Night Before & Launch: Crimson


Marena Combe, 17, District 10 Female.

It hadn't really hit her until now. Tomorrow, they'd be going into the games. People would die brutal and gruesome deaths at the hands of other children, some younger then themselves. Others would starve and some would die of dehydration. One would make it out. Would it be her?

Chance and her sat in the parlor of their penthouse. The digital clock on the wall read 11:53, seven minutes until midnight. The interviews had ended about an hour ago, and Marena had yet to take off her tight leather dress and heavy makeup. Chance was still in his brown leather suit; his eyes fluttered open and closed in exhaustion.

They should probably be asleep. Tomorrow was the biggest day of their short lives—the beginning of the end, or perhaps, the end. Would she live? Would she die? Would she kill to survive?

Chance was probably thinking the same thing. Normally, the two would be chattering away about something they thought was funny—perhaps a weird looking Capitolite they saw that day or a joke that one of them had made earlier. Yet, neither spoke; neither breathed.

Marena stood to her feet abruptly, causing Chance to turn his head. "I'm done thinking about tomorrow," she announced. "I just want to live for tonight."

Even in the dark, Marena could see Chance smirk. "I have an idea," he declared, standing to his feet and making his way out of the room.

Marena followed him through the dark hallway. Finally, Chance swung open the door to the kitchen and went inside. Marena trailed close behind him, still not knowing where he was headed.

Then, he swung open a cabinet filled with dozens of glass bottles. "Liquor," he smirked. "A way to live for tonight, and forget about tomorrow."

Perfect. Marena grabbed a clear glass bottle filled with a colorless liquid without even a second thought. She was never one to think about the future; she never had a strategy. Perhaps it wasn't a good idea, but she didn't care. As long as it made her live for what possibly could be the last night of her life, she'd be satisfied.

Two bottles in hand, the pair made their way out onto the porch. The night was cool; the wind was chilly and nipped at Marena's bare shoulders. However, she didn't care. The liquor would rid her of the cold, of her nervousness, of all her feelings.

It would make her live. Live like she did back in ten when she rode the angry bull; live like she did when she didn't have a worry in the world except whether or not her mother was making soup or pasta for dinner.

"You ready?" Chance asked, unscrewing the cap from his bottle. Marena nodded, doing the same.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Marena replied with a grin.

They counted down from three. Three. She lifted the rim of the bottle to her lips. Two. She tilted the bottle upwards. One. She looked and Chance, and let the bitter liquid slide down her throat.

"Gross!" She yelped after swallowing. Whatever was left in her mouth she spit out onto Chance's leather tux, coating him in a layer of spit and gin. He staggered backwards, spitting out whatever alcohol was in his mouth too. This time, Marena was sprayed with a thin mist of saliva.

Chance burst out into a fit of laughter. Marena followed, and soon enough, the two were laughing like there was no tomorrow.

"Alcohol is disgusting!" Chance exclaimed in between bursts of laughter. "My parents drink it on occasion to relax, I thought it would help us!"

Marena smiled, glancing at Chance then back to her spit coated dress. "It did, can't you see? We're laughing!"

Chance nodded his head, relaxing that even though very little alcohol had been ingested, the two had still forgotten that tomorrow, they'd be playing in a game where the prize was their life. It had done the trick.

"Want to try again?" Chance inquired, motioning towards the bottle in his hand.

Marena threw her hands up into the air. "Absolutely not! I'd rather get decapitated by a career and thrown into a pile of blood than drink that again!"

"Then it's settled. You're getting decapitated by a career and thrown into a pile of blood. I'll make sure of it," Chance teased.

Rolling her eyes, Marena placed the bottle of gin down on the floor of the balcony. "What a good ally," she retorted sarcastically.

"I try," Chance quipped.

The two stood out on the balcony for a few minutes in silence, listening to the sound of the wind howling across the buildings. Thoughts began to creep back into Marena's mind about the games.

"Hey, what are the odds I'd chug the bottle of gin right now?" Marena questioned, glancing back down at the bottle of gin resting on the balcony floor.

Chance chuckled. "You really want to do this?"

She shrugged. "Anything to make me not think about the games."

"Alright. Odds out of 100?" He asked.

Marena nodded. "Sure. Odds out of 100, on the count of three."

"One,"

"Two,"

"Three,"

"Zero!" They chimed in unison.

Twisting her face into a disgusting grimace, Marena glanced down at the glass bottle. "Damn, I didn't think you would guess it," she grumbled, yet picked up the bottle all the same.

Shutting her eyes tight, Marena began to down all the liquid in the bottle. First, she was chugging quickly, but as time passed, the liquid was disappearing slower and slower. Halfway through the bottle, she stopped, gasping desperately for air.

Chance laughed. "A real daredevil I see."

"You mean a real stupid daredevil," she replied before coughing some of the clear liquid up. "Oh, why did I do that? My stomach feels like it's on fire!"

Rolling his eyes, Chance picked up his bottle of alcohol and began to chug. About a fourth of a way through the bottle, he stopped and began coughing violently.

"At least we're stupid daredevils together," he chortled after his coughing ceased. Marena couldn't help but laugh, completely forgetting that in a few days, they'd both probably be dead.

But for now, they were living like there was no tomorrow. The clock inside clicked to 12:08, meaning it was officially the day of the games. So perhaps for them, tomorrow wouldn't exist.


Abrielle Mariani, 15, District 9 Female.

She still woke before six, like she had done when she was living on the farm. There was really no need—she didn't need to be at breakfast until 9:00, but some habits were hard to break.

Rising from her bed, she shook the covers off of her body. Then, she stood to her feet, the floor warm below her toes. She wriggled them around, trying to soak in the plushness of the carpet. Back at home, she would have awoken to cold wooden floors full of splinters and holes. She found it weird that she missed them.

She found herself walking towards the window. A faint light illuminated from behind the velvet curtains. Pulling them back, a bright red sky was revealed. Glittering buildings dotted the horizon line where the sun was beginning to peak through.

Even though she had painted it so many times, she had never realized the true beauty of the sunrise. The bright vibrant colors danced through the sky: reds, oranges, yellows, pinks. The golden sun was the pinnacle of it all—a shiny ball of fire that was too bright for one to stare at.

Was it her last sunrise? It could be. Maybe that's why she was finally realizing it's true beauty. People never know what they have until it's gone, and even things she took for granted, such as the sunrise, could be gone within a day. Was last night her final sunset?

Her eyes moved towards the corner of her room, where a blank canvas sat upon a silver easel. It had been there for the entirety of her stay—yet she hadn't dared touch it.

Why? She pretended she didn't know the reason, but really, she knew why. This entire week, her mind had been clouded with fear and blood and death. Never once had she thought of something beautiful; she didn't even think of the sunrise. Scared her last painting would be reflective of her violent thoughts, she had stayed away from the easel. Only now did she feel gravitated to it.

She walked towards it and sifted through a bin of brushes on the table next to it. Finding the perfect one, she picked it up and headed towards the dozens of cans of paints. At home, she could have only dreamed of possessing so many colors. Now, she took it for granted.

Her eyes scanned the paint cans. There were so many colors, it was almost overwhelming. For a few minutes, she stood perplexed as she tried to pick a paint to match the vivid sunrise she planned to paint.

Then, a reddish hue caught her eye. It was beautiful, a deep velvety shade that reminded her of envy, of love, of passion, and finally, of death.

Crimson, the front of the can read.

She unscrewed the cap of the paint can and dipped her brush into the thick liquid. The paint was beautiful and thick, unlike anything she painted with at home.

It had the consistency of fresh blood.

She touched the tip of the brush to the white canvas. Then, she lost herself her fantasy world of vivid colors, of beautiful skies, of golden suns and cotton candy clouds. A world of new beginnings and no ends; a world in which there were infinite sunsets left to see.


Velicity Peach, 14, District 11 Female.

"Are you excited for the games?" Basil asked her over breakfast.

She didn't respond and only lifted another chocolate scone into her mouth. It melted upon contact, the chocolate making her tongue tingle with delight. It was sad to think that this was her last meal in the capitol, but as always, all good things had to come to an end.

Basil continued to talk anyways, ignoring her silence. "I don't really know if I am. The whole idea of death kind of scares me, but I always look on the bright side of things, so I guess I'm excited to hang out with Merino more. If you want you can still be our ally Velicity, it's not too late to join our alliance," he blabbered.

Rolling her eyes, Velicity popped another scone into her mouth. This was the eleventh time this week he had asked her and the third time today. He was either really desperate, or just trying to be nice and include her since she hadn't gotten any alliance offers. Perhaps it was a mixture of both.

"So, do you want to?" He asked her again.

Velicity pretended to ignore him. Basil was annoying, if she was being completely honest with herself. Their personalities clashed completely. He was talkative while she was quiet; he was energetic while she was somber; he was optimistic while she preferred to see the glass as half empty, rather than half full.

Basil sighed, placing his fork down on his plate. It made a loud clattering sound when it landed. "I just don't want to leave you out Velicity. I don't want you to spend your last few days alone."

Hissing, Velicity abruptly stood to her feet. "I don't want your pity," she scoffed at him. Her dark eyes shone with anger and annoyance. "And who says these are going to be my last few days? I'm going to survive, longer then you are at least. If I had to guess, you're the one who is going to die today. I don't need your pity. You need mine."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it lik—"

"I don't care how you meant it. You said it, that's all that matters."

She left the room without another word. Basil didn't follow her—he had probably given up. It was about time anyways, for he hadn't stopped badgering her for days.

Velicity made her way into the bathroom. She slammed the door shut. It made a loud noise and echoed off the bright white tiles that lined the walls of the room. However, she didn't care. The louder the better in her opinion. At least this way, Basil and everyone on the adjacent floors would get the hint that she was unhappy.

Her small body slumped against the back of the door. She felt her knees buckle, and her body began to slowly slide towards the ground. She was helpless to the inevitable force of gravity; she was helpless to the inevitable death that was coming for her in the games. Velicity had never not felt helpless. Not when her parents had been executed by the capitol, nor when she had been reaped for the games.

Tears welled in her eyes. Silver, they shimmered under the bright lights plastered to the walls. She longed for control, for a crevasse in the cliff she could hang onto to prevent her from slipping to her death. If only she had a friend, or someone to talk to. But everyone who tried to help her she pushed away. Rosa. Milla. Basil.

"Tributes, please report down to the training center immediately. Your escort and stylist will be waiting for your arrival and will accompany you to your hovercraft."

They said it like she had a choice whether or not she wanted to go down to the training center. However, she was helpless to their commands, to their whims, to their games, and consequently, she was most helpless to death itself.


Merino Jones, 13, District 8 Male.

He blindly followed his stylist down the narrow and dimly lit halls of the catacombs. It was cold down there—round goosebumps lined the exposed skin on his arms and legs.

He was wearing what he'd worn to bed the previous night, a plain white cotton tee shirt and blue shorts. Both were soft and comfortable. Only now did he realize that they had been made back in Eight. It was possibly his friends had threaded the intricate stitches or dyed his shorts blue with sticky indigo. Weird, he thought to himself as he walked.

Since he had boarded the train and left for the Capitol, Merino hadn't thought about his friends, or rather, anyone back at home. But that was normal. Even when his days weren't numbered and he aimlessly roamed the dirt latent streets of Eight without a care in the world besides what his next meal was going to be, he never thought of anyone but himself. He never thought of his friends and rarely his parents.

Perhaps he was selfish, or perhaps it was the way he'd grown up. The threat of starvation always loomed over him, and the only way he could fend it off was by only taking food for himself. If he had thought of his brother or his father, maybe he'd have already been dead at this moment, rotting in a grave somewhere deep in the ground.

Too bad Merino had too simple of a mind to realize the irony of his thought. He only followed his stylist like a shepherd leading sheep to the slaughter. Finally, his stylist stopped walking and disappeared through a door to Merino's right. He followed her inside.

On the wall hung another white cotton t-shirt with a black eight stitched onto the back. Below it was a pair of plain black pants, and resting on the floor below those was a pair of white and black sneakers.

"Put them on," his stylist instructed.

Merino nodded his head and slipped off his shirt and pants. He took the other off the hanger and put it on over his head. Then, he stepped into the pants. They fit perfectly, as if they were made specifically for him.

The shoes were a puzzle though. Merino tried to slip them on, yet his small heel didn't fit into the hole in the shoe. HIs stylist snickered at him, watching as he tried and failed to put on the sneaker.

"Merino, do you even know how to tie a shoe?" She asked after a considerable amount of time.

Merino only blinked at her. "No, I never wore shoes back at home."

The woman gave him a look of pity before bending down to untie his shoes for him. "I guess you'll never learn then," she muttered under her breath, though too quietly for him to hear.

After they were untied, Merino had an easier time putting the shoes on. Once they were on, his stylist tied them up for him. He gave her a smile in return.

She returned it, though weakly. "Alright, now step into the tube."

Merino obediently walked across the room. The shoes felt nice on his feet, though were a bit tight. He stepped into the tube and looked back at his stylist, his gaze blank.

"Are you ready?" She asked him.

He shrugged. "Ready as I'll ever be, I guess."

"Even to die?"

"I would have died anyways. I was always hungry in Eight, so I would have starved soon enough. It was only a matter of time. Everyone has to die at some point, so why is now any different?"

"You're very wise for a thirteen-year-old," she told him.

"I can't read," Merino replied with another shrug. "I wouldn't call that wise."

Before the stylist could respond, the door of his glass tube shut. The floor of the tube was rising, and the underground room was disappearing slowly. Light streamed out from above him, so much that it blinded his eyes. He quickly looked back down. His stylist waved up at him; he waved back.

Soon, his view of the room was completely obscured. Blinking his eyes, he glanced around. Glittering buildings surrounded a semicircle of platforms, each with tributes perched on top of them. He was standing next to the boy from District Ten and the pretty girl from One. In the center of the semicircle was the cornucopia, which was stocked with weapons and supplies. Just in front of it was a statue of Panem's current president, President Heron. Her eyes seemed to stare right into Merino's soul.

They seemed to be in some kind of central square. Grey pavement covered the ground, and streets winded in between the buildings surrounding them. Merino sighed, glancing up at the placid blue sky.

Then, the countdown began.


A/N: Next chapter is the bloodbath! Thank you all for sticking with this story, and I actually never thought I'd make it through my first pregames. A lot of SYOTs burn out during the reapings and pregames, and I'm proud I made it this far! I hope you all liked this portion of the story, and we are now onto our third, the Games!

Questions: Bloodbath predictions? Victor predictions?

paper :)