... detailed diagram that I've been dying to look at with a magnifying glass."
"...You're very vulgar," I say after a moment.
She smiles proudly before slipping out the door.
But if I've learned anything about Keir Rori in the past few days, it's that she's already been over the Karma Sutra with a magnifying glass. Several times. In fact, Keir Rori is the kind of person who probably has several dog-eared, very worn copies of such a book. She certainly wouldn't need to visit the library to pick up yet another copy.
Come to think of it, Keir Rori is not the kind of person who visits a library. Ever. Period. Which means she wasn't here for the book. Which means she was here to warn me. Which means she doesn't want my big fat mouth to be blown clear off my face. Which means...
What? What does it mean?
Saren, 12
Revlin is missing.
His orange prison jumpsuit hangs on the back of our dressing room door, untouched. Handcuffs hang off of my left hand, one cuff open and empty, waiting to imprison Revlin's wrist.
"This is a disaster!" Lemon, our escort, shouts at me. "You two are supposed to be two prisoners! Without him you're just one prisoner!"
"Astute observation," Revlin commends sarcastically as he steps through the door.
"Revlin!" Lemon shouts. "Where the hell have you been?"
"Out. Perhaps you should arrest me?" He slips into the orange jumpsuit in mere seconds before offering me his hand. I click the empty cuff onto his right wrist, and our costume is complete.
District Two always goes with a Peacekeeper outfit. This year, our stylists decided to portray us as the other side of the law, their thinking being that Peacekeepers are scary, but prisoners are scarier. And who doesn't like a rebellious bad boy? Revlin will probably kill out there.
But putting a fifteen-year-old boy in a prison jumpsuit is quite different than putting a twelve-year-old girl in a prison jumpsuit, and I get the feeling I'm not going to be half as popular.
Marilynn would have had a good laugh over how silly I look. But then, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, she would have fixed it. Because that's what she was: a fixer. She would have poured drawn pink skulls on my jumpsuit and doused me in glitter. She would have made me look cute, like a little girl playing dress-up.
You see, when someone dies, it's not the Christmases and birthdays without her that kill you. It's the moments when you get the most incredible news, and you immediately dial her phone number, only to remember that she isn't going to answer it. It's the time you cut your finger and know that it absolutely will not stop hurting until she kisses it.
It's every morning that you wake up and know that she isn't here anymore. That she's nowhere.
Because of Weston Shepp.
There are no sleeves on our jumpsuits; they've been torn off to make us look tougher, so all that remains is some jagged fabric above our shoulders. As our stylists come in the room to paint tattoos on our shoulders ('I Love Mom' for Revlin and a ferocious red dragon for me), a plan begins to form in my mind.
District 6 has to pay, one way or another. That's clear. I can't kill Weston, but I can kill his tributes. And I will, for Marilynn. Angus and Keir might as well have targets on their heads; they're marked, and their time is running short. Angus lives with his head in the clouds; he's a sitting duck. I can take him out in the first five minutes. But Keir is bold, and seems to have nothing to lose. She's a weasel, and I have to be sure not to underestimate her. Luckily for me, my District partner is something of a genius when it comes to analyzing other people.
"I need to kill Keir," I confide in him as soon as we're alone in our chariot. It's nearly pitch-black around us, our only light coming faintly from two strips of blue lighting that glow softly on the floor. We're inside a long, dark tunnel, waiting for the doors to open and let all of the chariots through.
"What?" he asks quickly, turning his head to stare at me in alarm.
"I need to kill Keir, and I want you to tell me how to do it."
"...Why Keir? Out of everyone else, I mean?"
"She just... she threatened me. And I'm afraid."
Something changes in his face; he sees right through my lie. I should have known.
Revlin Trent is not someone who can be lied to.
"I wouldn't know," he tells me calmly after a moment. "I haven't been paying attention to Keir."
A lie for a lie. I suppose that's fair.
I know he's been watching Keir. He's been watching all of us. He already knows how to kill each and every tribute, and the Games haven't even started.
Alice, 12
"I'm afraid we can't do the lights show," Rollo tells our escort, Andre.
"Don't be silly," Andre says, waving off Rollo's concern. "It'll look adorbs."
"It's a blatant safety hazard. If our clothing catches on fire, we could suffer burns all over our body. It says so right in the manual. Caution: do not wear lights on clothing. Doing so could result in-"
"You're being a major buzzkill, sweetie." Andre squishes one of Rollo's chubby cheeks with his fingers.
"...I'm afraid we can't do the lights show."
"Omg, I am, like, seriously gonna lose it if you don't put your costume on right now!" Andre yells, throwing his perfectly manicured hands into the air in exasperation.
"That isn't the proper usage of the word 'like.' It's actually only used when-"
"Nobody cares," Rafael says, cutting Rollo off as he walks lazily through the door. "Kid, you gotta put the costume on. You're embarrassing the hell outta me. All up and down the hallway people are laughing at the weirdo from District three who memorized the warning label on a box of lightbulbs."
"It's a safety concern," Rollo tells him simply. "And I just can't budge when it comes to my own personal safety."
"Rollo, do you not understand that you're about to go into an arena to fight to the death? Fuck safety!"
Rollo inhales sharply and his face turns bright red.
"You said the F word!" he whispers angrily at Rafael, who rolls his eyes.
"Okay, here's the deal," Rafael says, turning to Andre and taking charge. "Rollo will wear the lights if, and only if, the little girl is carrying a fire extinguisher the whole time." He points to me.
"Are you insane?" Andre asks furiously.
"Sounds reasonable to me," Rollo says with a shrug. "I'll wear the lights."
I watch this scene unfold from my chair in the corner of our dressing room, flinching at every raised voice. Without any input from me, it's eventually decided that I'll carry a fire extinguisher in my arms during the entire chariot ride. Once this is finally agreed upon, Andre insists we try out the lights before getting into the chariot.
Rollo and I are dressed in black sweatpants and long-sleeved black shirts. We look extraordinarily plain until we both shoot our right arms into the air. The moment we raise our arms, the thousands of minuscule lights we're wearing flicker on, starting at our fingertips and reaching to our feet in a jagged pattern, giving off sparks of electricity as they do so. The effect is that it appears as though we're being struck by lightning.
"What do you think, buddy?" Rafael asks Rollo.
"I'll wear it," he grudgingly agrees. "But I want you to know that I'm not happy about it."
Rafael and Rollo high-five before Rollo and I climb into our chariot, ready to electrify the audience.
Honora, 17
"Oh, my God," I snap, staring at Demetri in horror. "What are you wearing?"
"What, you don't like it?" he asks in surprise.
"What did you do to your outfit?"
"I bedazzled it," he says simply, as if the answer is obvious.
On the back of his outfit, red rhinestones spell out 'D-Money.'
"Why?" I ask.
"Because before the costume was all about our District. Now it's all about me. Isn't that much better?"
He was supposed to be a shark. His costume was insanely cool, complete with a realistic-looking fin and menacing teeth. And he bedazzled it.
"What are you holding?" I ask quietly, afraid of the answer.
"Oh, these?" he hands me a tiny, wrapped item and confirms my fears. "Personalized condoms. I'm gonna throw 'em to the crowd."
Each condom wrapper has 'D-Money' written across it.
"I can sense your hesitation," he tells me, lifting a finger as if to say, it gets even better. "But think about it. Now every time the sponsors are doin' it... they'll think of me!"
I straighten the tail on my mermaid costume and try to imagine a single way in which this night could possibly go well.
Shiloh, 15
District 5 wears a mad scientist costume again this year, although I can hardly blame them because there's really not much you can do with the theme science. I scoot past them on the way to my chariot, but find I still have quite a walk. I pass the living skeletons from District 6, but not without paying the price.
In the near-darkness, a glow-in-the-dark skeletal arm dangles out of the chariot, followed by a menacing, glowing skull.
"Ah, yes," it says in an eerie voice. "Come closer. Right where I want you. Closer."
I sidestep away from Keir and her glowing outfit, a little creeped out, and find myself next to the District 7 chariot. Patrick and Beni are dressed as fairies of the forest, though I swear I hear Patrick growl at me as I pass by. They both look frightening, with heavy black eye makeup and elfish features. I keep moving, barely stopping to look at the District 8 tributes, who look homeless. They're dressed in clothing that's been repeatedly patched up with differently fabrics.
Finally, I arrive at my own chariot and climb in next to Annalee. Coming from the hunting District, I'm dressed completely in camouflage and carrying an unloaded rifle, while Annalee, being thirteen, is dressed as an adorable little deer. She crinkles her nose, which is painted white, as I sit down next to her.
"Did you know that thirty-five percent of people who use personal dating services are already married?" she asks me.
"No, I did not," I answer pleasantly. Over the past few days I've gotten quite used to her random facts. Most of them are actually quite fascinating, and besides, I'd much rather have a District partner who's constantly reciting facts than one who could slice my head off with a flick of her wrist. Things could be worse.
"And we probably won't get any sponsors, either," Irene says. This seems to be the end of a long tale of negativity that she's been telling Alexei, who only seems to be half-listening as they walk past our chariot dressed as cowboys.
"Yee-haw!" Renton shouts from two chariots ahead of us. Alexei smirks and tips his hat at the other boy.
I lean out of my chariot to get a better look at Renton. He and his District partner, Elisabeth, are dressed as scarecrows. So it's not a myth; the costumes really do go down in quality as the District number increases.
Of course, as usual, no one has it as bad as District 12. Puck and Autumn walk by decked out in mining gear. Complete with pickaxes and mining helmets that are far too large for them and hang over their eyes to obstruct their view. Once the two take their seats in the final chariot, the doors ahead of us open and our chariots begin to roll.
Let the show begin.
Weston, District 6 Mentor
I sit in a booth with the other mentors as the chariots roll out. Luke, on my left, is in a sour mood because his tributes were once again stuck with shitty District 12 costumes, while Rafael, on my right, can be heard rubbing his hands together excitedly in a way that tells me he knows something's going to go wrong, but he isn't going to tell anyone because he could use a good laugh. So all in all, not a good way to start off the night.
Obviously, I can't see the costumes, so I listen carefully as Caesar describes each one into his microphone.
"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, get ready for a crazy night!" he begins. Nothing noteworthy occurs until District 3 pulls out, and an electric crackling is heard, quickly followed by a fire extinguisher being deployed. "Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that our District three male tribute is spraying his District partner with a fire extinguisher! He's shouting something, what is that?"
I listen carefully as Rollo's voice echoes throughout the stadium.
"I'm sorry!" he's saying. "I thought you were on fire!"
Rafael is laughing loudly beside me, and I understand that this is what he was waiting for. Nice, Raf. Real nice.
"Things are getting pretty heated down there, aren't they?" Caesar laughs. "Now, for some reason I'm seeing three tributes in the District five chariot, is that right? What's that, Jim? ...Ladies and gentlemen, I'm being told that the third figure in that chariot isn't a tribute, it's actually a sex doll. Look at those skeletons from District six! The boy looks like he's wearing some kind of cape with his outfit, and the girl is - the girl is dancing! Is everyone seeing this? A dancing skeleton! Hey, she's pretty good, too! That's great, what is that, hip-hop? And... oh, my. It looks like the District one boy just took off his pants. He's... he's showing the audience his thighs. I'm confused, Jim. What's going on down there? ...Ladies and gentlemen, I'm being told that District one is jealous of District four, who's throwing... I don't think I heard that correctly... Are you sure? ...Condoms? District four is throwing condoms, ladies and gentlemen. Wait, the skeleton just got out of her chariot... she's picking up condoms. The dancing skeleton is picking up condoms. How is that going over with the audience, Jim? ...Okay, I'm being told it's not going over well with them... Yeah, they don't like that. They don't like that at all."
Damn you, Keir. Rafael is straight-out guffawing by now, and even Luke is laughing.
"This has taken an interesting turn," Caesar continues, but I'm too angry to pay him much attention. "A very interesting turn."
Just wait until I get my hands on Keir.
Abe, District 7 Mentor
The shit really hits the fan after the show.
Everyone is running around blaming each other, yanking costume pieces off with mascara running down their faces, tripping on their high heels and falling on top of each other. It's complete chaos back here.
"But why?" Weston is shouting at Keir, whose skeletal arms are overflowing with condoms.
"How many times do I have to say it, West?" she shouts back. "Free condoms for life!"
"You're not gonna have a life if you can't get sponsors!"
"I know what this is about. You're upset because I didn't grab any for you, aren't you? You can have some condoms, West, it's not like I'm gonna use all of them. Just most of them."
"I'm gonna kill you, Keir."
I shove my way further down the hallway to find Alice crying, covered in white crap from the fire extinguisher.
"I thought she was on fire," Rollo says simply. "And if she had been, I could have been killed!"
Rafael is laughing too hard to say anything in response.
I see my own tributes, Beni and Patrick, up ahead of me, and I try to pass them without so much as glancing their way, but Patrick grabs me tightly by the arm. I spin in alarm; that hurts. I yank my hand away from him, but he refuses to let go. A smile plays across his face, and I realize he's enjoying this. Enjoying hurting me. And suddenly I don't see Patrick in front of me. I see Daniel.
Before he can even see it coming, I'm slamming Patrick into Beni. The pair fall to the ground and I straddle Patrick immediately; my fist instinctively pulls back and decks him across the face. He just smiles harder.
Freak.
I slam his head forcefully into the ground with an audible crack. And he laughs.
"You can't hurt me," he cackles. "No one can!"
The entire hallway is hushed. They stare at me like I'm a freak. They're afraid of me. Afraid of the monster.
I want to scream; instead I slam my fist repeatedly into Patrick's ribcage. I slam his head around. Punch his face until his blood streaks across my own face. And then I turn to the crowd, my mouth curled into a snarl, my face covered in blood. Women shriek in horror; everyone scrambles over each other to get away from me.
I escaped the tigers. And in doing so, I became a tiger myself.
I reach for someone in the crowd, someone I can hurt, and find my hands grasping Rafael's face. I slam it viciously into the wall behind him and he shouts in pain. His hands reach out and shove at my face, but it's like fighting a child. I smack his arms away and stare at him face-to-face. My eyes bore into his, and all I see is fear. Pure terror.
He is afraid of the tiger, and who can blame him?
Someone else grabs me from behind, their body slamming me to the ground, their hands wrapped around my head. I roll over so that he's underneath me. I bite into his hand and he struggles to free himself, only succeeding in tearing his skin on my teeth. I suspect my victim is Luke, but when I spin my head around I find the blind boy instead. Weston? Weston thinks he can take me?
I slam my elbow into his gut, but he manages to roll over so I'm below him once more. And then they gang up on me, him and Rafael. Rafael kicks my side and I writhe away as Weston grabs my collar and yanks me into a standing position. Before he can subdue me, however, I plant a kick squarely into his stomach and he doubles over in pain.
"What's wrong with you?" Rafael asks suddenly.
His words hurt more than any punch.
Why do they always think it's something wrong with me? Why isn't it ever something wrong with them?
I wasn't born a monster. They made me into one, with their taunting and teasing, their bullying and laughing. So why do they blame me?
As these thoughts race across my mind, I hesitate long enough for Weston to slam into me from behind. I fly forward, landing on the floor of the empty dressing room in front of me. Weston and Rafael jump in with me, slamming the door behind them. And for a moment, Rafael and I just stare at each other as the three of us catch our breath. Weston's eyes look at nothing.
"Patrick has a nerve ending issue," Weston says eventually. "He can't feel pain."
In response, I spit my own blood onto the floor and stare daggers at Weston and Rafael.
"Crazy bitch," Rafael snaps.
"She hit your head?" Weston asks him.
"Damn near took it off."
Big baby, I sign.
"What did you call me?" Rafael shouts at me.
"Raf!" Weston holds Rafael back with one arm. "Go ice your head, man."
"Fine! But I'm not doing it 'cause you told me to. I'm doing it 'cause I was almost decapitated today." Rafael huffs angrily before stomping childishly out of the room and down the hallway.
The moment Rafael leaves, Weston slides down the wall, clutching his stomach in pain. He didn't want Rafael to see him succumb to the hurt. Maybe because Rafael is such a mess, and Weston seems to be the only one holding him together.
"You're a fucking hurricane," Weston moans.
Hurricane. Is that what I am? I catch sight of myself in a full-length mirror on the wall and do a double-take. Blood coats my face. My hair is wild. My metal hand glints menacingly. I am afraid of my reflection.
When did I become so frightening? I remember Rafael's face when I had him in my clutches; pure terror. He knew. Knew that I could tear him apart for no reason at all. Just like the tigers. They tore into Bidzill. They tore into Remi. They tore into Avenaye.
The tigers didn't touch me, because they understood. Understood that I am one of them.
A tear slides down my face. Everyone hates me. Everyone hates me. I hurt people. And yet I can never stop hurting people, because they'll never stop hurting me. And just like that, the anger rises in my stomach once more and I want to punch someone. Want to bite into their skin and make them bleed. Want to-
"Hey, don't cry," Weston says, still catching his breath, wincing as he clutches his stomach.
He sees nothing, and yet he knows everything. Hot, angry tears slip down my skin, making me sniffle. But why should I cry? Someone else should be crying. I should go make someone else cry. I punch the wall angrily. Weston flinches.
"Shit," he says. "I see why the tigers left you alone."
I breathe in slow, shallow breaths. I will the tears away, but they only come faster. My loud breath, strained by tears, is as close as I will ever come to screaming.
"Abe. Abe, don't cry." Weston closes his blind eyes and takes his hand away from his stomach as though the pain has eased. "Hey, do you know what they're calling us? All the other Mentors? See no evil, speak no evil."
I have, in fact, heard them calling us this. And I happen to know for a fact that Rafael was the one who started it.
"And I've hit a few Mentors before, too. They just don't get it, Abe. None of them do. When you're missing something that everyone else has... it feels like you did something wrong. Like you did something to deserve being different. And that... it eats you. You can't let it get to you like that. 'Cause it hurts. It hurts like hell. Just don't listen to Rafael. He doesn't know. He doesn't get it. There's nothing wrong with you and me. We're just... we're missing something. And we spend our whole lives trying to replace it, and we never will. But we're not bad people. Just damaged."
Nobody knows. Nobody knows but him. I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. And I find, for just one brief moment, a sanctuary. I am not the only monster. I am not the only one that the world hates enough to take something from. Weston is a monster too.
And it doesn't fix anything. And tomorrow I'll still be angry and sad and mixed-up. But it does make it a little less painful. I am drowning in a sea of sorrow, and Weston has dipped his hands in the water and taken a handful out. It won't save me, but it's something.
I see Weston's face, and I know that he is drowning, too. But he isn't giving in like me; he isn't swimming to the bottom, begging the water to take him. He isn't fighting it, either, not swimming futilely against the current, desperately trying to reach the shore. He's just treading water. It's tiring, it hurts, and it won't save him, but it'll keep him breathing just a while longer.
Let me die, I beg the water. Just let me die.
Because I'm tired of fighting.