Justice
"There's no justice in the world – not unless we make it."
Silver Grayne, 16
District Seven
There's no one to stop me. It's a strange feeling, really. A feeling of power. Of control. I've never really felt in control of anything in my life. During the rebellion, Leo and I lived in fear of being caught. Being killed. I wasn't in control when my family was executed. Wasn't in control when Simon was killed.
But now … now I have his killer at my mercy. No one can stop me. All I have to do is wait for him to wake up, and he's all mine. Even if the Capitol somehow swoops in and kills me right now, I have what I wanted. I've avenged Simon's death.
Because this boy is going to die. At my hands. He could be dead already, if that's what I wanted. But it isn't. I gave his friend a quick death – the boy from Three. But Vance – he doesn't deserve a quick death. Not after what he's done. What the Capitol's done. What he supported. What he and the other loyalists praised and fought for. This is their fault.
And now he's going to pay for it.
I pace a little more, fingering my whip. His arms are already red with welts where I beat him before, his face swollen from my punches. But he's still alive. I want to make sure of that. I want him to feel every moment of it. I want him to know what my parents felt. What Leo felt. What everyone I cared for felt when the Peacekeepers nailed them to their crosses and left them to die.
I want justice. I want satisfaction. Or maybe I want revenge. Maybe there isn't any difference. Not right now. Not anymore. Maybe … maybe I just want him to die.
Vance Feldspar, 16
District Two
It's a few moments before I realize that I'm not dead. I thought … well, I thought I was dying, when I lost consciousness. I assumed she would kill me. Now … now I wish she had.
Because everything hurts. But especially my arms. My hands. Deep, sudden pain washes through my hands as consciousness comes rushing back. Finally, I open my eyes. At first, all I can see is green. I'm on my knees, my face pressed against a cactus, my arms drawn over my head, my hands—
That's why there's so much pain. There's a cactus spike piercing each of my hands. Holding me in place. I try to wriggle my way free, but my arms are held in place with some sort of fabric. My shirt. My shirt is gone.
Somewhere behind me, a whip cracks. Strikes my back. The pain in my hands is immediately overtaken by the sudden, sharp pain in my back. One strike. Then another. It's all I can do to keep from screaming. I won't give her that satisfaction. I won't…
But as the whip strikes again, my resolve weakens. A quiet moan escapes my lips. The next blow lands a little higher, across my shoulder blades. The next misses entirely – or maybe it's intentional – wrapping around my arms, instead. One blow. Then another. Blood. I can see blood starting to spatter on the sand. My blood.
My stomach starts churning. The next wave of pain sends vomit spewing from my mouth – all over both my chest and the cactus in front of me. It reeks – but not as badly as the smell a few moments later, when a sharp blow rips across my back. I cry out in agony, and, for a moment, lose all control. My pants turn wet, the smell of my waste overcoming me. My knees go weak, and, for a moment, the spikes through my hands are the only thing supporting my weight. My arms ache with the extra burden until I find my way to my knees once more, tears stinging my eyes.
"Please." I can hear my voice. It's pathetic. Whimpering. Barely louder than a whisper. But I don't care. I don't care how I sound. How I look. I just want it to be over. "Please … just kill me."
For a moment, the blows stop. Silver makes her way into my field of vision. Funny – I thought she would be smiling. Reveling in the moment. But she's not. Her face is cold and hard as she meets my gaze, and utters one single word. "No."
Her whip strikes again, and the pain returns. Sharp and fierce – just like her eyes. I scream. I cry. I beg. But nothing does any good. What does she want? Yes, I killed her ally, but I made it quick. He didn't suffer. Not like this.
Not like this.
Everything's starting to get blurry again. Dark. I can feel my body starting to droop. Limp. Useless. There's blood everywhere. Bits of flesh. I don't know how much more of this I can live through. Not too much, I hope. I just want it to be over.
I just want…
Maverick Sterling, 13
District One
There's still no cannon. I grip my knife tightly, waiting. How long has it been? Hours? And still no cannon. I thought – a little while ago – that I heard shouting in the distance. But that could have been coming from any direction. My hearing isn't exactly the most reliable even when I'm not a bit disoriented.
A bit. That's an understatement if I ever heard one. It's all I can do to keep from running into walls as I stumble along, gripping my knife tightly, hoping I don't run into anyone in my current state.
It's not an entirely unfamiliar feeling. When I set off the mine that left me scarred, I wandered around for a while, completely out of it, until I was found by a stranger and taken to the district healer. I didn't know where I was or what I was doing, and I don't really remember most of it.
This … this feels the same way. My brain is having a hard time even processing what just happened. Vance saved us. Well, saved me at least. Lincoln stayed. Why did he stay? Did he stay, or did he just run off in a different direction than I did? Maybe. But my gut is telling me otherwise. He stayed. And I ran.
I ran. That thought fills me with more shame than I'd like to admit. We had just met Vance. We didn't really owe him any sort of loyalty. But Lincoln stayed, anyway. Stayed to help him fight. I should have been the one to stay. We're both loyalists, after all. We should have stuck together. I should have stuck with him. I should have remained loyal.
But it was Lincoln, of all people, who was more loyal than me.
Still no cannon. Only one. It doesn't make any sense. Because Silver had allies. Lincoln and Vance were both there. So how could only one of them have died, unless…?
Okay. There are a few possibilities. Maybe Vance and Lincoln managed to kill Silver quickly, and the rest of her allies thought twice about the attack and ran. Maybe the opposite happened – maybe Silver and her allies killed either Vance or Lincoln, and the other one ran. Or maybe…
Maybe Silver didn't actually have any allies. We only heard her voice shouting. Only assumed, based on her actions, that there were others following her. Could it have been an act? Maybe. And if she was alone, and there was only one cannon…
Then she's probably the one who's dead. Vance and Lincoln could be sitting in that clearing right now, happily eating cactus and wondering when I'm coming back. Would they come looking for me? Should I go back? I didn't bring any food or water with me, so, eventually, I'll have to go back. I'll have to find out what happened. I just … I just hope they're still alive.
Kennedy Ford, 15
District Eight
I can't keep going like this forever. I'm starting to see things. The clearing up ahead … it almost looks like a marsh. But how would there be a marsh in the middle of a desert-like maze? It doesn't make any sense.
But, as I stumble closer, I can see that it is, in fact, a marsh. Murky water. Plants. And, in the center, some berry bushes. Clever. Clever, Gamemakers. But I'm not falling for it. I already have food. Not a lot of food, but I can't swim, and I'm not about to risk my life going out on a marsh after a few berries when I have bread in my pockets.
But, still, this might be a good place to stay for a while. If any tributes happen to come this way, they might not even notice me right away. If I hide in the shallows, they might slip right past me and go after the berries in the middle of the marsh. Maybe. Or maybe not. Either way, it's as good a hiding place as I'm going to find right now.
So I make my way to the edge of the marsh and wade in a little. Just up to my ankles. I don't want the bread getting soggy. I sit down, my back leaning up against the wall. It smells. Really, really bad. But, at the moment, I don't even care. I just want to rest. I just want to sleep. After the night I just had, surely I deserve it. And if anyone finds me…
It's that thought that keeps me from dozing off – for a little while, at least. If anyone finds me, I'll be almost completely defenseless. When there were two of us – me and Carina – we could at least trade watches and be relatively safe. But now, there's no one to stand guard.
Which is my own fault, of course, so maybe I don't really have a right to complain about it. I'm the one who left her. Left her to deal with those two tributes on her own. Left her to die, even. I don't know whether she's dead, of course. Maybe I'll never know.
No. I'll know. When I make it out of this arena alive, I'll know she's dead. I take a deep breath and grip my club tightly as I finally close my eyes. If I'm going to make it out of here, I need to rest. I'll need to be prepared when it finally does come down to a fight.
Because it will eventually. So far, I've been able to get by with stealing. I let Carina do the fighting. But now I don't have her. Eventually, I'll have to get my hands dirty.
I laugh a little at the thought. Because my hands are already filthy with marsh water. If they were covered in blood, instead … well, would that really be any worse? Maybe. I'm glad I haven't had to find out yet. But I won't be able to avoid a fight forever. Eventually, my hands will have to have blood on them, if I want to survive.
And I do. More than ever, I want to survive. Having food … maybe that helped a bit with that. Winning is starting to seem like more of a possibility now that starving to death is off the table. I have food. I don't know how many other tributes do, too, but it can't be all of them. This is the Hunger Games, after all, and having food – even a little – gives me an advantage. Eventually, though, it's an advantage I'll have to use.
Tullia Litvina, 12
District Twelve
I don't even see the boy at first as I enter the clearing. The berries catch my eye before I glance around the rest of the marsh, finally finding him. He's nestled in a corner, sitting in the marshy water, sleeping. At least, he looks like he's sleeping. But is he really? Or is it a trap?
Then I see the food. A few loaves of bread, sticking out of his pockets, carefully positioned not to be sitting in the marshy water. If I can sneak in and grab even one of them – even a handful of one – then at least I won't be so hungry. My stomach won't ache so much. I don't even need all of them. Just a bit. Just a mouthful. Just enough to keep me from starving to death.
I could ask, I suppose. Call out to him from a safe distance, ask if he would be willing to share. But what if he says no? I might have given up my only chance of getting food. Because once he knows I'm here, I won't be able to sneak in and get anything. He'll know there's someone following him.
And what reason would he have to share his food with me? Would I share with him, if our positions were reversed? As much as it shames me to admit it, I don't think I would. That's why I didn't want to work with a partner in the first place. I didn't want to take the chance. I didn't want to share. So why should I expect anyone else to?
No. No, if I want food, I'll have to claim it myself. I'll have to take it. Slowly, I inch closer. Closer. His eyes stay closed. His breathing is even. Level. Part of me wishes I had some sort of weapon. If I could kill him from a distance, I could take all of his food and eat it at my leisure. But I have nothing. And there's nothing within reach. Nothing except the boy's own club, which I certainly can't take without him noticing.
Finally, I'm standing directly over him. He still hasn't budged. My heart is pounding. All I have to do is reach down, grab some of the bread, and run. That's all I have to do—
But, just as I'm reaching down, the boy's eyes snap open. Maybe he could hear me breathing. Maybe I was blocking the sun and he noticed it was getting cooler. Maybe this was a trap all along. Either way, the club comes swinging at my head. I duck and turn to run, but something grabs me by the ankle. Drags me down.
I squirm, trying to get up, but the boy is on top of me. The club comes down. I raise my hands to block it, but pain shoots through my arms as the club strikes. Again. And again. The blows strike my arms as I desperately try to shield my face from his club.
Pain. So much pain. My arms go limp, and the boy shoves them out of the way, his club striking my face. I feel it once. Twice. Then I feel nothing. Everything is going dark. I never had a chance. It's not fair. It's not…
Gardenia Carys, 18
District Two
It takes me far too long to even realize that I'm following a set of footprints. I've been looking at the ground, of course – and everywhere else – but haven't really processed anything other than a complete lack of food in every direction. But there they are, clear as day, right in front of me: two sets of footprints.
At least, I think it's two sets. Sometimes, it seems more like four. But when there are four, there are two pairs. Two sets are the same size, two a different size. Almost as if someone backtracked and added another set of footprints. Did they do that intentionally? Or did they get lost and have to double back? There's no way to tell.
If it was intentional, it was pretty clever. Certainly more clever than I'm being at the moment. Anyone who wanted to follow me could do so pretty easily. Exactly who would want to follow me, I'm not sure. Most of the rebels – the tributes who would have a reason to hold a grudge against me for being a loyalist – were killed at the start of the Games. Memphis. Simon. There's still Silver, I suppose, but she ran the other way – and she never really seemed as dangerous as the others.
And Aubrey, who I hadn't really pegged as a rebel until the interviews. Where is she? I don't even remember which way she went. Then again, it's been two whole days since the start of the Games. Even if she started off going one direction, she could very well be on the opposite side of the arena by now.
Two days. Two days, and there's still no food in sight, aside from the leaves on the walls. I finally decided to take my chances with them, and maybe they'll keep me from starving for a little while – assuming I don't keel over from some sort of poison – but they're not going to keep me alive forever. Not unless I find something a bit more substantial.
Maybe if I keep following these tracks, I'll find something. Because whoever made them has to be somewhere – assuming they're still alive. Maybe they've found food. Maybe they have something I can steal or…
Or what? Kill them for? That's what we're here for, after all. To kill each other. If I saw another tribute with food, would I be willing to kill for it?
Yes. A few days ago, I may have hesitated. May have wanted to find a way to steal their food without killing them. But now … now that sort of logic falls flat. If I take their food, they'll die. So I might as well kill them. Better a quick death at my hands than a slow death from starvation.
All of this speculation, of course, is useless at the moment, because I haven't found anyone – let alone anyone with food. But if I do, at least I know what I'll do. What I think I'll do. What I hope I'll be able to do, with my injured leg and my mind growing increasingly unfocused from two days without food. I just hope that by the time I do find someone, it's not too late.
Icho Thesik, 16
District Five
There doesn't exactly seem to be a shortage of tracks leading out of the clearing. Even after the rain the first night, it's clear that at least a few tributes have come and gone from the clearing we started in. I'm not sure exactly whose tracks I'm following, but at least they're clear. Easy to follow.
Is that why it didn't rain the second night? Are the Gamemakers trying to make it easier for us to find each other? If so, it's certainly working. I have no way of knowing, of course, just how old these tracks are, but it's only a matter of time before I find the tributes they belong to.
Assuming, of course, that the tributes who made the tracks are, in fact, still alive. Because there have been eleven cannons so far. Eleven tributes dead. Almost half. Only thirteen of us are left.
That thought scares me more than I'd like to admit. It's only been two days, and our numbers have already been cut in half. We're killing each other off a lot more quickly than I'd assumed at the start of the Games.
I'm part of that, of course. I killed the boy from Six. And I let Crescent die. Neither of their deaths was really the result of a fight. So maybe the rest of the deaths have been like that. Maybe.
But my gut disagrees. There have been too many cannons to simply represent tributes trying – and failing – to escape, or dying by accident in a clever trap. Eleven cannons – they can't all be accidents. Tributes are fighting each other. Killing each other. And it's only a matter of time before I have to do the same.
I grip my hatchet tightly as I keep walking. Someone could appear at any moment, ready to fight. Why, exactly, they would be tracking me, I don't know. No one really has any reason to target me. But, on the other hand, no one really has any sort of reason not to. I didn't exactly make friends during training. Aside from Crescent, of course. And she's dead. The others may not have a reason to want me dead, but they don't really have a reason to spare me, either.
Just like I have nothing in particular against whichever tribute I happen to be tracking at the moment. I don't know who it is. Right now, I don't really care. The only thing that matters is that they're up ahead somewhere. And that maybe – just maybe – they have food.
Maybe that's a silly thing to hope for. After all, if I haven't found food, what makes me think someone else has? But there has to be food somewhere. And this direction is as good a direction as any to look in. Isn't it?
I hope so, because there's not really much choice at the moment. Well, I could always go back, I suppose. But I already know there's not any food back in the clearing. There's nothing there at all – nothing except weapons I don't need. Weapons that won't help me find food. Weapons that won't really do a thing to keep me alive.
Neblina Acosta, 15
District Eight
I'm still alive. I stretch a little as I open my eyes, pleasantly surprised by the fact that the sun has already risen, and nothing happened during the night. Well, not entirely nothing. There was a cannon, I think, but it barely even woke me. Whether that's a good thing or not, I'm not sure. But I'm alive. That's what matters.
How many cannons does that make? Ten? Eleven? I'm not even sure anymore. And that's not a good thing. But do they really expect us to keep track of how many cannons there have been? We have to sleep sometime.
But the cannons – they're the only way we have to keep track of how many tributes are dead … and how many are still alive. Have there been ten or eleven? Are there thirteen or fourteen of us left? That may not seem important now, but later, it could be the difference between there being two or three tributes … or between being the only tribute left and having one more to contend with.
So maybe it's better to err on the side of assuming there have been fewer cannons. After all, if I assume there are fourteen tributes left, and there are really thirteen, what harm could it do? On the other hand, if there are actually fourteen and I act as if there are thirteen, I could let my guard down at the wrong time, and that could be detrimental.
Okay. Fourteen it is. I slowly get to my feet and start walking, gripping the knife I took from the girl from One. Her knife. My knife now. She's dead. She doesn't need it. But there's no telling when I might. No telling how many tributes might be in this direction.
I wish I'd paid more attention at the start. Wish I'd kept track of who ran in which direction. But even if I had, there's no guarantee that they kept going in that direction. Or that the path they took didn't curve. I've changed directions often enough, so why should I assume everyone else kept going in the same direction?
What I actually need is a map. But I'm not exactly likely to get one. And I'm not exactly in a position to make one. So I simply start walking, trying to remember which direction I came from. It's not easy. Everything's starting to blur together. One green wall looks almost exactly like another. The leaves all look the same. The sand all looks the same.
I wonder if the tributes are all starting to look the same to the audience. Was that the point in dressing us in matching outfits at the beginning? Were they simply trying to avoid giving anyone an unintentional advantage, or was there more to it? If we all look alike, maybe they aren't particularly upset when one of us dies. Just like I wasn't particularly upset when I killed the girl from One.
And I wasn't. If I'm being honest, I'm still not. She would have died anyway. Why should I be sorry? She had to die, in order for me to go home. Does it really matter whether I was the one who killed her?
But, somewhere in the back of my mind, I know it does matter. I'm a killer. There's blood on my hands. Blood I'll never be able to wash away. But maybe … maybe I can live with that, if it means getting out of here. If I get out of the arena – no, when I get out of the arena – then I can worry about the consequences of what I've done. Until then, I'll just have to keep playing their game.
Colt Hawkins, 17
District Ten
It's the creaking trees that startle me awake. "Go back to sleep," Aubrey suggests with a yawn. "It's just the wind."
And maybe she's right. We've traded a few watches already, with no incident. Why should I be so certain something would happen now? But something's not right. Something about the way the wind keeps blowing through the trees. The way the branches keep swaying back and forth. Almost as if the wind is trying to knock them over.
"We have to get out of here!" I call, just as the first tree starts to crack. Aubrey is on her feet immediately, snatching up our weapons and our food. I don't bother. I just run. One tree, then another, then another – falling quickly, just behind us. I hear Aubrey cry out, but I keep running. Running. I can't seem to run fast enough. A tree crashes in front of me, and I clamber over the trunk. Only once I reach the edge of the clearing do I finally stop and look back.
Aubrey's trapped. One of the trees has her pinned. I can't see exactly how badly. "Help!" she calls. I clench my fists tightly. I have to go back. I have to help her. Not because she has the weapons or our food – although that's certainly true, as well. But because my friend is calling for help.
And, right now, that's stronger than my fear.
Okay. Okay. Most of the trees have already fallen. There's not really much danger. Whatever that storm was, maybe it was just meant to scare us out of the clearing. Or maybe … maybe it was meant to hurt Aubrey. The thought makes my stomach turn, but the Capitol knows she's a rebel. Was a rebel, at least. What if…
No. No, it's just a coincidence. That's what I tell myself, at least, as I make my way back to the clearing. "I'm sorry I ran," I finally manage to say, though I even I can hear how hollow my apology sounds. Aubrey is lying on her side, her right leg pinned beneath one of the trees.
She shakes her head as I approach. "You would've just gotten trapped, too. It's not like you could have stopped the tree from falling. Just help me get out."
I nod. But I can already tell it isn't going to be that easy. There's blood. Blood staining the sand around her. It's all I can do not to throw up as I get a good look. Am I really going to be able to lift the tree off of her?
She must have been able to tell what I was thinking, because she nods to one of the larger branches. "Break it off. Use it as a lever. You should be able to lift it enough for me to pull my leg out."
I nod. But my hands are shaking as I grab the branch. How is she so calm? How is it that she knows exactly what to do? And why can't I be more like her?
Aubrey Ryans, 17
District Ten
Why couldn't I have been more like him? I clench my teeth, trying to hold back a scream as Colt begins to lift the trunk. The pressure is gone from my leg, but it's replaced by pain. Terrible, crushing pain. It's all I can do not to scream as I pull my leg out from under the tree trunk, cringing at the sight of the blood.
It's my own fault, of course. I just had to gather the food and the weapons. Colt had the right idea. Get out alive. Worry about the rest later. Everything else could have waited. We could have gone back for the food and the weapons as soon as it was safe. His fear kept him from getting hurt.
Strange. During the training I received during the rebellion, we were always told that fear would get us killed. That fear would make us hesitate during a crucial moment, make us indecisive. But it was my lack of fear that made me think that gathering our weapons and food was a good idea, that we would have enough time to get way. But Colt – his fear and his instincts told him to run, and he did. Simple. Primal. And it worked.
Grimacing, I sit up as well as I can, leaning back against one of the nearby tree trunks, trying to keep myself from vomiting at the sight of my leg. It's broken – that much is clear. The trunk landed just below my knee, splitting the bone. Splinters of the bone are sticking through my skin. It hurts like hell, but that's not the worst of it.
The worst of it is what it means. Because if I can't even walk – if I can't even stand – then how am I supposed to fight? And how am I supposed to win these Games if I can't fight? I'm going to die – all because of a stupid split-second decision to grab our food and supplies rather than just run.
Or maybe … maybe it's not a coincidence that Colt got away from the trees in time, and I didn't. Maybe this is exactly what the Gamemakers wanted. I close my eyes as Colt does his best to bandage my leg. It's not going to be enough. I can feel him tying a strip of fabric tightly around my leg just above the knee. Trying to make a tourniquet. But it's not going to be enough.
Because the Gamemakers have already decided that I'm going to die. That they can't have a rebel like me as their Victor. I'm not sure if that makes it better or worse – blaming it on them. But it's hard to disagree.
I don't say that to Colt, of course. Because as I open my eyes, I can see him watching me. Begging. Practically pleading with me to say something. To tell him that it's going to be all right. That I'm going to be all right.
But I'm not. I know that already. But telling him that … it could break him. So I say the only thing I can think of. "Good work, soldier."
It's worth it, just to see him beaming with pride.
Elijah Maleri, 18
District Twelve
Whatever that cracking noise was, I'm glad I wasn't anywhere near it. It sounded like it was coming from the distance, somewhere behind me. I'm probably safe, but I keep moving forward, anyways, gripping my rapier as tightly as I can, hoping no one finds me.
But eventually … eventually someone will have to find me. Or I'll have to find them. And then … well, then at least I have some sort of weapon. I have a way to defend myself.
Or a way to attack. If I'm being honest, I haven't really given much thought to that side of the equation. Ever since Clarisse was stabbed, I've been worried about being on my guard. Being able to defend myself when the time comes. But what if it's better not to be caught defending myself at all? What if it's better to simply attack?
I shake the thought from my head as I stumble forward. The entire matter is moot until I actually find someone. And I'm not going to be able to attack or defend myself if I'm too weak from hunger. So food is my first priority. Has been for a while, I suppose, but that hasn't made it any easier to find. I guess they didn't call this the Hunger Games for nothing.
Sylvana Paean, 18
District Six
I'm so surprised to find myself in a clearing, it takes me a moment to register that I'm not alone. I don't think either of the other tributes saw me, but I'm not taking any chances. I quickly duck back behind the wall, my spear clutched tightly in my hand. It's a few moments before I work up the courage to peek back into the clearing.
Sure enough, they're not even looking in my direction. The pair of them are huddled around a pile of what looks like branches. Rubbing some of them together. Trying to start a fire? Why the hell would they want to start a fire in this heat?
Because it has gotten hot again. It wasn't so bad earlier this morning, but now that the sun has risen higher above the walls of the arena, everything has gotten hot and dry again. If I were them, I'd be looking for water, not trying to start a fire. What do they think they're doing?
But I can't help but watch. Because if they're doing something as ridiculous as trying to start a fire in this heat, then they must have a good reason. Either that or they've gone completely insane. Which, I suppose, is a possibility. But, still, if there's even a chance that they're on to something, what harm is it going to do me to stay and watch?
None at all – as long as I keep a safe distance. It's not as if they're going to burn down the whole arena, after all. Even if their fire gets a little out of control, there's nowhere for it to go. It's not like fire can burn sand. Can it? I don't even know. It's not like we see much sand in District Six. Now if I had someone from District Four with me…
But I don't. Not like either of them was a good candidate for a partner in the first place. I shake my head at the thought. Okay. I have to focus. Can't afford to stop watching them. Because if they do start coming my way, I'll have to be ready.
Peter Eldamar, 13
District Nine
"Be ready," Sienna whispers as she finally manages to strike a flame. I nod, gripping a branch tightly in my hands. Ready to attack any snakes that may start to emerge once we light the bushes on fire. Sienna lights a few more sticks from the flame, and begins tossing them into the bushes. They catch fire quickly.
Too quickly. It's immediately obvious that something is very, very wrong. Not only are there no snakes slithering out of the bushes, but the fire is spreading too quickly. Sienna and I take a step back. Away from the bushes. Sienna takes my hand encouragingly. "It's okay. It was a good idea. No harm, no foul. We'll just let it burn through the bushes, and then—"
And then nothing. Because no sooner have the words left her mouth than the flames leap from the bushes to the wall of the maze. Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I assumed we would be safe as long as we stayed away from the bushes. Fire can't burn sand. But it can burn the walls of the maze.
Sienna Poplar, 18
District Nine
"Run!" I shout. Peter doesn't have to be told twice. Gripping each other's hands, the two of us flee from the fire. Back the way we came. But the fire is gaining on us. Burning through the dry fuel of the arena walls almost as fast as we can run. Shit.
I should have thought of this. Should have been ready. It was my job to protect him. My job to take care of him. And now—
Suddenly, without any sort of warning, Peter gives a shout, and I feel his hand slip from mine. I look back. Peter is standing there, shocked, staring at a spear. A spear that's impaled in his side.
The girl who's holding the spear – the girl from Six, I think – looks almost as surprised as I am as she draws the spear out. Peter slumps to the ground, lifeless, as a cannon sounds. The girl runs. After a moment, I run after her. No, not after her. Away from the fire, which continues to gain on us. What the hell was I thinking? What the hell was Peter thinking?
I brush the tears from my eyes as the smoke catches up to me. But it's not just the smoke. I was supposed to protect Peter. I was supposed to—
But why? Who told me I was supposed to protect him? Only me. That was a burden I put on myself. A burden that's now been lifted. Now all I have to worry about is my own survival. And that's going to be more than enough.
Commander Phoenix LaVelle
District Nine Escort
He never even had a chance to defend himself. There was no way either of them could have known that Paean was waiting for them around the corner. No way they could have known that she would attack.
I'm not even sure that she knew she was going to attack. She looked just as surprised as Peter and Sienna by what she did. What she did. She killed a boy. One of my tributes. I should feel something. Anger. Rage. A need for revenge. But all I feel is pity – for all of them.
When the Games were first announced, I thought it would be a wonderful opportunity. A chance for the districts to prove that they weren't all rebellious cowards. That some of them were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice for their districts, for the Captiol, for all of Panem. I thought it would be exciting. I thought it would be fun.
Instead … it's just sad. There was nothing exciting about Peter's death. Nothing heroic. Nothing to be proud of or angry about. He was just a kid. They're all just kids. And none of them deserve this.
And with that, we're at the halfway point of the Games. Twelve tributes gone, twelve tributes left.
As you might have guessed from this chapter - the first with multiple deaths since the bloodbath - things are going to start to move a bit faster now. There are a lot of pieces in place at the moment, waiting to make their moves. And they won't have to wait long, so hold onto your hats.
We're going to leave the current poll up for one more chapter before replacing it, so make sure to vote.
