+ Thanks to Dancing-Souls and ArtemisCarolineSnow for the reviews! Addendum: I've done some limited re-editing, partially because I wanted to dip back below the T rating barrier. I've ironed out a lot of the more mature language and toned down one of the more gruesome imagery areas from earlier; additionally, I'm aiming to keep things less graphic in the future. This story's less about the individual arenas/Games and more about the broader schemes and characters (and this is gonna be a long story…) so I figure the change's probably for the best. Additionally, I added in a decent-sized section back in ch. 17. Now enough with the past and on to this chapter! Things are coming to a head.
/ / / / /
Cyrus heard the shouts before he opened his eyes.
He groaned and turned over in his bed, tossing the thin wool sheets off and rubbing his eyes. The curtains in his guest quarters here in District 4's City Center did little to keep out the early morning ocean sun. Orange fractals of sunlight flickered on the redwood walls, phasing in and out with the billowing of the curtains in the blustery, salty air. Something was absent, however. The past few days, Cyrus had always heard the last few trawlers heading out into the ocean, stragglers looking to catch up with the early-morning boats that had left the docks long before sunrise.
He couldn't heard them today.
Shouts again. Dim, faint, but somewhere off in the distance away from the town square, people are shouting.
"Guard!" Cyrus growled, forcing himself out of bed and changing in a hurry. Even his closed smelled like the sea after just a few days in this district.
No one answered his call. Cyrus slipped on a pair of shoes and pushed open the front door with a loud creak. Before he could take two steps outside into the warm summer air, however, a white-armored hand stopped him in his tracks.
"Best if you stay inside, Counselor Locke," a tall Peacekeeper said. "Situation's getting out of hand."
"Situation?"
The Peacekeeper paused. Cyrus furrowed his brow and tried to guess the man's expression beneath his blank black visor. Was he hiding something? Guessing at something? Trying to cover up his fellow soldiers? From the tense way he clutched his rifle, Cyrus figured the news would be bad.
"Yesterday there was an accident," said the Peacekeeper. "There's unrest breaking out, sir."
Cyrus's breath caught in his throat. "Unrest? From where?"
"Started an hour ago in the Gulch. It's spreading to the docks. Rioters."
Oh, this isn't just bad news. "Where's your commander?" Cyrus barked. "I need to see him."
"It's safer if you stay inside until the situation –"
"Creon Snow is in the Capitol," Cyrus snarled, pressing his face an inch away from the Peacekeeper's visor. "Until you hear otherwise, I am the ranking person in this district! If there's a riot breaking out, I don't have time to play around with you to try and get a handle on it! I am not sitting by and listening as you shoot into a crowd! Where is he?"
"Uh – barracks."
"Where is that?"
Another shout rang out, closer this time. "I'll show you, Counselor," the Peacekeeper said.
The streets seemed too empty to Cyrus as he followed the Peacekeeper away from the docks. "Where'd this start?" he asked, feeling for the concealed pistol along his waist that he'd left back in the guest house. Of all the times to forget that…
"Manheim's Gulch," the Peacekeeper answered. Cyrus nearly had to run to keep pace with the man. "Nothing more than rocks and bricks so far, but it took some time to get the response out."
"What? Why?"
"Best if you ask the commander, Counselor."
Gulls cried out overhead as Cyrus and the Peacekeeper hurried towards a squat, two-story concrete building surrounded with a barbed wire-topped iron fence. A dozen Peacekeepers stood guard at the gate. District 4's garrison was a utilitarian place, full of stark gray halls, sterile white lights, and chilly, still air that smelled nothing like the salty breeze outside. Computers with blue holographic interfaces filled the command center at the heart of the installation, with white-uniformed Capitol attendants milling about a dozen monitors all about the spacious room.
"Commander Nera," the Peacekeeper leading Cyrus called out to a tall woman with steel-blonde hair in the middle of the command center, standing over a row of computer consoles and in deep discussion with two aides. "Commander. The Counselor wants a word about –"
"The hell is this?" Cyrus shouted before the Peacekeeper could finish. Too many people standing around for a crisis. "Commander? That you?"
The woman brushed off her aides and sized Cyrus up. She was towering, even among the men, and she looked far beyond intimidating when she narrowed her eyebrows and folded her hands behind her back. "I don't have time to talk, Counselor," she said.
"I don't want to chat. I want the situation," Cyrus said, balling up a fist gritting his teeth. "And I want the assurance that you're handling this right."
"I've already sent in two squads of my troops," the commander replied with an icy tone, any friendliness gone from her voice. "And District 4 is my responsibility."
"'Fraid it's my responsibility since I told the President that I would keep a lid on any escalation!" Cyrus said. "This is only making it worse! What happened that started this?"
"According to what we know? A boat had a fuel malfunction yesterday and exploded."
"And that's what those rioters know?"
"Hearsay says they're blaming it on one of our drones. They say an eyewitness saw it shoot at and sink the boat while it was inside the fishing perimeter."
Cyrus cut her off with a wave of his hand. "What kind of damage are we looking at with this?"
"They've torched a few buildings. We haven't lost anyone, and I think we won't need to kill more than about a hundred –"
"You're going to shoot them?"
"We can't tolerate –"
"No, you idiot!" Cyrus shouted, grabbing her by the collar. "You shoot them, and you're giving them the flashpoint they want! Do you want chaos out there? Get out there and solve this without lining up a row of bodies!"
The commander scowled. "I've already given the orders."
Cyrus shoved her aside and pointed at the Peacekeeper who had brought him in. "You! You're with me. We're going out there."
He wheeled and hurried out of the building before the commander could get in another word. "What are you trying to accomplish, sir?" his Peacekeeper guard demanded, hot on his heels. "There's no stopping these people once they've gotten riled up!"
"I'm going to try," Cyrus growled.
Black smoke billowed on the horizon as Cyrus and his guard took off in a car towards the docks. The shouting had grown louder, more varied. The riot was gaining steam.
"You're not going to solve this by yourself, Counselor," the Peacekeeper said as he drove, tearing up the street and past run-down houses as fast as he could go. "Mobs don't answer to reason."
"I am not admitting I failed to Snow," Cyrus said. "Give me your sidearm."
"What?"
"Your pistol. Give it to me. I'm not shooting if I can help it, but if I get pinned down, I want an out."
Three rows of Peacekeepers lined up shoulder-to-shoulder at the southernmost pier on the docks, the first row holding up man-sized riot shields in a defensive position. Most of the trawlers were still docked: News of the previous day's sinking had spread fast. Plans for the brawl had spread faster. This wasn't just spontaneous; someone had planned the riot. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand angry rioters squared off fifty yards away from the Peacekeepers, up a wide, open hill adjacent to a row of canneries. The mob had been hard at work: Already, red graffiti on the walls of the factories spelled out lewd insults and messages towards the Peacekeepers.
"They're not fighting yet," Cyrus exhaled. "We still have time. Hold here. Out."
He leapt out of the car before his guard had even stopped the car. Before he made it far, a burly Peacekeeper toting a megaphone stopped him with a hand to his chest. "Counselor? No place for you here, sir. This is about to get ugly."
"I'm stopping it from getting ugly. Give me that."
"The megaphone? They're not going to talk. This isn't the Capitol."
"So I'm going to talk first. Give it to me. Now."
Cyrus pulled the megaphone away from the Peacekeeper, pushed his way through the ranks of soldiers, and surveyed the scene. Those people look like rabble from here, he thought. But I bet that's not true at all. He guessed they had more than rocks and bricks at their disposal, and even if they weren't a professional military force like the Peacekeepers behind him, they outnumbered them by a substantial margin.
Putting the megaphone to his lips, Cyrus decided to take a leap of faith for a peaceful outcome. "Hello," he called, the megaphone booming over the shouts of the mob. "District 4, I understand your anger. I understand –"
"Firebomb! Down!"
An iron grip yanked Cyrus back and to the ground before he could say another word. A row of shields raised in unison across the Peacekeeper lines as a Molotov cocktail arced through the air. Fire exploded across a shield down the ranks, and the snap of a row of guns froze Cyrus where he lay.
"No!" Cyrus shouted.
A cry rang out from up the hill as the first rank of the mob sprinted down towards their opponents. Cyrus's guard dragged him back as he fought for the megaphone, swearing, cursing as his failure to keep the district under control unfolded before him.
"Don't shoot you fools!" Cyrus yelled. "Don't shoot!"
Another Molotov cocktail splashed flame across a riot shield.
Crack!
Two dozen rifles shouted in District 4.
/ / / / /
I couldn't believe I was doing this.
Acheron had dozed off after a long wait following the fight, a few minutes before I'd started down the hill myself. The arena's hovercraft had taken Delfin's body long ago; now, only his lonely spear lying atop blood-stained sand marked that he'd ever stepped foot in this place. I didn't have time to mourn, even if I'd wanted to. He'd wounded Acheron and tired him out. Victors don't pass up opportunities, Terra, I told myself.
I wouldn't get a better opportunity than this against the boy from District 2.
A trickle of sand streamed down the hill from my footsteps. I had to be careful: One loud stumble or cry and I could wake up my sleeping opponent. He'd refused to kill me before, but I doubted he'd do so again. Acheron had honor, but he wasn't stupid. His fight against Delfin had proven that.
Besides, I wasn't unarmed this time. I clutched my dagger as if it would run away from me if I slackened my grip.
Boom! Thunder rang out, and I froze in my steps as a flurry of lightning lit up the square. On Acheron slept. Close call, Terra. Step by tiny step, I inched forward down the hill and towards the back of the buildings that surrounded the plaza. I couldn't approach him for a frontal attack like Delfin had done. That certainly hadn't worked out well for him, and he had experience and a big freakin' weapon. I had to think smarter.
That the Gamesmakers were letting me get away with this struck me as odd. Were we the last two tributes? Would they wake him up for some climactic battle before I got close enough? If so, I was toast. Acheron would snap my neck like a twig. The boy was probably twice as massive as I was, and his arms were the size of trucks. Even this late into the Games, Acheron looked like he was doing just fine.
No, I told myself, more for reassurance than because I was sure of it. There's got to be one other kid out there. Maybe the survivor from 1, or someone else you've forgotten about.
The thought wasn't as reassuring as I'd hoped.
After what seemed like an hour, I clambered down the last few feet of the hill and scuffled behind the closest building. It was little more than a burnt-out husk. Rocks and ash littered the ground all around it, but as the lightning flashes took a break, I couldn't make out the dark interior. I squinted. Something was moving inside.
I squinted harder. Not something. Some things. Snakes.
Dozens of serpents coiled and writhed around fallen rocks and bricks inside the hut. I recoiled. Was this some sort of Gamesmaker message to lure Acheron into an open fight, like the boy from 7 had tried? I'd survived that more on luck than anything. I'd survived the entire arena on luck. I wasn't going to risk everything on a building full of deadly animals again. For all I knew, they'd bite me this time.
My skin prickled as I inched my way closer to the square and the sleeping Acheron. This whole thing felt wrong. I'd felt terrible about killing the boy from 7, about mercy-killing Glenn, about watching Ember die. Now I wasn't reacting to a threat or someone's plea. Now I wasn't just killing. I was planning a murder. I was facing two choices now - die, or win the Games the only way I could: By turning to the most evil act imaginable. I abhorred myself, but I wanted to go home. Gods, I didn't want to die.
Perfection is boring, I heard Elan's words echo in my head again. Entertainment is from the underdogs, or the cowards, or the villains, or the monsters.
Acheron's snores were soft and slow. He'd been so tired he'd held on to his sword as he'd fallen asleep against the wall of the next building over, and now the weapon lay limp on the ground beside his hand. It was too close. If I messed up once, just once, he'd hear me and gore me faster than I could blink.
I crept closer. My heart threatened to break free from my chest.
Snap! I froze. I'd watched him for a step too long and tread right on a pair of coals from the smoldering fire. Acheron mumbled in his sleep, turned his head…and stayed asleep.
Too close.
He was close enough to touch now if I reached out. Closer. I snuck forward on all fours until I sidled up right beside him on the other side from his sword. It was time. I had to do it. Had to.
I knelt in the sand, gripped my dagger with both hands, raised it up, and – and couldn't do it.
Do it. Do it!
I clenched my teeth. I can't do it.
I couldn't kill him like this. Not asleep. Not defenseless. He'd let me live when he could've murdered me. I remembered Tethys snapping at Delfin for killing the girl from 6 while asleep. I couldn't do the same. Couldn't.
One chance. I'd give him one chance to beat me. A little chance, a small chance, but one nonetheless. I couldn't live with myself otherwise.
I leaned down near his ear and whispered, "Acheron?"
His eyes opened.
Before I had time to react, Acheron reached out and snared me by the throat. Pain exploded. The moment blurred. His hand went for the sword. My hand spasmed. Something felt warm and wet.
Acheron's grip loosened. I choked, coughed, and rolled over away from him, gripping my dagger with both hands and aiming it towards him, ready for a fight.
I wouldn't get one. My blade dripped with blood. In front of me, Acheron grabbed his neck, struggling and gurgling as his life poured out of the wound I'd made. His legs kicked frantically. His eyes flitted about like a rabid animal's gaze, bouncing from here to there, to the coals, to the hill, to me. His skin turned pale.
Time stopped. Dust hung in the air, and the flickers of the dying campfire froze as if immortalized in a portrait. Only Acheron moved in front of me, but not all of him. Not his kicking legs. Not his blood. Just his lips.
He tried to say something, but nothing came out. I could only read his lips: How?
The next sound wasn't from him. It was from a cannon.
Boom!
I jerked back and fell on my rear. What did I do? I killed him. I murdered him. I slaughtered him like an animal. I hadn't mean to. The knife, it had…it had slipped. My hand had moved as if listening to its own commands. I hadn't done it, I had focused on his hand around my neck. It just overwhelmed me. How was I supposed to think then?
Oh my God, Terra.
My stomach somersaulted. As I turned over and dry-heaved into the sand, something else called out in the sky above me. It wasn't thunder. It was a voice. Someone was –
"Hukk!"
Bile bit at my throat as I lurched violently.
"Tributes!"
Wait a minute. I clutched my stomach and looked up. Against the clouds, someone had shone the first light I'd seen besides the constant flashes of lightning. It was the Capitol seal, an eagle li up for the entire arena to see. After so many days of darkness, it looked like the sun.
"You have fought well, tributes," the voice called. Cicero Templesmith? The voice and name didn't feel real anymore. Had I really talked to that man once? "And now we come to this, the final showdown. Two of you still stand. Only one can emerge."
A red flare shot up in the horizon from over the hill, back towards the city and the heart of darkness within. "The Head Gamesmaker has lit up a destination for the two of you," Cicero called. "An arena inside of this arena that has delighted us with so many thrills and turns. Now we have one more. But you'd better get moving, you two. Don't make us wait too long. You might just regret it."
My hand shook. I stared down at Acheron's body and quivered. I wasn't done. I had to do this again. One more life. One more step down into the darkness.