Chapter 10 - ONE MORE DAY
Rose woke up with a jolt. Her sleep had been an exhausting succession of strange dreams. She felt feverish, as if she'd be coming down with a fever. Her chest hurt. Her head throbbed. An iron wreath around her rips made it hard to breathe. Anxiously she tore at the restricting band and found nothing but the climbing rope, wrapped in orderly loops across her shoulders and chest, just like her father had taught her so many years ago. The grabbling hook tore into her side - she must have been too tired to hook it safely unto her belt last night. It had taken time to get Lucas up the tree, a short bout of hysteria and vertigo on his part included. When Rose had finally settled them in the higher branches, darkness had already fallen. The last ting she remembered was the hymn of Panem and the faces of the dead tributes on the night sky. Cecilia was dead, so was Blight and the nameless female from district 9. But Haymitch was alive.
She rubbed her burning eyes. Today she had to find a way to wash the white dust off her face and arms - which meant finding water, drinkable water to refill the bottles and some way to wash. The briny water of the artificial laguna in "District 4" should suffice for that.
But first she had to get them off this tree.
She turned to wake Lucas - and stared in disbelieve. The sturdy branch was empty, the tribute from 6 was gone. And so was her rucksack, water-bottles, protein bars and ...
"He's a Morphling, and I had a syringe," she sighed. "Stupid, stupid, stupid."
/
"District 3" was, as expected by Haymitch, a warren of labs, random machinery and dangerous traps. No snakes for District 3, oh no. No venomous bees or flesh-eating bugs or crazy-eyed bulls. It was all about electricity and force fields and laser beams. In the end it didn`t make a difference. Take a wrong step - and you'd die.
It was no surprise either when a faint warning "ping" sounded. Haymitch froze where he stood and raised his arms. He was no gambling man, and if he'd intended to fight Beetee, he'd do so on home-ground, not in this mad-scientist-playground.
"Abernathy." Beetee stepped out from his hiding-place between a defunct robot and a huge rusty cog-wheel.
Haymitch forced a smile. His arms cramped painfully, a side effect of the forced alcohol withdrawal. He felt anger rise and took a deep breath. At this stage he could not trust his emotions anymore, he knew that. Still ...
Beetee's clever eyes twinkled behind strong lenses. Haymitch had seen him without glasses before and suspected he opted for the seeing aid because it could be used as a weapon or tool, if needs be. You could start fire with a lens, couldn't you? Even cut somebody's throat when things got desperate. The engineer covered his mouth with his hand.
"Wha... wan... in m... distr...ß"
Confused, Haymitch lowered his arms. He did not understand a word the other man said. "What?"
Beetee repeated the sentence, but when it became obvious Haymitch did not understand, he beckoned him closer with a frustrated sigh.
In the shadow of the cog wheel, he hunkered down. Casually he let Haymitch see the large glass tube he held. "This is battery acid. Very unpleasant on the eyes."
Haymitch believed him. "I am not here to fight."
"Keep your head down, man!" Beetee hissed and drew Haymitch into a lowered position. "I got rid of the audio surveillance, but I can't disable all the cameras. If they see your face, they can listen in by lip-reading program."
"Okay." Haymitch crouched down next to him. "Understood."
The engineer's eyes bore into his. "What's your song?"
This was the codeword for the resistance, and Haymitch smiled in relieve.
"The mockingjay's."
A satisfied grunt. "Thought so. Still, it's all futile. We are trapped in this damned arena and whether we want it or not, 23 of us will stay here."
"Not necessaryly." Haymitch rubbed his still aching arms. "What if there were a way out? Not just out of the arena, but out of Panem?"
"Ah." A sigh. "District 1?. May I remind you of the force field that closes off the arena. You of all people should be aware of that. Not to speak of the Peacekeepers, and the several hundred miles of wilderness between us and 13. Got a hovercraft in your backpack?"
"Plutarch will arrange for that. We just have to get out of the arena and make it to the airfield."
Beetee rolled his eyes comically. "Just, he says." He pointed at the artificial sky . "See that? It's a Newberry force-field. The most evolved model Panem has ever used. Virtually indestructible. You'd need a lighting stroke to crack that pretty baby. A lightning stroke from beneath, mind you."
He was of course right. At their last meeting Plutarch had explained how they'd re-enforced the cupola over the arena. Then they'd discussed whether the resistance could use the technology to secure it's strongholds in a - then theoretical - uprising, and found it too difficult and costly.
"If we can't go over it, we'll go under it," he quoted an old song from before the first uprising. And watched Beetee's face when the engineer's whiz brain calculated possible other escape routes.
"The launching tubes and the connecting tunnels to the prep-rooms are sealed as soon as the starter canon sounds."
"That's right."
"I don't get it." Beetee's scratched his head.
"Can you build something like a compass? A device that helps to determine where exactly we are?"
Beetee pursed his lips. "I'd need a magnetic needle." He waved his hand at the jumble of machinery parts all around them. "Maybe."
"Then start now. When you are done, come to District 4, to the fishing village by the laguna."
"No." Beetee shook his head. "Too dangerous." He took of his spectacles and cleaned the lenses with the seam of his shirt. "I am a scientist, not a hunter. There's ... beasties ... out there. I'd rather not get stung or eaten."
Haymitch rose but kept his mouth shaded. "I'll send Chaff to get you. He's handy with the beasties." Which meant he had to return to 4 and loose valuable time. But it had to be done. They needed Beetee, and Chaff would make sure the engineer came to no harm.
"And you?"
"I have to find somebody before we leave."
"The lady prisoner from 12." Beetee's lips twitched. "Misplaced her, have you?"
Haymitch shrugged wearily. An arena covered more than 1000 square kilometres, at least the one where they'd played the 2nd Quarter Quell had been that big. Varied terrain, mountains and cliffs and swamps and forests and lakes. Misplaced? Talk about a needle in a haystack...
"Whatever it takes, I won't leave without her", he told Beetee.
"She was alive and well, last I saw her." The engineer pointed to their right. "That copse over there, up on the hill? She went there last evening, with that Morphling-junkie Lucas. Had a red rucksack on her and some kind of rope."
So close!
Haymitch's mood lightened. How far could she have moved in half a day?
He'd find her.
For the first time since the launch into the arena he felt hope.
/
Rose cowered behind a pile of timber and watched Freya kill Blight Hauptmann, the male tribute from District 7. It all happened very fast. The woman eviscerated him with a stiletto she'd hidden in her boot, and Blight was dead before he hit the ground. The two had met on the small round square that posed as District 7, and had exchanged a few friendly words, and Blight never got to finish his part of the flirty conversation. stupid, stupid man.
Freya cleaned her blade on Blight's sleeve and stepped back to watch the hovercraft remove the body. Rose listen to the canon BANG? and added Blight to the dozen casualties they had shown on the night sky the evening before. Cashmere, Lill from 3 and Joster from 9, and nine others, whose names she could not remember. Three canon shots so far today - Blight and two more - maybe Gloss? Brutus? Enobaria? Not Haymitch. Please not Haymitch.
Freya's eyes followed the dead body until the hovercraft disappeared in the foggy sky. Rose was about to use the other woman's preoccupation to move further back between the stacked timber, when two men stepped out of the dense forest which bordered the saw-buildings posing as District 8. Freya's hand flew to her knife.
Rose recognized Brutus, and Edwatt, the mild-mannered prisoner-tribute from 5, who'd offered to ally with her. The one Finnick had called a serial killer. Freya greeted them amiably, so obviously they were a pack now – quite unusual, as careers like Brutus had openly despised the prison-tributes in the training centre. When Enobaria joined the group, Rose understood. Keep your friends close, keep your enemies closer. Both couples probably just waited for a chance to off the other, in the meantime using their combined talents to get rid of the weaker tributes.
With growing unease Rose backed into the underbrush. She'd felt nausea since the middle of the night, and sometimes saw black spots when she moved too fast. Could she outrun these four? She wasn't so sure.
A twig cracked under her foot.
Brutus's head jerked up, his cold eyes surveying the lumber-yard. He laid a hand on Enobaria's arm and she followed his gaze. Rose's heart started to hammer in her ears.
She ran, with every step more aware how slow she'd become, how clumsy. The meagre headstart diminished fast. At one time she could hear Freya's hard breathing so close, the other women must be only meters behind. On Brutus' signal the hunters fanned out like a pack of wolves, intent on driving her out of the relative safety of the trees into open space.
Rose jumped over a log, stumbled, fell, and rolled. Down a slope, a ravine, over roots and rocks and brittle pine needles. She landed with a "thump", sprawling on her back, helpless like a turned-over beetle. Her head felt like it would explode any minute.
The silver blue sky blazed over her, the artificial sun singeing the grass. Rose stared up. 'What a stupid way to die', she thought, feeling strangely disembodied.
A lead-grey cloud covered the sun but did not diminish the heat.
She lost consciousness.
/
Katniss stared at the teller at the central bank.
"What do you mean we can't access our money for the duration of the Games?"
The woman's flawless skin blushed prettily, which made the tattooed ivy-leaves at her brow stand out in contrast. She forced her eyes away from Peeta, who was oblivious of her obvious attraction.
"I am sooo sorry! Really, Riddleback Credit has served Victors from all Districts for more than six decades. But you must understand. This is a decree from the President himself." She set both arms on the counter and leaned forward to afford Peeta a view of her generous breasts. "As soon as the Games are over, we... I… will be ready to serve you in any way possible."
She ignored Katniss' sneer and blinked her long lashes at Peeta.
Katniss kicked his shin under the counter.
"Stop making calf's eyes! Say something!" she whispered urgently. "They can't do this, can they?"
What use was being wealthy if you could not get at your money? They had almost 12 months of Victor's stipend in their accounts since they had not spent much on things more expensive than shoes or medicine. There was not much to buy in District 12 at the best of times, and hardly anything since the new Peacekeeper contingent had burned down the Hob.
Peeta gave the teller his best smile, the one that had won Panem over for the star crossed lovers. "I am sure ... ah" he checked her name tag. "Gaia. The President had a good reason?"
"The very best!" Gaia's voice dropped to a scandalised whisper. "Rumour has it that some celebrities and senators have been blackmailed with all kinds of sordid secrets! The money goes straight to those rebels who have made life so unpleasant these days. Why, there is hardly any shellfish in the supermarket now!"
"So if they block our accounts, we can't pay off any blackmailers? That's brilliant! President Snow really cares," said Peeta.
Katniss had to give it to him, he sounded utterly serious.
Gaia beamed at him. "That's exactly what I always say!"
A firm hand on Katniss' elbow, Peeta stirred her out of the bank. Outside the two Peacekeepers who accompanied them every step they took outside the training centre, took their position, three steps behind them. They boarded the transpo, a gliding surface that moved evenly and at a steady pace. Katniss hated it with a vengeance. It made her nauseous, and one could get off only at assigned stations. But in a city like Panem with its multitude of buildings and streets and places, they'd be helplessly lost on their own. Since the transpo was forbidden for Avoxes or normal workers, there must be other means of traffic. Cars maybe, or underground trains.
"Where are we going?" She punched Peeta's ribs when he did not answer. "Hey! Wake up!"
He flinched. "Sorry. I just remembered something Haymitch told me. About hard decisions."
Katniss' eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Oh no. No way."
"What if this is the only way?" He avoided her gaze. "Snow is a step ahead, as usually. If we want to help Haymitch - and we agreed he needs help, didn't we? - then we have to find a sponsor."
"We can ask the District!"
"Yeah? From people who see their children starve? Who can't afford medicine, even if they cough blood? Even if they could RAISE the money, don't you think Commander Thread would have a say in that?"
"But you can't do that!" she sputtered.
"For the life of a friend?"
Katniss closed her eyes, suddenly so tired of it all. She'd been fine when it had been only Prim, their mother and Gale. Now she had to worry about Peeta. And Haymitch. Cinna. Darius. Even Effie, of all people. There was no end.
"We go to the viewing centre," suggested Peeta and put an arm around her shoulder. She was sp exhausted, she didn't push it away. "We talk to the Gamemakers, see what the rules say about this. Maybe there is a workaround."
/
Hamitch detested murder. Not the killing itself, it sometimes was necessary. Not even killing a weaker opponent - there were situations when "weaker" and "stronger" did not fit. Give him a cold swift death, the sharp edge of a blade, the lethal tip of an arrow any time.
But not like this.
Not like the demeaning torture Gloss was inflicting on the Morphling tribute. He obviously kept him alive for some time, playing with him like a cat would play with its prey. Giving him the chance to run, only to catch him, again and again. And punish him for running.
By the time Haymitch reached the marble quarry that served as Gloss' playground, Lucas was on the ground and would never get up. Gloss had severed his victim's hamstrings, had broken his arms and gouged out one eye. His spear and short sword lay on a rock nearby. No need for weapons now. A boot, a stone, a fist would do.
Haymitch felt bitter bile rise. The stench of blood and fear was nauseating. This was madness. Another victor stumbling into the black chasm, where life was worth nothing.
Before he could say a word, Gloss stepped down on Lucas' neck. A wet crunch, and the emaciated broken body flinched a last time and then lay still.
A cannon boomed.
Gloss grinned and bowed to an invisible audience. Haymitch wondered what the Gamemakers would do if the Quarter Quell ended with Gloss the victor. Would they send him back to his District and let the people there deal with another killer gone over the edge? Or finish him off before the last round, like the tribute from District 6 who'd ripped out his opponent's heart and devoured it in the Games of '32?
When Haymitch slowly clapped applause, the golden boy from District 1 flinched in surprise. Then he pointed at the dead tribute.
"Useless Morphling. Not much of a challenge." His voice rose to a comical whine. "I need a hit, please, pleas take everything. But let me keep my shot!"
He held the syringe up with two fingers, his face contorted in disgust. Then he carelessly dropped it into the red rucksack.
Haymitch couldn't care less. He was not here to gloat over this poor guy who'd been broken by the Games just like any other victor.
"He shot up. I drink," he shrugged. "You kill. So what's new."
The other man bared his teeth. "He was not worth the second chance he got by winning."
A chill went through Haymitch and he wasn't sure if it was caused by the withdrawal or the awareness they'd all blown their second chance. But maybe fate sometimes dealt third chances. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice hoarse with anger.
Gloss took a step back, reaching for the spear. "She?"
"Rose."
"How should I know?" Gloss shrugged with feigned carelessness. "Haven't seen her in a good while." A flick of his wrist and he held the spear high, ready to throw. "She killed Glimmer, so if I ever meet her, she's dead, believe me."
"You lie." Haymitch weighed the knife in his palm. There was the rucksack – red and blue, just as Beetee had described it. Rose would not have left her provisions and waterbottles behind without good reason. He'd drilled the importance of these items into her all training week. So had Gloss attacked her, and she'd had to save her bare life over the rucksack?
"Why would I lie?" sneered Gloss, his eyes ablaze with hate. "She hid on the mine tower, and Glimmer waited for her."
"To ambush her."
"Of course to ambush her, damn it! We are not allies, Abernathy. There can be only one victor."
"Rose announced loud and clear that she won't not play the game."
"Yeah?" Gloss laughed bitterly. "She played with my sister, that's all I know. I heard the canon, I saw the hovercraft. I don't know what happened, but in the end my sister was dead, and the bitch who was all about peace and understanding, walked away."
"So you hunted her down? Killed her?"
There had been three cannon shots since daybreak. One of them would have been Rose's. She'd died alone, frightened, without a chance against a career killer.
Before he could save her.
The knife felt cool in his hand.
There must have been an answer, because the other man's lips moved. But Haymitch's world had gone silent but for his own heartbeat. He saw the sweat beads on Gloss' brow, the sunlight glisten on the razor-edge of the spear. A gust of wind moved the leaves, dust rose, a blond streak fell into Gloss' eyes.
The knife found its target before the spear even left Gloss' hand.
/
"You want WHAT?"
"Send a gift to Haymitch Abernathy." Katniss' eye was starting to twitch. The woman - Fulvia? - was the fifth "person in charge" they'd explained the problem to.
"Yeah, yeah, I got that. All the victor's accounts are blocked. President's orders. But you know that already. There is nothing I can do," Fulvia repeated, sounding irritated. "Listen, I am Plutarch Heavensbee's assistant, and we are in the middle of the Games. So I am kind of busy right now."
They stood in the huge viewing lounge, where only sponsors, mentors and their guests were allowed. Luxurious white leather couches were positioned in a half circle, to allow free view of the gigantic air screen. People milled around, drinks in hand, chatting, networking, showing off new jewellery, lovers, body enhancements.
Fulvia, a voluptuous brunette, paled in comparison, sporting only silver tattoos of flowers and vines on her plump cheeks. Her nails clicked impatiently against the digital clipboard she held.
"So you'll have to find a sponsor for your tribute, just like anybody else."
She pointed at some other mentors. Many of them were already in deep conversation with possible givers. A redheaded girl sat alone on the floor in a corner, her back against the wall, her arms hugging her knees. She stared at the air screen. Tears ran down her face, and she did not bother to wipe them away. Her lips moved incessantly.
'Finnick Odair's girl, Annie', thought Katniss. Rumour had it the girl was deranged. Like so many survivors of the Games her mind had cracked under the strain of watching everybody around her.
The elegant blonde they'd seen with Haymitch, entered the room, and although many women were more beautiful, she passed through the crowd and all heads turned in her direction.
Fulvia followed Katniss' glance.
"Camilla Thornstrom. She may be the solution the your problem."
"No." Katniss grabbed Peeta's elbow. "Let's go."
Peeta stood his ground and stepped closer to Fulvia. "Maybe. But before we enter negotiations, I'd like to make sure I understand the rules and regulations concerning sponsor gifts. So we can't use our money, but somebody else's? Or do they have to be registered or approved as sponsors beforehand?"
"Registered AND approved." Fulvia pursed her lips. "Unless they are District officials or some such. Even the Districts can only act through official sponsors."
"OK. Now about the gifts…"
He explained what they wanted to send, and Fulvia's brow knitted in confusion. She checked her board and shrugged. "I'll have to ask the Head Gamemaker. Wait here."
She disappeared through a sliding door.
"Lets go. I don't care what the rule book says!" Katniss hissed. Peeta pressed her arm warningly and turned on his stage smile.
"Ms. Thornstrom."
Camilla gave him a relaxed and scandalously slow once over. Then she answered his smile with a twitch of her scarlet mouth. "Peeta. I may call you Peeta, yes? What with Haymitch's stories I feel like I have known you for a long time." A short glance at Katniss, no smile wasted on her. "And you."
Katniss nodded, choking on sudden jealousy. And wasn't this even worse than the constant fear for all those people she'd come to care about? Why would she be jealous? She, who'd only played this foolish game of Peeta's to save their lives?
He stood transfixed by the older woman's gaze, like a deer Katniss had once surprised in a clearing. She'd been so close she'd seen it's eye lashes. She'd shot it anyway and it had filled their bellies for many days.
This woman would not have more mercy on Peeta, if she wanted him. Katniss had never felt so helpless.
"Poor Haymitch," Camilla purred. "Did you see what just happened?"
She nodded towards the air screen.
Peeta shook his head, still entranced.
Katniss stepped deliberately on his instep when she turned to the screen. "We've been ... busy. What's going on?" She took a few moments to read the insert. "Haymitch killed Gloss?"
"Apparently he held him responsible for his woman's death. I guess it was the least he could do."
Peeta flinched. "His woman ... Rose is dead?"
"Na, na, na." Camilla tapped his cheek lightly. "I did not say that."
The Gamemaker's assistant, Fulvia, returned from the command centre and heard them talk. She checked her databoard. "Rose Cumberland, F12, was alive last I checked."
"She is not dead. But Haymitch thinks Gloss killed her?" Katniss tried to make sense of it.
"Yes! And everybody is so excited!" Camilla smiled like a lazy cat with her eye on a bowl of fresh cream. "Haymitch Abernathy on a rampage. The bookies will go crazy!"
Katniss could not take her eyes off the screen where Haymitch watched the hovercraft taking Gloss' dead body away, a red rucksack slung over his shoulder, knife in hand. His eyes were like ice, and it was a good thing most of the audience were busy placing their bets.
So they did not see what Katniss saw: How the hand that held the knife shook.
She turned to Fulvia with a vengeance.
"Now what? Will we be allowed to send something in?"
Fulvia shrugged and shook her head. "Food, medicine, blades, bows, tridents, all kinds of stuff. But no drugs, alcohol, firearms or explosives." She shrugged. "Sorry, such are the rules, says Plutarch Heavensbee. And he has to answer to the President, so don't bother to ask again."
"I want to talk to him." Katniss crossed her arms and stared the woman down. She was getting good at this lately.
"I really don't think so," said Fulvia and barred the door to command central. But just as she stepped in Katniss' way, the door opened, and Plutarch exited. He looked from one to another, obviously amazed at the small crowd.
"Screen is that way, people," he informed them mildly. "That's where the action is."
Peeta gave Katniss a gentle push. "Now," he whispered. "This might be our only chance."
She cleared her throat nervously, but a fast side-glance at Haymitch's face on the air-screen gave her the necessary courage. "Plutarch Heavensbee. We met at the President's mansion."
He smiled at her, his fingers tapping his wristwatch. "Of course I remember you, Miss Everdeen. And Mr. Mellark here."
"We want to ..."
Fulvia interfered. "They are the ones who want to send you-know-what in."
"Oh." He raised one fair eyebrow. "Fulvia will have told you that the rules forbid it."
"But it's for Haymitch," Katniss protested urgently. "I had the impression you and he were friends. Don't you see what shape he is in?"
Plutarch followed her glance to the screen, where Haymitch kept rubbing his arms as if he was freezing. "I know, Miss Everdeen. But even if the President's rules did allow it, it would not do your friend Haymitch any good."
"He is an alcoholic," Peeta hissed through gritted teeth. "And it's been three days."
"Exactly. Now if you send a bottle of white liquor in, do you think it will save him? He'll drink it all in one go - he can't do anything else. And what then?"
"At least he won't be suffering from withdrawal," hissed Katniss.
"No." He drew her aside and locked his pale eyes with hers. "But he'll be drunk. There is no mercy in the arena for incapacitated tributes. And then he'll be dead, and all thanks to your gracious gift." With an exasperated sigh he let go of her arm and checked his watch. Then he turned to Fulvia.
"I am having breakfast with President Snow. Hold the fort while I am away, will you?"
She nodded, a faint glow of pride reddening her plump cheeks.
"And you," he turned to Katniss and Peeta, "have patience. One more day. That's all I ask of you." He looked up at the screen, frowned. "As soon as he learns that Rose is still alive, he'll get through."
/
Rose was tired, so tired.
But when she closed her eyes for only one moment, the sharp pain of a backhand across her face made her flinch.
The man had been there when she'd came to. And how he'd laughed when she found she could not move. He'd stuffed the ripped-off sleeve of her shirt into her mouth as a gag, and covered her with leaves and dry grass. With rising panic she'd heard him talk to Brutus and Freya.
But he had not betrayed her. He'd sent them on a wild goose chase while he'd guard the high ground.
Her gratitude had diminished when she found out that Edwatt of District 5, convicted serial killer, intended to keep her for himself.
A toy he did not intend to share with his allies.
His fingers dug painfully into her upper arm. "Look at me, deary!" he ordered, his voice a strange mixture of disdain and desire.
She had to grit her teeth to not cry out in pain, but the last hours had taught her that he liked her in pain. If she showed any reaction, he'd repeat that grip, that touch, over and over again. When the sun reached the zenith, and his allies were well out of earshot, he had started to draw thin lines onto her arm - with the sharp side of the shard of glass, like the one Lucas had used as a spear-tip. He wore the bent frame around his wrist, so he'd probably killed the unfortunate owner of the glasses, while Lucas had only found and used a sliver of a broken lens. The shard was sharp as a razor blade. Angry red scratches lined her skin. Whenever Edwatt increased the pressure, blood welled up and ran in thin rivulets down her arm. Scratches and blood trails made an orderly lattice.
Edwatt took his time, now and then pausing to admire his handiwork. "Maybe," he mused and started another line, "I'll fill out every other square and make this a chess board. We could play before I ... Would you like that?"
Rose breathed against the pain. At first she had struggled against the bonds but by now her wrists were raw and bloody, and the rope still held. Something cool and hard came in contact with the back of her hands if she wriggled just so. Metal. The grabbling hook.
Hope flared like a mad firefly.
The hook was still attached to a loop in her belt and had been covered by her jacket when Edwatt found her and tied her wrists to her back. Later he'd cut the jacket sleeves off her body, so he had access to her naked arms. But the hook was still there, his sharp points digging into her palm when she leaned back. Could she reach it, maybe use it to cut the rope at her wrists?
She wriggled her fingers but all she got for her efforts was a vicious cramp in her left arm.
Edwatt patted her shoulder, his bloody fingers leaving red traces on her once white t-shirt. "If you ask nicely, I'll untie you, deary. I had to tie up the others because they would not play like good girls. But maybe you are different."
The edge of the shard touched her right eye lid, light as a feather. Just a little pressure ... Rose did not dare to move.
There was no way out. It was kill or be killed.
The shard wandered to her cheek. A tiny slice, just enough to let the blood trickle.
He smiled. "All those nasty freckles. I'll cut them out one by one. You'll thank me for that." Another cut.
"And when I'm done, we'll play." Cut. "You'll like it. I am somewhat of a connoisseur. Not a barbarian like that drunk oaf you were making out on the roof with."
He must have seen a reaction in the face she tried to keep perfectly blank, because he gloated while he cut again.
"Oh yes, I saw you. They all saw you. The Avoxes, the Peacekeepers, the Gamemakers with their pretty little toys. But I was there and I even heard you talk. I could have killed him, could have had you there and then. But I wanted to listen."
Cut.
"You'll understand it made me … angry."
Cut.
"Ask me why."
With an effort she relaxed her lips enough to talk. "Why?"
He held the glass shard to the soft space between her nose and eye.
She froze and shivered involuntarily, when the edge moved away from her field of vision to her jaw.
"You are mine, deary. You should not talk to other men in such an intimate way. Makes me look bad."
Cut. Cut.
"When I'm done with you, no man will even so much as look at you."
By now her face was a landscape of blood and pain, and he'd only just begun. What had Finnick told her? "He raped and flayed and killed his victims - not necessarily in that order."
How long until he got bored with the cutting?
She pretended to faint, let her whole body go limp and sag against the tree. It hurt when the hook shifted and finally slid between her fingers. But by now her whole world was different colors of pain - ret hot in her face, jagged orange at her wrists, searing purple on her arms.
Edwatt was not pleased when she let her attention slip. He backhanded her, once, twice, until she spit more blood. It hurt, but gave her the opportunity to let one sharp tip of the steel hook slide between skin and rope. Her right hand cramped. The rope was new and strong. The sharp metal hook would not cut through it, but saw it apart, fiber by fiber. All she needed was time - and time was all he would not give her. It was all futile.
/
A cracking branch made Edwatt jump up and exchange the shard for his machete.
Haymitch cursed under his breath but it was to late. So he stepped out of the forest as if he'd just taken a stroll through the merchants' quarter. He did his best to appeared quite surprised when he noticed Rose on the ground, and Edwatt, machete ready for action. Last he'd seen the huge knife, the tribute from 4 had carried it strapped to his back. Edwatt held the weapon like a man well familiar with such a heavy blade.
With an icy knot in his stomach Haymitch recalled the reports about the prison tribute from District 5, Plutarch's agent had supplied him with. He liked to play with his victims but would not hesitate to finish fast if he risked discovery.
While he walked towards them, he estimated the time it would take him to reach Edwatt. 60 yards. Impossible to get to the man before he'd harm or kill Rose. So he'd play for time. He'd seen the blood on her wrists, a glint of metal, the relentless movement of her cramped fingers. She had - something… - and tried to cut her restraints. A knife, an arrow-tip, a shard of metall. All he could do was buy time so she could use it.
"Wow, wow, so much blood," he remarked mildly. "Rose, I told you to run and hide. But do you ever listen? Now look at you."
Edwatt's eyes narrowed. "You mean to fight me for her?"
Haymitch shrugged. "It's the Hunger Games, man. What would I do with her? I'd have to kill her anyway before it's over. If you narrow the field, that's fine with me. Saves me a lot of bloody handiwork.
"I don't believe you," crowed Edwatt. "I watched you. I saw how you looked at her, all greedy. You want her. But you can't have her. It's not right."
"Not right?"
"I caught her. So she's mine. I get to have her."
Haymitch's mouth twitched. "To do what? You trussed her up like a chicken - there is not much one can do with that."
He kept his eyes on the man. Time, he needed to buy time for Rose to cut the rope. How much damage could Edwatt do if he panicked and sliced at her with the glass shard? A lot, Haymitch figured.
He inched closer, almost imperceptibly.
"Stop!" Edwatt ordered shrilly. "No step further! I know what you are up to."
"Do you now?"
"Stop right there. Down on your knees. Hands on your head." He brandished the huge knife. "Do it now or I swear, I hack her to pieces."
Haymitch kneeled, his eyes fixed on Edwatt. No sound from Rose. How much time did she need?
The hard butt of the machete smashed into his skull.
He fell into blackness.
/
Rose bit her lips not to cry out.
"He's still alive." Edwatt kicked Haymitch's lifeless body just when Rose cut through the last strand of rope. Her wrists were suddenly free.
"Arrogant bastard!" Edwatt spit. "I'll play with him once we are done, doll."
When he crouched over her, she blindly slashed out with the hook.
/
Still black.
Pain in his head.
Something crawled up his leg.
A man screeched in pain and would not stop.
The coppery taste of blood in his mouth.
And it was not a dream. A brawl in the Hob? Accident in the mine?
Haymitch opened his eyes and regretted it immediately when the merciless sun blinded him. The screeching went on, broke into a desperate wailing. Someone was hurt, and badly. And Haymitch remembered where he was.
He got up on his knees, holding on to a sapling. He felt dizzy from the hit he'd taken and his head hurt like a fiend. Frowning he took in the scene: Rose, crouching, back against the tree trunk. Almost catatonic. The steel hook in her right hand, still dripping blood.
Edwatt, laying on his side, curled into a tight ball in a rapidly widening pool of blood, trying to hold his intestines in.
Someone - Rose? - had gutted him like a fish.
Edwatt started screaming again when Haymitch turned him onto his side. The hook had torn a long jagged slash from his hipbone up to the lower rips. The man was in for a long suffering if they left him like this. Still when he saw Haymitch unsheathe his knife, he started to cry.
"Don't. Oh please, don't! I did not mean to harm her, she made me do it, she … You can have her!" His words drowned in painful gasps.
Haymitch closed his eyes briefly. Remembered the searing pain, the feeling of being ... opened, compromised, and utterly helpless. He'd been 17 then and like most boys at this age, nothing if not immortal. Death was only an abstract concept - but the moment he touched that soft wet mass this enemy's hacksaw had opened, he'd understood he'd not make it out of the arena alive. He'd been wrong on that account. But for this prison-tribute from District 5 there'd be no medic team, no surgery. No surgeon whose own life depended on saving the winner of the 2nd Quarter Quell.
He covered Edwatt's eyes with his hand.
"Help me, don't let him do it!" Edwatt howled.
Rose did not react, still in a state of shock, but Haymitch knew it was only a matter of time before she became aware of what she'd done. And of what was necessary. There was only one way to spare her. He who carried so much guilt, whose hands were already bloodied, had to do it.
Edwatt's protest turned into desperate sobs. "I don't want to die."
"Death is not always the enemy", Haymitch said softly. "Sometimes it is our last solace."
His hand shook desperately, but training and skill took over. A swift slice across Edwatt's throat, a last shiver of the wounded man, and then stillness.
Haymitch stared at the blood that spilled from the slit throat, covering both his hands and the knife, soaking his shirt. Hands of a killer.
How could he touch Rose ever again, now that she'd seen him kill?
He tried to wipe the blood off, but that only made it more obvious. Might as well face it. A quick cut on his forearm added this death to the ever growing list.
Then the acrid smell of smoke hit his nose and he flinched. He'd been so engrossed in the drama of the moment, he'd almost forgotten where they were. On a stage. And the Gamemakers would milk the drama down to the last bloody drop. They'd set the forest on fire.
The wood was dry as tinder, he could feel pine needles crackling under his feet, smell the resin. Stepping over Edwatt's dead body, he urgently touched Rose's shoulder.
"We have to leave, honey."
She stared at him without comprehension. "We can't leave. We are all dead."
Worried he let his fingers quickly search her skull. No damage, at least nothing obvious. Must be the shock talking. Shaking her hard, he tried to hold her attention.
"Rose! We have to leave."
Silent tears streamed down her face, washing faint lines into the blood-mottled skin. "I killed him."
"No. It was I who slit his throat."
Haymitch heard the high-pitched humming of the hovercraft coming in over the clouds of smoke. In his first games a tribute from District 5 had waited next to his slain friend. The steel grabbers had – unintentionally? – caught the boy along with the dead body. Haymitch still remembered his screams when he fell.
"We have to go." He took her hand and felt her recoil.
He'd expected it, but it still hurt. But there was not time for emotions. He drew her with him, away from the blood soaked ground, away from the burning trees.
There'd be time later to deal with what he'd done.
/
Katniss got up from her bed - or rather, their bed, since she shared with Peeta, which was the only way to get at least a few hours of dreamless sleep - and stood for one moment, just listening to him, breathing slowly and peacefully. Sometimes she wished she could stop time, and stay like this. In the void. No decisions. No consequences of said decisions. Just peace.
She'd seen people die on her mother's kitchen table or medic tour, and had always wondered about that last moment, when they finally understood, that the fight was over and they had lost. Or maybe … maybe they'd won? Was that why so many of them smiled when they closed their eyes for good?
She drew the blanket over Peeta's shoulders and crossed the room, soundlessly and without shoes.
The service elevator behind the wall panel was so small she instinctively held her breath. It reminded her of the mine. But then her father had done this, again and again, to keep his family alive. And so could she.
She held her palm against the sensor and have the command.:
The Avoxes, mute as they all were, usually tapped the number of the floor they needed to go to. One tap for the first floor. One clap for "below".
She had no idea how deep down the elevator went, but when the doors opened she breathed the artificially reprocesses air and knew she was where no citizen of Panem - and certainly no Victor - was supposed to go.
A boy, barely 14, picked he up at the elevator stop and led her through the maze of corridors to the large central hall. Down here the ceilings were high, to accommodate a jumble of pipes, cables and data-beams. Walls were bare concrete, as was the floor. No plush carpets for the mute slaves of Panem.
More than two hundred people, men and women of all ages, all colours, sat on wooden benches, on steps or leaned against the wall, when she made her way through the room to the slightly raised podium. Her footsteps were the only sound. No voices. No chatter. At first this had confused her, but it made sense, considering the Avoxes communicated with hand signals or by writing on the large blackboard on the wall behind the podium.
Darius rose when he saw her and held out a hand. Katniss shook it awkwardly, never certain if it was polite to address him verbally. As always his gaunt face gave her a jolt. Six months, she thought. They took him away half a year ago, and this is only the ghost of the man he used to be.
He smiled and tapped thumb and fingers together. A chattering beak.
"Thank you."
A small hand tugged at Katniss' elbow. She looked down, into the eyes of a child, a little girl. About Pansy's age, she assumed.
"I am Reeva. I will be the voice," the girl said.
Katniss hunched down in surprise. "You can talk?"
The girl shrugged. "Not good. I can sign faster." To proof it, she let her hands flutter like two scared birds.
A woman – Reeva's mother? – caught the speaking hands in hers and firmly shook her head.
The former peacekeeper bowed his head, then stepped onto the podium. All eyes were on him, when he gave a short introduction with rapid hand-signals.
"Welcome all," Reeva whispered. "You wanted me to bring the…" She halted and her pursed her lips in concentration. "The bird? Talking bird?"
Her mother nodded in agreement.
"We have discussed this," Darius went on, his eyes on Katniss. "The masters think of us as soulless, mute things. But we are not. We are still human."
The audience showed their approval by loud applause.
"The …talking bird … I think he means 'talking bird'? … has fought the government. She stood up to them when all seemed lost. We shall fight alongside the talking bird when the time comes." Reeva whispered in Katniss' ear. "Why does he call you a bird?"
Katniss shook her head. "No idea. Maybe … my pin, maybe?"
Darius held out a hand to her.
"He wants you to step onto the podium and talk to our people."
Katniss blushed and shook her head. What was she supposed to say to these man and women who fate – the government really – had dealt such a cruel hand? She who had not been able to save Haymitch or Rose? What had Haymitch told her? Return to District 12 and keep your head down, stay alive and keep your loved ones alive…
He'd also advised her to stick with Peeta, and here she was, without him.
Reluctantly she climbed the podium. Words came hard, even after all the speeches Effie had made her memorize.
"I thank you."
Polite applause.
"I have nothing to promise. No master plan, not timeline. All I ask of you is to hold on, to survive until we are ready to fight."
Darius bowed his head, obviously disappointed.
Katniss swallowed to clear her throat. If there was a mole amongst the Avoxes, or a bug somewhere in the rafters, she might share the fate of these people very soon. And not only she, but Prim as well, and her mother and Gale and Gale's family. She suddenly felt sick with fear.
"Fear not. We will fight. One day soon we will fight this cruel and unjust regime," she said with more calm than she felt. "But right now we fight for the lives of the people we hold dear. The Games are still on, and my tributes …."
Her voice faltered. "My tributes are still alive. Barely."
The silence in the large underground hall was thick enough to cut with a knife.
Katniss stepped off the podium and turned to go. Darius held her back with a hand on her shoulder. Then he gave Reeva a signal to turn around so she faced the wall.
The Avoxes discussed the matter with passion – but without sound. Hands flew and fluttered, eyes flashed, backs were turned.
While they debated, Katniss hunched down beside Reeva.
"Were you born down below?"
Reeva grinned. "Yes. They don't know." She pointed to the ceiling. "I always have to be very careful, very quiet. But my mum says when I grow up I can sing and scream as loud as I like. Because we shall be free then."
Tears burned in Katniss' eyes. "Your mum is right."
Three loud claps caught their attention.
"They are done signing," said Reeva. "Three claps mean they agree."
Katniss rose and turned to the crowd. They all looked at her with pale serious eyes.
Darius passed her an envelope. She could feel a thick wad of credit bills through the paper.
"What is this? I mean I see it is money but…"
He grinned, but there was no humour in it., and started signing.
"We … them…" Reeva pointed at the assembled Avoxes. "They want to send a gift."
Katniss nodded, speechless. How had these slaves who did not even own the clothes on their backs, not even their lives if it came to that, amassed such a sum?
"How…"
A glance passed between Darius and the Avoxes. "Don't ask", signed Darius. "We have it, that should be enough. But no-one down here is a registered sponsor. We need you to turn that wheel, put things in motion."
She weighed the envelope. "I will. Who is the gift for?"
Reeva's mother stood up and signed, and the gesture was so explicit that Katniss understood without the girl translating it. A fist opening into a blooming flower.
"It is for Rose."
Reeva watched Darius closely and smiled at Katniss. "He says, the Seam won't forget. Neither will the Avoxes."
/
Rose surfaced from exhausted sleep and stared at a strange ceiling. Wooden beams, still partly covered with paint. Carved flowers and fruits and wreaths of barley. District 11?
She was on her back on a dust covered floor in a small windowless room. A storage room of some kind. No source of light but golden rays of sunset through the cracks in the wooden door. No furniture. The pillow under her head...
Haymitch's legs.
"You are awake."
"Hm." She sighed. So tempting to fall back into the deep dreamless oblivion.
"No pain?"
She shot up in panic. "Edwatt! Where is he? Did he … Did I…?"
Haymitch grabbed her arms, tug her down, made her sit next to him, back against the wall.
"Edwatt's gone. I killed him."
Now she remembered. "He hit you. He said he'd save you for later, when he was done with me."
Her hand flew to her cheek.
There should be ... fire. Crusty blood. A maze of lines, cut into her face. But she felt only unblemished soft skin.
He touched her cheek ever so slightly.
"They sent you a gift. A tiny jar with maybe a spoonful of blue gel. I could watch the cuts heal."
"Who would send me a gift?" she wondered in awe.
Haymitch shrugged. "Expensive gift, too. I've seen this stuff work miracles before. They call it NuSkin, and a jar of it costs more than all the tesserae of District 12. Flickerman uses it if he gets a pimple and has to go on air."
"All for Panem." She smiled weakly.
Left to the devices of their home district she'd bear the signs of Edwatt's madness for the rest of her live. Guiltily she remembered the woman who's wood stove had set the kitchen on fire last winter. The miner who'd suffered terrible burns when a safety valve in the ore smelter failed. They had to live with their scars and the pain - while she, who had only days, maybe only hours, to live, had been healed.
And would be a pretty corpse. Passable, at least.
Rose covered Haymitch's hand with hers and stayed like this for a moment. She didn't dare to imagine what she looked like, healed skin or not. The blood traces must still be there, mingling with the remainder of chalk powder. Her hair felt like dry straw, sticky with sweat.
Three days in hell. What did you expect?
And why did she even care how she looked?
Because of him.
She'd made her peace with the fact that she'd never see him again, and it had hurt worse than Jonah's death. With Jonah she'd had years and so many memories, and with Haymitch only the painful awareness of what might have been…
But there he was now, so close.
She reached out and touched his jaw in return. The fair stubbles of his beard felt stiff like bristles. When her fingertips wandered across his cheek to caress his lips, he closed his eyes.
"Rose."
She made a sound, like the murmur you'd use to calm a fearful child or a nervous horse. "Shhh. It's okay."
She felt him tremble, and knew it was as much due to suppressed longing as to withdrawal.
"This is a gift. Let's not waste it."
Her lips wandered over his cheekbone, to his neck. So close, she felt his pulse race.
"I am so far gone. I'm not sure I can't..." he rasped.
She did not stop, could not stop.
"I don't care. Just to be with you is enough. To feel you, touch you."
She felt his lips twitch into a smile against her skin.
"Not enough, never enough." He nipped at her neck. "Now that I have you, I won't let you go. Not for all the..."
He froze, let go so abruptly she fell back hard and gasped in surprise.
"Haymitch?"
Rose watched him crouch down, reach for the wicked blade he'd removed from his belt only minutes before. All concentration, all hunter mode.
She ducked automatically. Was there an enemy? Brutus and Enobaria were still alive and would just cherish the chance to surprise them. Ratings would go through the roof in a final death-match between the four of them.
"What is it?" she whispered. "Have they found us?"
That was when Haymitch threw the knife right at her. She froze, could not move. Saw the blade sail at her in slow motion - and felt the sharp 'woosh' of air, when it dug into the wall behind her.
Haymitch pushed her aside. Yanked the knife out, threw it again, this time at the far corner of the room.
Helplessly Rose watched him fight an invisible enemy. Was this a hallucination? A symptom of alcohol withdrawal? She'd seen his shaking hands, the nervous twitch of his mouth. Four, no five, days without drink. He must be in considerable pain, and there was no way she could help him.
"Haymitch", she whispered urgently. "Look at me! Tell me what's going on."
He halted, breathing flat and hard, ready to throw again.
Very slowly the hand dropped.
He must have seen the fear in her eyes. "I'd never hurt you. Not you."
There was so much desperation in his voice, so much self-loathing. She reached out for him and recoiled, when the blade flew again. Something crunched and plopped under his boot, a disgusting sound. Rose hunched down to get a better look.
"What in all the world..."
Haymitch scooped his prey up with the flat side of the blade. Rose saw the remains of a naked eyeball, as big as a quail egg, treaded with silver wire. There was no lid, no lashes, only a thin leathery sack ... and the whole thing was transported by eight spindly insect legs.
She retched.
"Biocams", said Haymitch hoarsely. "Beetee says they are all over the arena. State of the art spy-bugs. They can crawl up trees, slip through cracks, even swim short distances. That's how they keep track, how they watch our every move."
He flicked the spy-bug at the wall where it stuck motionlessly.
"If Game control can't see us for a while they'll try to flush us out into the open. But it's night, so we should have a few hours."
Bitterly Rose thought of Plutarch Heavensbee, who would sit at his command console and tweak and manipulate to pilot the players where he wanted them. Had he watched Edwatt torturing her for hours? Did he calculate what the audience would rather want - see a serial killer at work or Haymitch as the glorious saviour? Was she alive only because the Haymitch-Rose angle gave better viewing numbers than another dead body, sliced to ribbons?
Suddenly her knees shook so violently she had to hold on to Haymitch's shoulder.
"I can't do this anymore," she whispered tears clogging her throat. "I just can't."
He swept her up and consoled her like a child. "Yes, you can. You are strong."
"I am all out of strength." She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, felt the warmth of his body. "All out of courage."
"You lasted four days," he whispered into her ear. "You can last another one."
"All for nothing."
"All for hope." His hands caressed her hair, stroked her back. He spoke so low she hardly understood what he said at first. "One more day, Rose, and we'll leave this forsaken place."
"Leave?" She frowned. Was he delusional? "We'll die here."
"No. Honey, listen. Listen to me!" His lips against her ear, the stubble of his beard against her cheek. "And don't look up. If they see us, if there is one more bug somewhere in the rafters..."
"They'll read my lips." She understood, but did not see what secret he wanted them to hide from the Gamemakers.
He drew her down with him in a corner, shrugged out of his jacket and used it as a makeshift blanket on the wooden floor. His eyes bright, almost feverish, he pulled her to him in a close embrace. His hands wandered, up her back, under her sweat-stained shirt. When he touched her skin she sighed.
"Still sore?"
"No." She closed her eyes against the squalid room, the spy-bug-carcasses. "It's only ... whenever someone touched me lately, it was to torture me or kill me."
"I would never hurt you."
"I know. You never did."
A shy kiss on her forehead. Another one, bolder now, on the soft spot by her ear.
"Remember what I told you on the train? How I'd find a way to get us out alive?"
She kissed the tender skin of his collarbone, tasted salt and blood on his skin. "There is no way out."
"There is", he insisted, his face buried in her hair. "I won't lie. It won't be easy. But we shall leave this circle of death and we shall be together. I promise, honey. I promise."
A ragged sound escaped her sore throat, almost a sob. "How?"
"You must trust me. I know I am ..." He held up his left hand and Rose saw his fingers shake uncontrollably. "I am on edge, and I won't last much longer. But I can go on for one more day and so can you. You must. We are in this together."
Rose stared into his blue blue eyes. So much pain, so much love.
She drew in a shuddering breath. "I trust you." And let it out. "With my live. With my heart."
And kneeling she slowly pulled the tattered shirt up and over her head.
In an instant their kiss was greedy, hot and full of need. His mouth burned down her breast, closed over her erect nipple, and when she moaned, he let his tongue wash her clean.
He was so close, so warm, so hard against her thigh.
Breathless and already wet, she tugged at his belt. "Now. Please now."
They rolled, groping for each other. Giddy with hunger, with desperate desire. There was no strategy, no finesse, just pure lust and absolute trust.
Later there'd be tenderness, and maybe time for words and promises. But now, while the last rays of the bleeding sun seeped into the room, every touch, every kiss had a single purpose:
To be one.
/
President Snow liked his coffee black and his croissant warm from the oven, that much Plutarch Heavensbee knew by now. Since they'd made him Head Gamemaker after Seneca Crane's "unfortunate demise" a year ago, he'd had the pleasure of regular breakfast meetings with the big man. It always did his stomach in, but he played his part: the jovial, brilliant and utterly loyal operator of the President's plans. When this was over he'd never eat croissants again and give up coffee for tea.
"So both tributes from 12 are still in the game", Snow enquired mildly, and Plutarch tensed. It was not a question but a cool rebuff.
"We want to keep the audience on their toes, Sir." Plutarch took a sip of coffee and found that his hand did not shake. "Give the sponsors time to spend some money."
"I see." The old man lifted a hand ever so slightly and an Avox refilled Plutarch's cup before he could decline. "I don't have to tell you of all people that with this being a Quarter Quell..."
"Everything is different." Plutarch inclined his head respectfully. "So you've informed me early on, and I assure you, I have some surprises up my sleeve even you will find unusual and thrilling."
Snow's mouth twitched, and when he tapped it with a napkin the white linen came away red. Plutarch had always wondered if the thin crust of blood on the President's lips was really a reaction to self administered poison, as some said.
"As long as we agree about the outcome, I don't care how you get us there."
"You made that clear as well, Sir."
"A Victor from 1 or 2."
"Sir."
"I really enjoyed discussing strategy with your father." Snow's blue eyes held Plutarch's. "He used to say that Gamemaking is a lot like telling a story. You have to know how it ends, before you even say the first word."
Plutarch remembered his father's corpse, so battered and broken he'd hardly recognized him when he'd found him. He bit his tongue and tasted blood. Quite appropriate, he thought wryly.
"My father had great experience when it came to setting up a game. But I am sure the 75th Hunger Games will be remembered for a very long time."
A moment of silence, then Snow pushed back his chair ever so slightly - the sign that the meeting was over.
Plutarch rose.
"Allow an old man who has seen his share of Games to give you some advice." Snow's voice was still affable but his eyes had turned into cold ice. "Play it like it were your last game. ... Could easily be so, Heavensbee." Another tap with the napkin. Another smear of blood.
Plutarch bowed.
"Yes Sir, I understand."
When he left the President's manor, he smiled for the first time in days.
/
To be continued.