Games are winding down – so as we step foot into the final bend of the 99th Hunger Games, I want your thoughts after this chapter on Clara, Firth, and the remaining field. Every bit of feedback helps me sculpt the future of the series – which is very much a dynamic, evolving equilibrium. Lemme know!
District 10
Clay clutched a small, brown disk littered with specks of green and gray in his hand tightly. He didn't want to break the small icon, but for anyone to see it – anyone with less-than-noble intentions - before he had a chance to destroy it or reach his destination would be catastrophic. Most of the Peacekeepers stuck to the town square during the Games, watching over those who saw the action on the large, public screens – but one couldn't be too conscious. Even with security having grown lax in the past six months, risks were risks.
He opened his hand to look at the disk Abilene had given him again. Ah, Abilene…the buxom redheaded girl of seventeen who he had gotten to know over the past several months made thinking of Clara and Sam out in the Capitol so much easier to deal with. She'd been there for him where Sam had not, too caught up in her high-profile life of running to and fro the tyrants who had locked District 10 in repression for a century. Clay couldn't just accept what she had; he couldn't simply forgive the miserable conditions around him, no matter how much better-off District 10 was to the likes of 8 or 12, according to Sam. It was because of the Capitol that he had to take so much tesserae; that his siblings did and would, as well. It was because of them that his parents lived in fear of what could happen to them.
And ironically, it was because of them that Sam had been become a victor and slowly but surely, Clay's heart had begun to turn against his childhood friend and first object of his desire.
His heart, not his head. Within his cerebellum he still told himself that he and Sam were destined to be together. It was a profitable relationship, of course – she was a Victor, a princess to his pauper. He'd hardly have to work a day in his life around her. Besides, they'd been friends forever. It was destined to happen eventually – hell, he'd recognized before she'd even been Reaped that he had feelings for her. It went beyond her growing, athletic body and demure smile that lit up her eyes like morning dewdrops; her personality, just a shade soft enough to be both sweet and determined, made him want to know more and more.
Yet his heart couldn't forgive her. Not now – now that she was on the verge of failing him and District 10 as a whole; on the verge of killing Clara and falling into the cycle of every victor. She'd been all too willing to spend time with her fellow victors; to speak well of her stylists in the Capitol and to bring home troves of information never known or bothered with here on the prairie. No doubt she'd return forgetting all about Clara; full of excitement and buzz about whatever she did in that faraway throne city, eating with nobles and spitting on the likenesses of Clay and his fellow rural poor.
It was too much for a simple man to endure. No, there wasn't a future there, no matter what his head said.
Or perhaps there was. It was a constant see-sawing battle between quick temperaments of emotion and proven logical understanding and history.
But until he made up his mind…Abilene - born poor like him and never even introduced to Sam - would make a nice consolation prize.
As he walked towards the Old Butcher Cellar – the spacious underground basement of a former slaughterhouse that had long since burned down – he inspected the disk she'd given him carefully. In an amusing twist, the brown circle was made of dried cow dung – all too easily broken apart of a probing Peacekeeper wanted a look. A hastily-inscribed "VP" on the rear spoke of its purpose: it was an entrance fee. Without it, the Cellar would be off-limits to him tonight.
Abilene had simply told him it was a meeting he wouldn't want to miss. That the people of District 10 – the ones who mattered at least, the ones with conviction and purpose – were slowly opening their eyes. He'd taken her word for it; why wouldn't he?
Built just alongside the edge of the wood where he alongside Clara and Sam had often frolicked in, the old Cellar was now merely a wooden door leading into the ground. Grass surrounded its inauspicious location, covered neatly by a grove of young, lush poplar trees located around the area. Fallen boughs and dead leaves nearby could easily cover and conceal the entrance, removing it from the eyes of man forever. A single man dressed in a pair of frayed khaki overalls – standard butcher's attire – stood idly next to the closed wooden hatch, eyes prancing about the area.
"Have you seen Father Hart?" Clay spoke to him as he strode up, re-iterating the words Abilene had told him to say. It was all a code, of course; something to discriminate those in the know from those not so before showing the man his pass.
"He's coming with Brother Fall," the man replied. Clay nodded slowly – all according to cue. He held out his palm, showing the man his cow dung token and receiving a warm smile from the corner of the man's wide lips in return. He lifted up the wooden hatch, revealing orange light spilling out from lanterns below. Clay climbed down a set of narrow oak steps, leaving District 10 behind and entering a hidden world below.
Torches hung to creaking, splitting walls, clutching the wooden paneling of the pine-walled cellar via stout iron holders. At least forty people milled about in the basement, conversing, laughing, and brooding in various states of emotions. A dirty white cloth banner hung at the far end of the large basement. Stenciled in blood-red letters was only one phrase: "The DAY will come when our SILENCE is more powerful than the VOICES you are throttling today!"
Voices spoke eagerly and enthusiastically around Clay as he navigated his way through the crowd. The name "Cronus" came up often – as to the identity, he had no idea.
Standing near the front was Abilene. Clay recognized her short frame and long, brilliant red hair at once – speaking with the tallest man he'd ever seen. Abilene's conversational partner reared at least six-five, standing with the type of conviction and power bred of a leader. He wore the same sort of rough khaki overalls as most of the butchers who made up the majority of the Cellar's populace, complemented by short, dark hair and a pair of coal-black eyes. Something about him was oddly chilling; yet he immediately cowed Clay with his presence. Whoever Abilene was talking to, he was a man commanding respect.
"Clay!" Abilene exclaimed, grabbing his hand with a seductive smile and dimpled cheeks. "So glad you could make it, baby."
A little aggressive, aren't you, he thought. They weren't that committed – she was only his viewing partner for the Games.
"Wouldn't miss it," he replied hesitantly. "Who's your pal?"
"Oh," the redhead steadied herself, stoically attempting to appear statesman-like. "This is-"
"Cronus," the towering man replied, extending a sure hand with a cold smile playing across his face. "You are new here, Clayton Lamar, son of a ranch hand. I know it's hard, coming here – but we're creating a better tomorrow, step by step. A tomorrow where we can meet like this without having to worry about the ramifications."
"You're well-informed," Clay said. The man had taken him off his guard, but somehow put him at ease. This Cronus clearly had a way with words.
"It's what I do. I know everything," Cronus nodded. "Welcome to the Vox."
The Arena
Faces and places swam before Clara, harassing her and grabbing her without remorse.
She limped away from the demons following her as pain radiated like a hot lance from her right leg, forcing grimaces from her all the way. A pair of gates clad in gold stood only a hundred meters away as she limped forward, rushing with all she had to reach them. She didn't know why they were important, but she had to get there. Something…something in her head told her so.
She didn't get the chance.
A formless black cloud swarmed her from behind, tackling her to the ground and pinning her against a floor of fire. It quickly coalesced into a person – Sam's face shined back at her, lit by some ethereal force and laughing haughtily with sadistic glee.
"It's about time I got rid of you, Clara," the Sam apparition laughed. "Always keeping me back. Now I can finally be who I'm meant to be."
"No, Sammy, it's me!" Clara protested as "Sam" grabbed her throat with a tight grip. "Please!"
"Do you think I care?" Sam replied, smashing a dagger into Clara's leg and eliciting a pained shriek in return. "Do you think I give a horse's ass about District 10? It's past me, Clara! I want what every great person wants – I want everything! I've too long stood in your shadow; too long been the quiet girl with the ponytail and ribbons in her hair! I'm sick of playing by your game of lies! If the meek will inherit the world, then we will do so with war…starting with you!"
"I don't want to hurt you, Sammy!" Clara screamed as Sam twisted the knife. "I'm your friend! I love you!"
"NOBODY loves me!" Sam roared in retaliation with the force of a sonic boom, an inch from her face. "LIAR! You all have abused my trust, shredded my conviction, crushed my last refuge! I have nothing left! NOTHING…but to take down you and everyone else! My last act will be as the Destroyer; not as your Savior!"
Sam pulled the knife from Clara's leg, yelling with a face turned to skeletal fire and smashing the blade towards Clara's eyes.
"Gah!" Clara awoke with a start as pain shot through her leg. "No, please!"
"It'll be over in just a minute, Clara!"
Firth pulled hard on a white piece of cloth, yanking with all his might and sending shooting waves of agony through Clara's body. She screamed with all her might, clenching her teeth together with the sheer pain that ripped up from her leg.
"Your leg's broken," Firth huffed, sitting back against a concrete block. "The water knocked everybody's senses out of whack. I had to change the dressing."
Clara breathed heavily, partially because of the pain from her leg, now strapped to a piece of hardened rebar by Firth's long piece of cloth, and partially because of her dream. "What…what happened?"
"Just about everybody's dead," Firth replied. "Willow's gone. I found her corpse when I was bringing you here…don't worry, we're out of the way. If the death count on last night's showing is right – and obviously it is – then there's only four of us left."
"Four?" Clara looked flabbergasted. She looked about: Firth had brought her to an enclosed location, surrounded by concrete rubble on all sides. It seemed similar to the storefront she'd reached on the first day of the Games, only covered in white, silt-coated mud. The tsunami that had wiped clean the field had apparently rushed through the city, spreading its watery damage wherever it went. "Wha - Who?"
"Scylla, Nyx, and us," he said grimly. "It's the endgame, Clara. The Games are almost over."
She looked down at her ruined leg, breaking immediately into tears at the thought. Nearly everyone was dead – and the only tributes left were the hardiest and strongest. She, on the other hand, sported a grievous injury that would in no way be any help against the Careers – and if Firth wanted to, he could easily dispatch her in whatever manner he pleased if he finished them off. She was a dead girl already; she had no chance against anybody else.
"Hey, hey," Firth pulled her into his body with a hug, careful to watch her leg. "It's all gonna be over soon, no matter what happens. We don't have to be here much longer."
Clara sniffed and looked down. Her arm was reeling in pain, only overshadowed by the pounding agony shooting out from her leg. The infection had gotten worse, contrary to what Firth had told her a few days ago: blue spindly threads warped their way out from her bicep and the hyena bite, now all originating at a violet splotch that burned with a strange sensation as she touched it. Her arm felt heavy, the nerves half-numb.
"I'm going to die," Clara whimpered into her arm. "I'm going to die. If you don't kill me, or the Careers don't, then this is. I'm already dead."
"Clara, c'mon," Firth said, careful not to explicitly inform her of his own goals of survival. "You're still alive. There's four of us left…you're in this thing just as much as any of us."
She looked up at him, terrified: "Why – why don't you just leave me now? You're going to kill me anyway, right? We have no supplies, no weapons…the Careers are around somewhere and they're probably armed-"
"Clara!" Firth exclaimed, his face growing hard. "We'll handle it after we kill Nyx and Scylla."
"-and if this…I dunno, infection doesn't kill me today or tomorrow than I don't want to be tortured and killed by that horrible girl and left to die like some other forgotten –"
"We'll handle it later," Firth shook her shoulders. "You listen to me, Clara. We'll deal with it when Nyx and Scylla – when the people who don't deserve to win – are dead. You hear me?"
She sniffed again, refusing to make eye contact and already knowing the truth behind his words. If Firth did indeed manage to take down the two Careers, he would be walking out of here as a victor. Sam's ally the prior year may have embraced self-sacrifice as a virtue, but Firth did not. He was in this terrible game to win. If it cost Clara her life…Firth would do it.
"I don't feel good," she whimpered again, glancing at the spreading blotch on her arm.
"You've been out a day," Firth sat down next to her, putting an arm around her shivering body. "I wish I could give you something, but there's nothing but ruin in the arena now. Waves washed everything away…rubble, bodies, you name it. Just mud and empty buildings now; everything else's gone into the new lake the dam made."
Lightning crackled outside as Clara let tears fall out of her eyes. She thought of her family, likely so worried about her inevitable fate now. She thought of Sam, and of Clay – of her friends who had to be disappointed as she barreled towards a premature death. Did Sam think less of her? Were those dreams right – was she just a failed tribute now, another name to be lost to history?
"Clara, I just want you to know," Firth said with a soft voice, letting her rest her worn head on his shoulder. "Whatever happens…you've been one of the bravest people I've ever known. You've fought through all this, been with me and the group this whole time, battled everything the Gamesmakers have tossed at us and more. I couldn't ask for a better person to be by my side through the Games."
She nodded, fighting through her own emotions. She knew as well as Firth how these situations ended…and anyway she sliced it, it didn't look good for her.