"What happened?" I ask my mother, trying to sort through my memories although all I find is emptiness. "What happened to the others?" I clarify, trying to get my bearings on what I'm seeing. My eyes do not stray from the live feed of the arena. The stalemate reached between the tributes does not budge.
The gong has just sounded moments ago. It rang out more piercing than I've ever heard it. But maybe that's because these games are more personal, far more horrific to me. The victors, Finnick, Enobaria, and Beetee among them, had reached the ground beneath the Cornucopia in seconds. But no bloodbath had ensued. I play the confrontation, the agreement, over in my mind. It shattered any recorded strategy in Hunger Games history.
"Stop!" a voice shouted among the trampling footsteps determined to reach the bounty before the others. It was strong, confident. I expected it could only come from someone with experience in the Capitol's cruelty. Haymitch, Gale, maybe even Peeta. But no, it was Cinna. My calm, collected stylist whose sophisticated quirks like his many earrings and gold eyeliner are now absent. The other tributes, terrified and confident alike, had stopped in their tracks to listen. "We're not enemies. We can't kill each other." That was it, a simple reminder of wrong and right and all competitive pretenses were washed away. When no one died and a universal alliance was decided upon, I finally turned to question my mother.
Now we sit in stunned silence, watching one tribute after another stand on a pair of shoulders to reach the Cornucopia, as my mother tries to find the right words. "They came during the bombings and took her, right from her bed. Then the rebels brought you back to me and within hours they had seized their hovercraft. It's like they wanted you home safe first." she says, tears that have threatened to appear this whole time finally spill over. Of course they did. Or I should say he. He wanted me to watch this.
I look back to the screen and press my fingertips to it. The cameras show their faces in turn. Prim is smallest and could climb up the others with ease. She scaled their shoulders and crawled into the mouth of the Cornucopia shakily. Now I watch her young, innocent face as she passes the parcels down. The tributes remaining on the ground begin to dig through them anxiously.
"Weapons! Only weapons!" a voice calls tentatively from the ground. It's a girl I don't recognize. But I do know her voice. I know it well from the screams of the jabberjays that haunt my dreams. Annie Cresta, District Four Champion and Finnick Odair's real love. Finnick is the last rung on the ladder. He lets Peeta down gently from his shoulders, sure to put his weight on the uninjured leg, and turns to Beetee.
"Just like the Quell." he mutters, Beetee only nods. "Think they want it over quick?" he adds. Beetee gives him a solemn look, considering his words.
"I think they want a spectacle." he admits, rubbing his thumb and forefinger over his eyelids beneath his glasses.
"Then we'll give them one." says a gruff voice. They look around to find it coming from Enobaria, the bloodthirsty wild woman from District Two. "Only one victor." she reminds them, running a calloused thumb over the large machete in her hand.
"No." says another voice, not nearly as strong. Peeta steps forward and I notice the limp of his artificial leg that I usually ignore. "This is different. We'll find a way out. Maybe we should introduce ourselves, find out why they chose us." he suggests, looking around for support. No one says a word. Half of the tributes are watching him, hands poised idly on their weapons. The other half look to the ground, occasionally at the trees beyond the Cornucopia. It is obvious in this moment who is prone to fight and who prefers flight. Peeta clears his throat and presses on. "Does anyone here feel confident that they know everyone?" he asks, staring determinedly into each face for half a second.
"That'd be me, kid." someone croaks. The others make a small opening in their line to allow the speaker to come forward. There, in tribute's clothing covered in sweat, is Haymitch. His hand is raised casually in the air and the withdrawal from the liquor is so obvious it makes me uncomfortable. He steps closer to Peeta, trying miserably to stifle a tremor in his hands. He gazes around at the group, screwing up his face to adjust his vision. When he seems satisfied with his memory, he smiles darkly. "I believe we've met." he says.