By popular demand, I present the winning tribute of the 5th annual Hunger Games as referenced in the previous chapter! Thanks a million for the PMs, you guys are the best 3 I also got a few requests for a full version of Axum's story, from Reaping to post-Games, but I'm gonna wait to see if I get any more requests for it after people have read it.
Axum Winston - 17 - District Three
MA (This one's pretty twisted, sorry guys)
Axum Winston rings in my head over and over and over, always in the voice of the District Three escort, Helanthium Wigget. She seemed nice enough, though to be honest she wasn't much of a talker, but that was alright by me. I really had no interest in talking to her. Axum Winston have probably become my two least favourite words. Yep, they definitely are. They suck. I used to like my name, it was better than being named Pascal like my best friend back home. Seriously, what kind of name is Pascal?
Thinking of home makes my stomach hurt, so I push it down and concentrate on my present situation. Over the top of Axum Winston playing on repeat in my head I can hear the wind rushing down the abandoned streets of the city. This arena is quite creative, in my opinion. The buildings seems to resemble those I saw in the Capitol, with their bright colours and plants in window boxes as if they were pets. I bet if all goes well in this Games they'll use the same sort of arena again, far down the road when nobody remembers it. Between the wind rushing toward this city circle from every street (the fans they use to create such powerful gusts from every direction must be enormous, I wonder if they were created by anyone I know) and my ugly name in my head, I almost miss the countdown of numbers until the Games begin. As if reading my mind the numbers appear in the sky directly above the metal statue of a horse-drawn waggon in the center of the circle where most of the supplies are stacked. The number reads 30 in shiny gold letters that seem to fit right in with the city's decor, like giant numbers floating in midair were an everyday thing outside of the building back home where that technology was created and modified. I wonder how many things in this arena I'll recognize as the work of District Three.
But I don't have time to think of that, the countdown has reached 22 and my eyes have not located a single weapon in between myself and the statue. There are a few things like cans of food and a large box of matches lying here and there, but no weapons except the ones on the metal wagon itself. I spot the butt of a gun sticking out of the bottom of the pile and my stomach lurches. I know how to use a gun, if I can just get to that first.. Back home I was fastest in the school, the best athlete as well, though in a district that prizes brains over brawn it wasn't saying much. Here though, I have an advantage. It breaks my heart, but I know that it was probably for the best that my name was chosen, that I have the best chance of bringing home the victory for District Three.
It's amazing how fast my brain thinks under pressure, because the clock is only down to 18 seconds. I look over and see the girl next to me has spotted the gun as well. I'm annoyed, I spent too long gawking at it and she probably followed my gaze. I can tell from her lean legs that she's going to be tough competition, and the glint in her eyes says that unlike me she will have no problem blowing someone's head off at point blank range. I need an advantage, but time is running out at only 12 seconds to go and I don't know what to do. 11... 10... I still have no idea how I could possibly trip her up. So much for my mind working in overdrive.
At eight seconds I lose it. Fear of getting to the gun last overwhelms me, and spurred on by a massive rush of adrenaline I move off my platform. There's nothing in my head other than Axum Winston, Axum Winston and the mad desire, desperation, to get to the gun. The wind has been silenced, all I hear is my blood pounding in my ears as I race over the uneven cobblestone toward the statue. If I had any sense at all I would be worried about the Game Makers shooting me down or electrifying me or something, anything to punish me for disobeying their rules, but I don't think of it and nothing happens. Then I'm there, as the countdown reaches its end and the voice booms out "one" in a voice that shakes my insides. The gun is in my hand and I whip around to face the tributes behind me.
Their shocked faces don't register in my mind, the fact that they haven't even had time to move off their platforms yet. I simply shoot.
In District Three I held an after school job in the weapons lab as a tester. If I'm being honest I've never been all that bright, at least not by the standard of my people, so it wouldn't have been much of a loss if one of the weapons I was testing malfunctioned and I was blown up or something. The targets were always drawn on pieces of paper 20, 50, 200 meters away, and after two years of working there I was an expert marksman in my sleep. I could dismantle and reassemble any type of gun in under 30 seconds. When contests were held between myself and the other testers, all the bets were placed on me to win.
None of that compares to shooting a person.
Before I know what's happened, before five seconds have passed since the Games began, ten people lay dead or dying on the ground without ever having taken half a step off their platforms. I didn't miss a single shot. A month ago I would have been proud of that fact, but today it makes me vomit. Right there in the middle of the city center, I empty the meager contents of my stomach onto the pavement. But I can't stay there, not like that anyway. I turn to face the other half of the arena, the tributes approaching from the other side. No one has screamed yet, no one has even reached the statue. If they know what I've done, they don't acknowledge it. They simply sprint headlong toward the pile of things that can save them.
Panicking, I grab a dagger from the sheath strapped to the metal horse's saddle and take off in the direction of my platform. Contrary to what must now be popular belief, I am not a killer. I run right past the girl I was so worried would be the death of me, see she is still struggling to breathe, and feel my legs fail. I skid to a stop, unable to move. I don't know why, there are so many thoughts in my head I feel as if it might explode. Dropping to my knees as the first sounds of battle reach me, I crawl back to her and kneel beside her violently shaking body. She stares up at me, her eyes fearful, and I feel as if she tries to move. Maybe not though, she's obviously so weak - her face, so tan only a minute ago, is now drained of all colour. She looks at me and I hear her breath gurgle as blood fills her lungs. Her shaking becomes more like minor convulsions and I know she's in pain. Tears spill from her eyes as she tries to focus them on me. My heart threatens to break clean in half for this girl I've never met and I close my eyes, raising my dagger up to her heart. I plunge it in and feel her take half a shuddering breath before she goes still. It's a mercy kill, I tell myself, she needed to die. Better a quick death over a slow, painful one. She didn't deserve that.
Rage courses through me as I think it; no, she didn't deserve to die like that. She didn't deserve to die at all, and I didn't deserve to kill her. None of us deserve to be here, none of us should be forced to murder a bunch of other kids, possibly even our friends. Without thinking I stand, my body shaking like the girl's, and face the statue. A boy is standing on the horse's hind quarters now, hanging onto the rider for balance as he swipes furiously with a sword at a girl below him as she swings at his feet with an axe. In this battle I know who's going to win, who's got the advantage, and I shoot the girl in the head before the boy can take it off with his sword. I back away slowly now, fearful that if I look away someone will get the jump on me. This is not who I am. I am not a killer. And yet, I don't want to die. Which instinct is stronger? Axum Winston pounds in my head.
Night has fallen outside the window of my building. I took shelter in one of the apartments closest to the square for a while, searched it top to bottom before my head cleared enough to realize there would be nothing of value here, that everything was on the back of that horse's carriage. I knew I couldn't stay so close to the action or else I'd risk being discovered, so I slipped out a back window and moved on up the street, head bowed against the vicious wind. After what felt like hours of walking I looked up to discover a building that bore an uncanny resemblance to his escort's apartment back in the Capitol. Granted many of them looked exactly the same, but in a moment of rare kindness Helanthium had attempted to converse with myself and my district partner back in the training center by showing us footage of her house. Her teenage daughters had hand-painted their front door, transforming it into a meadow full of pink and white flowers to match those in the planter box hanging from the kitchen window; it was the same image I found myself staring at not three hours ago.
If this is what the inside of Helanthium's home is really like, I imagine escorts are paid quite a lump sum. The lavish furniture is all covered in a brilliant red velvet, down to the throw pillows on the enormous bed. I've been laying in it since I arrived, imagining I can hear the sounds of the tributes still fighting in the distance, though the cannon fire signaling the end of the initial battle came hours ago. The setting sun didn't even register in my mind until lights flicked on in the bedroom, jolting me to my feet, gun held at the ready. But no one is here, they seem to be automatic. Interesting that the arena has power, I wonder if it extends further than the lights. There is no television in the house, but a microwave in the kitchen refuses to respond when I press the buttons, leading me to believe the lights are the only thing that will work. I bet it's so we can continue fighting into the night and the cameras will be able to capture it all. Looks like a good nights rest is out of the question - as far as I'm concerned there is no safety where there is no darkness.
I peer cautiously through my window and am startled to see that this apartment is the only one with its lights on. I can't stay here - it's a dead giveaway. They must be motion activated, and there's no way I will be able to be so statuesque that I go unnoticed. I move to the front door and listen for a moment, as if I could possibly hear anything over the gale out there. I make sure to close the door tightly behind me so I don't leave any outward sign that I've been there. Whoever's left, I'm sure someone will be out hunting tonight.
The light shuts off in the window of the copy-cat house 30 seconds after I close the door. Interesting. The street lights have come on, probably the same time the house lights did and I failed to notice them, but the cast large shadows all over the street. I feel a bit better walking in them, as if they might disguise me and my weirdly bright clothes from being noticed. I need to find a place to stay soon, somewhere without lights, but that seems impossible. I'm getting worried that the motion lights will be everywhere, that nowhere is safe. Then I reach what I guess is supposed to be a park full of fun mirrors and discover no lights, not even when I enter.
Honestly, this place is the creepiest thing I've ever seen. It's just a bunch of mirrors, the glass of each of them a different colour or design. I walk a pink one and see myself, only my skin has turned pink. Just my skin. I don't know what kind of weird trickery this is, but I don't like it. Another step forward, another mirror. This one is blue, and according to my reflection so is my hair. The next mirror I pass appears to have bubbles all over the surface, but once I'm standing in front of it I see it has enhanced parts of my body. My eyes are bigger, as are my arms, and my neck and shoulders look as if I've spent the last year of my life doing nothing but lift weights. This might be worse than taking my chances with the motion lights.
The mirrors are set up in a maze pattern, apparently stretching on quite a bit farther than I thought when I first entered the park. I stop looking at the mirrors as I make my way deeper into the labyrinth, too disturbed by what I see. One of them stripped me naked and I saw the burn marks covering the right side of my torso from a malfunctioning stunner gun back in Three. The memory of those painful months in the hospital is too much for me right now, on top of everything else I have to deal with.
Why did I ever assume this funhouse had another end? It's been a good 20 minutes since I entered and I'm still walking. Turn after turn, dead end after dead end, I'll be lost in here for hours, especially in the growing darkness. The sun has almost set, and though there is no light on the ground each mirror I look into reflects my image as if it's mid day. Why didn't I turn back right at the start? The deeper I get the weirder the reflections get. One disfigures my face horribly, moving the features around so one eye is on the side of my nose while the other becomes a tooth. The next shows me bloody and mangled, limbs dangling from my body as if chopped all the way down to only half an inch of skin connecting them to my torso.
The worst by far though is at what must be the center of the maze. It looks ordinary, the first ordinary mirror I've seen, and my stomach flips a bit. It seems to be on hinges, little tiny ones that surely couldn't support the weight of the mirror if I were to somehow figure out how to pull it toward me. I stare at it for a minute, wondering if this is the exit. It's completely dark now, the Panem anthem should start any minute with the list of dead tributes, which should give me enough light to see if there's anything beyond the mirror, a tree or dead light post or anything. I touch my fingers to the mirror when it starts, finally able to see my reflection illuminated as the sky is lit up above me. I look cautiously for some sign of my reflection being distorted but see nothing. As I stare, a shape moves behind me.
Fear pierces through my heart. I'm trapped at the end of a maze with seemingly no escape, if someone has tracked me down and followed me in I have no chance of avoiding a head-to-head battle. For the first time I realize I don't have my dagger anymore - I left it in the girl's chest. It's gone forever, lifted away with her body, no doubt back at the Capitol by now. All I have is this gun, which can't have too many more shots left in it. The shape is indistinguishable, and I am unable to turn around, terrified to give my presence away. There's still the slightest chance they haven't noticed me.
My eyes are glued to the shape, which grows more distinguishable as it nears me. The lights fade away in the sky; I missed the whole thing, but at least it's dark again. With no light, though, the reflection in the mirror has faded as well. I now have no idea where the other tribute is. Slowly, so I don't attract their attention, I turn around. No one is there. I think they must have turned down a different path, one I already tried. I relax only slightly - they're all dead ends, who ever it is will be back on the main path in a matter of seconds, and I still have nowhere to go. I hear a scream apparently right behind me and whip around to search for the source, completely forgetting the other tribute in the maze. The mirror, though, has gone; instead of my reflection, I see a girl running toward me, her face pale with terror. I jump back, preparing to run, but it's too late. The mirror swings forward and the girl spills out, crashing into me, sending us both to the ground.
Shocked, I don't even have time to raise my gun when she's up and running again, utterly senseless with panic. She's fading into the shadows when something jumps at her, the other tribute in the maze with me. The girl's scream cuts off as soon as her shadow collides with the newcomer's, I know she's dead. In the dim light from the stars in the moonless sky, I see the other figure throw her body aside before turning to me. I press myself into the corner of the now-open mirror with the hinges, too terrified to remember the gun in my trembling hand. The other tribute is running toward me, I see a flash of what must be a knife, when something throws the mirror-door open wider, crushing me into the wall, and tackles the other tribute.
His screams fill the air as warm rain starts to fall. I'm frozen in fear, watching an enormous cat thing rip at the boy in front of me. His screams get weaker and weaker, eventually dying completely, and I hear two cannons go off. The girl must just have died, then. I feel a surge of pity that the last things she heard in this world were the terrified screams of another dying kid. That pity turns straight into fear as the cat rounds on me. It growls, sounding like my old house cat back home when people accidentally pet him too hard on his bad leg. The sound does nothing to comfort me. I see the cat recoil slightly as it leans back on its haunches, and I know it's readying itself to pounce. One more kill under its metaphorical belt.
For the second time in 12 hours, I feel my body act of its own accord. My hand is raising itself, shaking horribly but still acting. I watch my thumb cock it, my pointer finger move to the trigger, pull. The rain is back as the gun goes off, spraying warmly over my skin. The cat falls to the ground, twitches once, and falls still. I almost expect another cannon to go off to signal its death. Unable to make my legs move, I slide to the ground, bring my knees up to my chest. Leaning there in the corner is the safest I've felt all day. All week, even. Anyone who comes around that distant corner now will see the bodies, assume I'm dead as well, and leave. Bodies mean safety. The thought disgusts me, but at this point I'll take what I can get. The hovercraft can't pick up the bodies with me here, so I know I'm safe to sleep, but despite my utter exhaustion sleep doesn't come for a long while. It's nearly dawn when I finally close my eyes.
Axum Winston, Axum Winston, Axum Winston riddles my dreams as it does my mind, but this time it's accompanied by the booming "one" from the countdown and the gurgling of an innocent girl's dying breath.
The sun is high in the sky when I wake up, and there are no bodies to be seen. My body is stiff from sleeping all curled up in the corner, and for a moment I wonder if this was all a bad dream. The mirrors are meant to mess with your psyche, I know that now, as if my mind sorted it all out while I slept. Maybe last night was all some giant nightmare.
I know this isn't true when I turn around. The ordinary mirror, the one that proved to do more harm than all the others combined, reflects my face, only it isn't too recognizable at the moment. Last night it rained, I felt it on my skin. It was warm and wet and at the time comforting, as if the whole world hadn't gone completely insane, as if some things were still normal, like the fact that it could rain. Now I see what really happened, and the calm I woke with is gone in an instant. There is no sign on the ground that last night was real, but all the proof I need is on my face. The rain wasn't rain, it was blood. First from the tribute that got mauled by the giant cat thing, then from the cat itself.
I stare at myself for a long time, the blood on it now turned dull as it dried. I don't want to think about what major arteries the cat ripped out to have sprayed the boy's blood that far, for that long. It's like it knew exactly where to go for to cause the most pain while keeping the boy alive. That was almost me, I think, shuddering. I'm done with this arena now. I was done with it the second my platform clicked into place, the second I stepped off the train in the Capitol, the second my name was called at the Reaping. But now I'm really done. I feel my heart harden, actually feel it happen. My insides, too, seem to get tighter. A new, unnatural calm washes over me. I'm not afraid anymore. I've seen true horrors now, things that you can't even begin to imagine unless you've seen it, heard it, smelled it firsthand. Watching the first four Games on the television could not have prepared me for this, for any of it. Because of the Games, I am now a murderer. It's something I will carry inside me for the rest of my life. I killed 11 people, 12 when I didn't kill the boy last night before he could kill the girl. Her death is on my hands, as well as the boy's. I didn't save him either, and that makes 13. I killed a cat, but somehow that doesn't weigh on me as much. Perhaps because if I hadn't, it would've killed me first, no questions asked. I will be a murderer for the rest of time, so what's a few more?
Walking back through the maze doesn't scare me now. I feel as if I know my way out, as if the path were right there all along. I thought about washing the blood off my face, but why bother. It's a symbol to every other tribute out there who sees me. I've tasted blood, I'm not afraid of doing it again. The mirror-door had closed itself when I woke this morning, so that wasn't an option anymore, but something told me the Game Makers would have replaced the massive cat I killed with new horrors. That path might have proven more dangerous than the mirror maze. I think about this as I walk, my feet carrying me down all the right paths. The Game Makers must hate me, I'm killing people far too fast. The Games will be over by tomorrow at this rate. At least 13 people dead in 24 hours, and how many more did I miss while I was asleep? I wish I had seen them in the sky last night, the list of dead tributes. Now I've got to wait a good six hours before I see the updated list.
I've almost reached the exit to the maze when I notice the mirrors. I've been ignoring them the whole way, uninterested with what they have to show me. By now I should be passing the coloured ones that change only my skin or hair or clothes, turning bits of me into a Capitol freak. The walls should be noticeably multi-coloured, as they were last night when I passed, but today there's nothing. They reflect me exactly as I am, bloody faced and sweaty clothed. Maybe it has something to do with the light, but I feel as if the mirrors are set to reflect your fears. Mildest to deepest, the maze slowly drives you mad until you're desperate to escape, desperate enough to take shelter at the only normal mirror in the place - the one that hides the beast cat, ready to end your psychological torture with that of a more physical nature. A sick half smile twists my face; the Game Makers are kind of brilliant for coming up with that one.
So, I accidentally followed the girl into the maze. The boy followed me - though this one I think was on purpose. The girl and I were looking for a hiding place, but the boy's readiness to kill seemed to be more of a hunter's attitude. I guess it doesn't matter now, since they're both dead, but it gives me something to think about as I exit the maze. I need to make my next move, to find another tribute and stalk them as the boy stalked me. The hunted becomes the hunter, again.
For the first time since the Games started I think about the people back home, the ones I love. I wonder how they feel, watching me from the comfort of their couches. They must have been repulsed when I killed all those people right off the bat. Shocked but pleased that one of their own cheated to get a head start, then repulsed by what I did. Last night though, is there any way to spin it so that I don't look weak? Weakness will get me nowhere if I make it home. The Capitol wants bravery, and while the people in District Three might commend me for not dying, certainly they won't approve of me sitting by and watching while two people were killed, when I could easily have stopped it.
No, I can't think of that now. I can't go soft again. I won't survive that way. My gun, my advantage, how much longer will it be of use to me? I have no more bullets than what are carried in the barrel. Whether there are more back at the city center, I have no idea, but I feel as if there wouldn't be. Too many bullets is too much of an advantage for those of us who know how to shoot. Though now I come to think of it, how many could there be? District Three only has guns because we're in charge of developing new hand-held weapons for Peacekeepers and enhancing the ones they already have. The Game Makers probably didn't expect me to be such a good shot, since nobody under 18 is supposed to work with the weapons. I threw a wrench in their Games, and probably gave the audience a good show. This cheers me up slightly, gives me new heart.
Sitting down right there on the edge of the windy Capitol-esque street, I empty the bullets into my hand. In a chamber designed to hold 30 when properly packed, there are 4 left. I used 12, so they gave me 16 total. Seems reasonable. They probably expected me to waste about ten of them, and assumed the other six would find their mark or at least do me some good if they didn't reach their intended target. I laugh inwardly, feeling victorious.
A cannon goes off in the distance and I jump to my feet automatically. I have no idea who was killed or where, and thanks to the bloody wind I have no idea where to listen. For five minutes I stand there straining my ears to hear the impossible. Giving up, I reload the gun quickly and head back toward the city center. I haven't eaten in over a day, nor drank anything, and it's definitely getting to me. I tried the tap in the apartment yesterday but of course it didn't work; the only drinkable water, I'm sure, is that which the Game Makers provided in the pile of goods on the statue.
It must be another hour before I see any sign of other people. A pool of blood sits in the middle of the street, seeping between the cobblestone like a river divided by rocks. It's fresh, or fresh enough; this is where the last tribute was killed. Roughly 14 tributes down, if I'm doing my math right... I have to be cautious from here on out. I stick to the walls of the buildings, dodging into doorways at the slightest sign of movement. Given the heavy wind still rushing up and down the street, changing direction from time to time, I'm jumping awkwardly to the side every couple of steps.
Finally I reach the square once more, only to find it deserted and all the supplies hauled off. My heart sinks; that was my only chance of food and water. I've been slowing down for some time now, my limbs getting heavy, my tongue like sandpaper on the inside of my mouth. Another canon goes off and I jump through the nearest doorway, into an apartment exactly like the first one I sheltered in yesterday. Just my luck, I find myself face to face with a pair of tributes.
Apparently startled by my sudden appearance, it takes them a second to gather themselves and jump off the couch. One - I think it's a girl, but the brown hair is so long and the generic clothes so unflattering it's hard to tell - pulls out a knife while the other - a boy, for sure he's a boy - pulls an axe off the table in front of them. They look at me, faces set in identical snarls, before a third enters the room from the kitchen. She stops short, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her, and her mouth falls open. It's my district partner, and I know right then I can't do anything to hurt her.
It's not that I don't want to, believe me I want to go home more than anything, but I know that harming her in any way would result in my exile. District Three has their pets, the beloved people whom they prize above all else, and Joule is one of them. She's seen as one of the brightest back home, someone with huge potential; if I kill her, I'm as good as dead to them. But from the look on her face, Joule doesn't want to kill me either. She seems to have allied herself with the guy and - well I still can't tell if it's a girl or not. But she's kept herself alive until now, and I'm torn between protecting myself and protecting her. Her buddies, however, seem not to notice the look she and I are sharing. The boy comes at me with his axe, swinging. I duck to the side but it skims my head, slicing into me just above the ear. I scream with pain as blood pours down the side of my face, into my ear. It's a horrible feeling. Joule looks horrified, but doesn't move to help.
"Stop," I scream at them, putting my hands up to show I don't want to hurt them - at least not yet. They don't listen, of course. The one with the long hair takes a stab at me with the knife, plunging it into my arm. Seemingly surprised that they met their mark, they pull back and I collapse to my knees, one hand still up while the other presses hard into the new stab wound. Blood is pouring out of two places now, and in my already weakened state I don't know what to do. There's no way I can fight, even with my gun. The recoil is to harsh for my wounded arm to get off more than one shot. But Joule steps up and throws them off me before I have to make any hard decisions.
"He's okay" she said loudly to the other two, "he's from my district." Behind her the two armed tributes stop without having to be told again. Apparently even outside of District Three Joule commands attention. Though I've never particularly liked her, I suddenly feel impressed by the tall, thin girl standing in front of me. A natural born leader.
"Thanks," I manage to get out before slumping to the side. Joule grabs me roughly by the uninjured arm and drags me though the door, throwing me toward the couch. If I wasn't so grateful, I'd be offended.
"What are you doing here?" Joule's tone is harsh, angry even.
Confused, I look up at her and try to focus on her face. My eyes are blurry, either from the blood loss or hunger or both, and she seems to soften a little. Joule sends the boy to get me food and water while she herself ties a bandage around my arm and head. Once I'm all patched up and have something in my stomach, she begins again. "How are you still alive, Axum?"
She tells me she and her allies watched me enter the mirror maze, hunting the boy who was hunting me. When they heard the cannons they assumed we'd battled it out and both died in the struggle. I explain about the girl but leave out the cougar, feeling it unnecessary to the overall story.
"So you're hunting them," I say. It's not a question, really, though Joule seems to feel the need to answer it.
"Better we hunt them than they hunt us." She shrugs. "There used to be five of us, but we lost the others late last night. The girl from Five blew up the apartment we trapped her in, the tributes from Six were closest to her. Didn't survive the blast."
"Blew it up," I exclaim, half as a question and half out of shock, "how'd she manage that? I haven't seen any explosives."
Joule rolls her eyes at me from the other side of the couch. "Like I know. She's from Five, Axum, she knows her way around wires and stuff."
Before I have time to fully process this the front door bursts in, blown clean off its hinges. Two boys stand there, apparently having just kicked down the door. One carries what looks like a cow prod, which he shoves directly into the face of Joule's ally, the boy, and presses a button. He falls to the ground instantly, twitching horribly, then lies still. Electricity, the boy was shocked so hard his heart must have stopped. My stomach lurches so hard I swear it's in my throat. The two newcomers step over the body as the cannon fires yet again, and at the same time a new girl comes in from the kitchen. She must have broken a window with the club she holds, I can see little cuts as if shards of glass had sliced her face up a bit.
"Looks like you're the only ones left," she snarls cruelly toward Joule and I, sitting in the corner. Gunfire rips through the air and I jump, only to see Joule holding my gun in her hand, looking shocked at her own nerve. I know for a fact Joule has never even seen a gun in person before, not to mention held one. The weapons division of Three is tiny, with maybe fifty people working in it, and definitely not the brilliant ones like Joule. I grab it from her and we both jump from the couch as the two new guys lunge for us. I manage to dodge my attacker and hit him (accidentally) in the nose with the butt of my gun. He doubles over in pain and I see blood spilling onto the floor. Taking advantage of the moment, I hit the back of his neck as hard as I can and he falls to the ground. I don't know where I learned that from, but I know I snapped his neck when I hear the cannon boom once more. Then it goes off again and I startle, worried I've left Joules unattended for too long. Why am I protecting this girl?
But Joules is alright, or at least she's alive. She's fighting hand to hand with the other boy, though it's obvious neither of them have any idea what they're doing. Their scrappy fight ends when the boy realizes it's one against two now - because that second cannon must have been for the other ally, with the long hair. He grabs Joules' hair and yanks her close to him, shielding his body from me. Joules screams with pain, but he only holds onto her tighter.
"Have to kill blondie here if you want me dead," he half shouts, though the room is silent. His eyes are mad, and I realize with a start that I must have had the same desperate look in my eyes when I barged into this place 45 minutes ago. "Come on," the guy yells when I don't respond, "don't you want to go home? Do it, weakling, kill her!"
My arm hurts from my struggle with the other boy, now laying dead at my feet. I'm only three or four meters away from Joules, who's struggling in her captor's arms. Caught at a crossroads, I have absolutely no idea what to do. Killing the boy would mean killing Joules, which would surely mean exile back home. Her life is far more valuable than mine, that's been clear from the time we started school, when they all learned how much smarter she was than the rest of us. But I don't want to die. This girl means nothing to me, less than nothing. She made fun of me in grade school, why should I bother protecting her now? But I know the answer to my weak question before I even ask it. Killing Joules is killing any chance of a normal life I will ever have back home. They will hate me.
I know what I have to do, but against my will I take one last look at my district partner and see the tears in her eyes. They aren't from sadness though, they're from anger. We've spoken maybe five times in our lives, and yet right now I know exactly what she's so furious about. That I would give up to this kid on the off chance that he won't cut her throat and come for me, that I would waste both their lives when we both know I could win this thing, right here, right now. We've both done the math. This is it. One day after the Games started, here they are, about to end. The three of us are the final tributes in this horrible, life-ruining game. We all want desperately to make it out alive, but all three of us know what's going to happen. Joules is still staring daggers at me for my hesitation when I pull the trigger.
The cannon goes of twice, roughly two minutes later. I shot Joules in the neck, knowing that at point-blank range the bullet would travel all the way through to her captor. She died instantly, but I let him bleed out. I've never been a vindictive person, never wished any real harm on anyone, but I can't help myself. I emptied the remaining bullets of my gun into his body, one in each leg, to make sure he suffered. I know Joules would frown at this needless action. I don't know how I know it, but I know. Not that it matters. It wasn't for her, really. It was because of her. Because he made me pretend choose, my life or hers, when there really was never an option. I watch the blood drain from his body, pooling around him. He went unconscious as soon as I shot his legs, so I don't really feel bad about the pain part. Actually right now I don't feel anything. I guess I've gone numb.
Walking through the destroyed front door, I barely notice that the wind has stopped. I lift my head to the sky and feel the sun on my face, waiting for the camera to get a good look at the new Victor. Then the announcer's voice booms out as loud as the countdown yesterday, yelling my name for all the bodies and myself to hear. Axum Winston, Axum Winston whispers the ever-present voice in my head. Then the "one" from the countdown. Then the gurgle of the dying girl. They're all there, in my head, and I know deep down in my soul that just like the ringing sound of my name at the Reaping they too will never, ever go away. Nothing will be the same.