Phana Grotrekk, 12, District 12 11th Female
Emlee's screams ring in my ears as her dainty little face fades from the sky. Is it wrong that I want to laugh?
She was a naive little girl. I only volunteered to be in the all young girls alliance because they looked like easy targets. I was running away with my hunting knife and pack, having deftly avoided the Careers, and she ran after me, a big gut in her leg from the blade of some stupid misfit that was probably already dead. How could I refuse her? It was hard not to kill her yesterday. I wanted to so terribly, but she wanted to stay up all night since she was scared. If the Careers hadn't found us, I would be carving out her eyes and dicing off her fingers at the moment. Now I have to find another target.
The need for sleep weakly tugs at me as I prowl through the woods, searching for my first victim. They say I'm a crazy, insane, creepy little gremlin back home. The doctor told me I was "special" when we did our obligatory checkups after we disembarked from the train. He probably bought the innocent, weak act I've been playing like everyone else. No one pays attention to a grimy orphan, skulking in the ditches on the sides of the roads. They see her grab rats the scurry out of the gutters, thinking she'll fill her concave belly with them. Instead, she pulls them apart with her hands as they cry out. They see her tussling with some younger kids in a back alley and assume she's rough housing with a couple of siblings or friends. Instead, she punches them and laughs as they cry and bleed. She's even killed twice. So yes, that she is me. I am "crazy." I like to think that I just indulge in a little bit of fun. After all, I do deserve it. I am a penniless orphan, age 12, who's now in the Hunger Games. I am allowed to enjoy myself.
By the time the sun is glimmering over the horizon, shedding its rays upon the waking forest, sleep makes me stagger to my knees. I haven't found anyone yet. I stab my dagger, thick and sturdy, into the tree I lean on over and over. Sap gushes forth, and my rumbling stomach makes me lap at the sticky substance. Killing is fun, and hunger and sleep aren't that big of deterrents. I've lasted weeks without more than moldy crumbs and rat guts. The sap just looks so delicious, and the forest floor so soft and inviting...no. No. I will not fall victim to some stupid urge like sleep like a stupid 12 year old usually would.
I force myself to scale the tree I've stabbed. It's a maple, I think. My hands brush across some leaves as I haul my frail body into the upper reaches of the tree. I push back the top layer of foliage, and my heads peeks out of the canopy.
Around me is an endless sea of trees. The forest floor is invisible except for where trees don't exist, like in clearings or bodies of water. I spot a thin crack in the trees where a river or ravine is surely located. While hunger and sleep won't stop me from my goals, thirst will. My canteen from my pack is three fourths drained. I need more water, as what's left will be gone soon. I push through the clouds of feelings and instincts weighing me down as I drop from the tree and stumble towards the river. There might be other tributes there, too, so maybe I can land a kill.
After twenty minutes of hiking, the trickle of a small stream fills my ears. I crouch behind the fronds of a thick bush and peek through the leaves.
The stream scissors through the ground, a thin, clear line of running water that I could easily step over. Soft mud and clay make up the squishy banks of the tiny stream. My eyes search for clues about any recent visitors to this area, and my throat feels like sandpaper.
As my will finally breaks and I lunge out onto the bank, I spot the two unlaced boots sitting in the mud about thirty feet away. My tongue laps up a few gulps of water, and then I dash back into the cover of the bushes. Did I really just drink water without purifying it?! Sure, I don't have iodine, but still. I will not be taken down by stupid dysentery for God's sake!
Moments after I scurry back into the bushes, the owner of the boots steps out into the open. He snatches them up, and laces them over his bare, dirty feet. He has a few small cuts on his face, and he has a wooden spear he's fashioned some way or another. I recognize him as Damon from District 8. He isn't very experienced, but he is bigger and stronger than me. I see the bottle of iodine peeking out of his pocket, and I lunge forward.
My dagger slams into his knee, and Damon screams. He staggers and kicks me in the face with his other leg. My nose crunches and blood gushes forth. I gurgle out a cry of pain as I fall on my back. My nose is broken, my face is bloody, and Damon looms over me, one hand clutching his dripping knee, the other wrapped tight around the rough shaft of his wooden spear.
The tip is rather blunt, and my screams are broken and distorted as he shoves it again and again into my stomach. The skin rarely breaks, but I can barely breathe. One lucky hit punctures my abdomen, and he widens the hole in my stomach as he weeps pitifully. I thrash and scream, and I hurl my dagger at him. It flies over his shoulder, and he quickly snatches it from the malleable clay at our feet. He looks relieved as he finishes the job quickly, slitting my throat without a sound.
I can't say anything, as my windpipe is collapsing, but in my head I sputter out all sorts of obscenities. The world blurs and darkens, and fragments of my pitiful life shimmer on the edges of my dissipating mind. A far off boom sounds as a black box encloses my shattered form.
Etienne Walker, 18, District 12 11th Male
BOOM!
As the first cannon of the day booms, the three of us are trekking up an uneven ridge. Trees are scant in these hillier outer reaches of the arena, so the things that we use to ascend include divots in the rock and roots or grasses. I lead the ascent, moving quickly. My cousin and friend Coalette is scaling the ground about two feet behind me, and the rope connecting us is not pulled tight or anything. And then there is Faris, our friend from 8, who has a wound from a Career's arrow in his shoulder. He's lagging behind in the climb, and the rope between Coalette and him is taut. He is barely keeping pace, but Coalette is too nice to leave him behind, and we are on the far edge of the arena anyway. Soon enough we are going to hit the force field, so maybe it is his strategy to let us go first and get fried to death. The arrow wound isn't that bad. I just dismiss those thoughts. No point in boiling water in a pot that can't be used.
Speaking of water, we'd gotten lucky enough to snatch a single bottle, along with two throwing knives, some jerky, and a scythe from the bloodbath. Coalette and I each carry a knife and a pack of jerky, and Faris lugs the water bottle and the scythe.
We aren't stupid, but for some reason we've all agreed to out to the farthest reaches of the arena. With lots of other tributes, there's bound to be lots more action than normal. That cannon that fired very recently marks the 22nd death, so there's 26 left in total, 23 minus us. 23 tributes is about the equivalent of a normal Hunger Games. So we don't have anything to worry about.
Or so I thought.
Fire is not an original idea, but fire is an effective idea. They use it almost every Games in some form or another to herd tributes together or away from the force field. I guess we are getting too close to the border of this spacious arena, because fire springs to life about a quarter mile away. As we slide down the rocky slope of yet another forested ridge, we see the smoke spiral into the air, the flames leaping out of nowhere. I hear two screams, far off and distant. So the fire is not for us. It's for whoever is trapped down in the valley below, for whoever is too close to the very fringe of the arena.
We hightail it away from the roaring and leaping flames. After about three or four minutes of scuttling back the way we came, a cannon shatters the quiet silence of the woods. Birds plume out of trees, scared, and Coalette jumps beside me.
BOOM!
We keep moving, jogging now away from the fire as the breeze blows the sickly sweet smoke in our direction. Twenty minutes pass and another cannon does not sound. We stop. It's probably around one or two by now, as the sun is shining bright overhead. We eat some jerky and drink the last of our carefully rationed water. Then we sit as the smoke billows from the north and silence consumes all of us.
The fire must have kept Mallory Undersee from my District moving, because she stumbles into the clearing where we've settled. I know it's the Gamemaker's doing. They need a show from us. Mallory keeps whimpering about "Matisa, Matisa, Matisa..." as she staggers around the edge of the clearing. She's delirious and tired and weak, covered in ash and soot, her skin raw and bubbling in places from the fire. Her cloudy eyes finally lock on us, and she whimpers and turns on her heel, jogging off desperately, yelping and moaning as she skitters away. Branches snap and leaves crunch in her wake.
I pick up the scythe and head after her. Coalette stares at me, mouth open, appalled, while Faris picks up one of the knives and follows me.
"But...but...Etienne!" Coalette yells.
"For the show, Coalie. For the show," I murmur into her ear before dashing off in chase of poor Mallory. The poor, poor thing. Her family's a pretty rich one. They have a history of having Mayors of 12 in the family. I won't be earning any brownie points with the higher ups back home by doing this. But the only brownie points that matter currently are those with the Gamemakers. If we satisfy them, they will leave us alone for a bit. We'll be able to hide, recuperate. It's all about keeping the Gamemakers happy. It's all about pleasing them, and if butchering a burned, broken girl is the way to do that, then so be it.
Mallory is definitely disoriented. Her mind must be shattered, since she's already stopped moving. She's strolling through the forest like nothing's wrong. She fiddles with a pine needle, sniffing it before tossing it behind her. She acts like she's on a school field trip to the Meadow, not trying to survive against the odds in the Hunger Games. My heart beats wildly, and pity makes me stop in my tracks.
Faris gingerly takes the scythe from my hands. I look at him strangely.
"I can do it," Faris murmurs. "I'll do it."
He's made me look weak. Crap. It's too late to undo that, however, and Faris is five feet behind the girl now. He lunges forward, swinging the scythe towards her. He's inexperienced with the weapon, but he manages to slam the blade between her shoulders clumsily. Mallory mewls, and he draws the scythe from her back, gaping in horror. Blood spills out as she falls to the ground, and Mallory dies in the course of ten seconds, bleeding out swiftly.
BOOM!
Faris gives me a look, and then he tosses the bloody scythe at my feet before dashing off in the direction of camp, where Coalette is waiting for us to return. I hesitantly snatch up the scythe, cleaning the blade on the forest floor. Then I sling it over my shoulder and sprint after him, hoping to catch up to him.
By the time I reach the clearing, I'm at Faris' side. There's nothing there. No Coalette, no jerky, no empty water bottle, no throwing knife. There are a few footprints, however, and a hastily scrawled note, dug in the dirt with a stick.
Bye. Don't look for me. I can take care of myself. Sorry for taking stuff. - Coalie
I'm speechless, but Faris speaks enough words for the both of us.
"The stupid bitch," he growls.
Even though she is my beloved cousin, I hesitantly agree with his statement. Coalette Simon has probably just dug the three of our graves, leaving us with only a scythe and a throwing knife, and leaving her alone, without help and protection.
Is it wrong that I don't know how to feel about that?
Verney Dorsin, 16, District 12 9th Male
Jett gathers kindling as we stroll along the deer path we discovered last night. It's an animal path of some sort, but Jett likes calling it a deer path. Anyway, it leaves a clear, debris-less trail to walk on. We don't make any noise, and there's water and berries on the route. It's a great discovery, one that's probably saved our lives at this point. Jett ran in and got a clear plastic tarp along with a hunting knife. I got an empty water bottle and a heavy iron baton. The hunting knife is flimsy and won't be of much use in a real fight, and the baton is so heavy it's nearly unwieldy. We can carry berries in the tarp and keep water in the bottle, at least. We got lucky enough to get something, at least. 18 tributes didn't get anything, and they died, too.
I'm happy Jett is the one from my alliance that I met up with. I was alone on the first night. Jett had been with Kinno at the bloodbath since their pedestals had been next to each other, but then Kinno got in a tussle with another boy and Jett left him for dead, although he's still alive if the three cannons earlier today weren't his. Jett found me early in the morning of yesterday, and we've been together ever since. With Jett's edible plant skills and my strength, we've fared pretty well so far. Neither of us have seen a tribute besides ourselves since the bloodbath.
Dust roils a bit around our feet as crusty, dried mud cracks beneath our boots. I smooth out the rough, broken patch, covering up the boots' prints. We keep walking. The path is in a lopsided oval, and it's about two miles around. It's worn underneath our constantly pacing feet, but berries line the trail, and there's two clear ponds near the deer path. It's a nice, safe place to stay.
Jett whittles a twig into a sharpened point before snapping it in half and tossing it into the undergrowth. I roll a smooth pebble between my fingers, trying to keep calm, centered, focused. We're safe. It's just me and my friend Jett on an evening stroll through the woods. He's gathering some wood for a small fire, and I'm supposed to be picking some berries for us to eat. I resume that task. Nothing's troubling us. Nothing is wrong. There is no one around besides us.
Coalette Simon trips into our vision, and we both pale and duck into the bushes.
She scored a 7, just like me. Jett scored just below us, with a 6. She has a throwing knife clenched tight in her fist, and I can see Jett practically salivating over the weapon next to me. It's his favored weapon, and he's actually pretty decent with one. But Jett is 15, me 16. While I'm strong, Coalette is just as strong, maybe a little stronger. She's way taller than us, and she's probably smarter or something. Jett starts creeping forwards towards her, but I grab the back of his shirt and force him into a sitting position. He glares at me, but I ignore him.
Coalette pokes around some nearby berry bushes, eyes frantic, brow creased in worry. She flings some safe berries into her mouth, and then she takes a few not very safe berries. Slow acting poisonous ones. Jett murmurs their name as the dark red juices drip down her chin.
"Maroons," Jett growls. "Or ruber bacas venenum scientifically. Nasty little things. She'll be dead in four days if another tribute doesn't drop her by then."
"Should we do her the favor of killing her now?" I mutter.
"No. Let her be. Her cousin's still out there. They can have a heartfelt reunion, and then she'll die mysteriously. The audience will eat it up, and it will distract attention away from us. So yeah. Let her be."
"Smart," I whisper as Coalette eats a few more maroons, or ruber bacas venenum, before jogging off. We crouch in the bushes for another five minutes to make sure she's gone. Then we step back out onto our trail, and our routine resumes. I pluck good berries, like blackberries for example, off of the bushes, popping some in my mouth, putting most in the plasticy tarp. Jett amasses a pile of kindling in his arms, picking up small twigs or bunches of leaves and adding them to his stash. We circle the two mile loop until night falls.
We settle in the middle of the loop, underneath a few willows, where the ground is muddy and soft with tall, cushy grasses. Night stars, as fake as Pontius Dovetail's shellacked wigs, shine overhead as Jett lights a small fire. The willows keep the smoke and fire hidden from sight, and we get warm and can cook animals if we find any. This system is working so well. It's sad that Jett and I can't be friends after the Games. Maybe we can be friends after the Prelims and Semis, but if we even make it to the Finals, I won't be sticking with him. That sucks, but it is the Games. I sincerely doubt both of us will be making it out of this Prelim, not to mention the Semis or Finals. It just isn't probable. The odds are not in our favor.
The faces of the dead parade across the sky soon enough. We creep out of our willow sheltered sleeping place to watch the faces of the three dead play across the sky. All three are girls, and two of them are from 12. I don't feel much when I see their faces. The Games are already changing me.
Matisa Fulton, District 8 4th Female
Phana Grotrekk, District 12 11th Female
Mallory Undersee, District 12 12th Female
The faces fade from the sky. The anthem, haunting and loud, slicing through the tranquility of our willow grove, rings through the air for a minute before everything falls still and silent once again. Jett and I sigh together, and we go back to our grove, falling asleep side by side.
A/N: I hope this was a satisfactory chapter! Deaths will start coming in less and less, so don't worry about this being over in a few more days. While the Capitol does have 9 Games to get through, they won't rush through and make every Game last five days. I can't say how long each Games will be, but my best guess is 10-16 days. This story really is going to be inevitably LONG. Oh well. It is enjoyable to write. Thanks for all of the supportive reviews, it is nice to see that so many people are enjoying this story! :)
Did you guys like our new POVs/better explored characters, Phana, Damon, Faris, Etienne, Coalette, Mallory, Verney, and Jett?
Was Phana's death too gruesome? (I'm sorry that some of these deaths are really gory, but it is the Hunger Games.)
Kill list:
Crosshatch (4): Lilly, Jasmine, Jack, and Rhys
Flannelette (3): Beautify, Corduroy, and Fleece
Corabelle (3): Archie, Henry, and Emlee
Nylon (2): Odessa and Linen
Orrin (2): Kenneth and Penny
Brigitta (2): Cole and Hubert
Lycra (1): Chenille
Athiya (1): Patternia
Tunis (1): Dawson
Kinno (1): Lou
Silky (1): Abilene
Damon (1): Phana
Faris (1): Mallory
Gamemaker Fires (1): Matisa
Thanks for reading, and review if you can! :D
Until Next Time,
Tracee
