Day Two: What Comes Next

Saber Star, Age 18, District Three Male Tribute

Only one tribute died last night. We Careers didn't even kill them.

It was approximately seven in the morning in arena time, judging by the amount of sunlight. We couldn't see the sun itself because of the way the force-field divided up the arena, but the light got through.

The sun didn't help the weather. I estimated that there was about ninety percent humidity in our south section.

We were all sitting in our tent for shade, the flap open for air circulation and keeping our guard up. We'd already eaten breakfast, waking up early despite being out late hunting, not wanting to waste daylight. We were taking some recovery time while the other tributes would be on the move—no sense trying to hunt while people weren't settled down.

But we hadn't been that successful last night, either, like I said. We didn't find anyone. No kills.

No kills, no kills, no kills—what are we worth then, why are we here?

"I can't believe we didn't get anyone last night," said Sage, as if reading my thoughts. But people can't read thoughts. She sounded angry.

"And whose fault was that?" demanded Delora. "They probably heard us coming a mile out with all your blabbing."

"Shut up," snapped Sage.

"That's what I wish you would've done."

Sage tried to slap her, but I grabbed her arm, and Delora moved. "Will you stop?" I snapped, myself, as I let go of Sage.

"Yeah, let's try to keep some peace," said Evander.

"Yeah," agreed Troy, quieter.

Aurelia rolled her eyes at both of them. "Like that'll happen."

I didn't bother responding.

There was quiet for a while. People treated their wounds, sharpened weapons, drank some water.

I tried to make eye contact with Delora. It worked, but we were in too small of a group to sneak out unnoticed. So I just said, "I'm going to patrol the area," and got up to leave, sword in hand.

"I'll go with you," said Delora, and I saw most of the others at least roll their eyes. So we left the tent and started walking, towards the west, to get far enough away before we started to talk.

"How long are we going to put up with them?" Delora asked. "None of them will accept our side when it happens."

"Our orders were to stay alive until that happens," I said. "Starting to kill off our allies won't help that. … No matter how much they piss us off."

"And if they attack first?"

"Then we slaughter them."

"And when the day comes….?"

"We get some distance. And if they resist, we'll kill them."

Delora nodded. "They think we're against each other," she half changed the subject.

"Well, aren't you?" I asked, smirking.

"It was implied that I would be in charge of the alliance."

"But if I don't make myself a Career, they'll come after me too quickly. And beside, it's better that they don't think we're plotting together. Let them focus on killing each other, not us."

"Still, you're making me seem like the weak link. They'll come after me first, then."

"But they know that if they go after you, I'll kill them. So they won't attack either of us individually."

Delora shrugged, which I assumed meant she admitted defeat. (Good.)

But then, I almost felt bad for the mess we were in. But I wasn't supposed to. I was supposed to serve Fourteen, and I was doing my best to do that. So I had nothing to feel bad about. Except I was creating complicated emotions, emotions I wasn't supposed to have, myself, or maybe even understand.

Delora and I were supposed to be enemies, we were somewhat pretending to be—but these Games weren't normal, we could both get out, and then—then what?

What if I didn't want to be enemies?

Delora was powerful. I wanted her on my side. I wanted us to work together to serve what was right. And maybe I wanted more than that. But I wasn't supposed to know that feeling.

I'd been quiet for too long. "Are we going back to the tent?"

"We don't have to," said Delora. "It's not like they're eagerly awaiting our return." She didn't seem to want to go back, and I didn't really, either. So we walked through the mud for a while. Just for a few minutes of what we could almost call peace.

"What do you think will happen when this is all over?" Delora asked.

"I don't know," I said, for once. If District Fourteen came to get us, and we worked with them while the rest of the tributes were hostages—and the Capitol would have to compromise with Fourteen—what would come of the compromise? What would happen to us if the Capitol won? What role would we play if Fourteen won? Would there be war in the meantime?

"Do you care?"

"What do you mean?"

"Do you care?" Delora repeated. "About what happens to you? About what happens to us?"

The immediate answer that came to mind shocked me. I care about what happens to you.

I had been trained to not care what happened to myself. But I realized that I didn't want Delora to die. Not because of her usefulness, but because of who she was. Because of all those intangible things—emotions, love—that she had and I didn't. She was here for the cause not because she'd been born in Fourteen like I was, but because of her brother, I knew. She served the cause for love. I served for loyalty—it was the only type of love I ever knew.

But Delora had real love.

And I wanted it.

So I said my answer out loud. "I care about what happens to you."

Delora gave a trace of a sad smile. "I care about what happens to you, too." And then she hugged me unexpectedly, her touch warm from the heat, and her hair smelling salty, like the ocean she was so often in and sweat.

And I hugged her back.

And I thought, I'm so screwed.

. . . . .

Ikky Delacroix, Age 15, District Nine Female Tribute

Henrik and I were heading deeper into the West section looking for water. The sun was high in the sky, and it was so hot, and I was so thirsty.

There was nothing in sight except for sand, sky, wind tunnels, and cacti. There was nothing in the tunnel we were in, so we assumed there was nothing in the rest. We'd try if we got really desperate. There was no sign of rain, and nothing hiding under the sand anywhere we'd tried.

So finally I said, "Why don't we try the cacti?"

Henrik nodded. "That one?"

I nodded, too.

So we approached the cactus, and Henrik used his sword to start cutting a piece out.

And suddenly a needle shot out straight into my stomach. "Shit!" I yelled, instinctively jumping back and yanking it out.

Henrik had seen what had happened, and also moved. The cactus shot a needle at him. He swung his sword out as if to saw the cactus down. It only went part of the way through. I clutched the tiny wound that had pain spreading out inside of me—the needles probably had some sort of poison, but I didn't think I was going to die, it was just a tiny needle and it wasn't somewhere fatal….

I realized we had to take down the cactus. I swung my sword out, too, and made a further dent in the cactus. Henrik and I ducked and dodged around the needles and then finally backed out of the way as the cactus fell. The needles stopped shooting, even from the bottom part that remained.

We peered down into the inside of the cactus. "It doesn't look poisonous," said Henrik, "but I don't know."

"The needles had something in them," I said, although the pain was starting to ebb.

"But there has to be water somewhere in this desert," said Henrik.

We looked at each other. It wouldn't be fair for one of us to test the liquid in the cactus. The guilt the other would feel if anything went wrong… So I said, "We'll both try it."

Henrik said, "If that's what you want. I could—I could just try it."

"No," I said.

"Well, I'm not letting you try it alone, either," he said.

"Okay." I reached into the cactus and scooped out a little bit of the liquid. So did Henrik.

We looked at each other, and then both poured the liquid into our mouths.

I swallowed. I looked at Henrik. Nothing happened.

"Thank Panem," he said.

I pulled out my water container and started scooping as much of the liquid as I could into it. But then I saw Henrik raise his sword. "We've got company," he said.

I looked up and saw the boy from Six staggering towards us. I hurriedly put away the water container and concentrated on holding my own sword. "Do we run?" I asked.

"Nowhere good to hide," said Henrik.

"Might as well get the advantage," I said, and we ran through the sand towards the boy from Six, the same one we'd battled last night, the one without an eye.

He met us with his own sword raised high.

Henrik swung at him from the right while I swung at him from the left, but he jumped back. I lifted up my sword and stabbed down at him, grunting with the effort, and my sword brushed his, the metal shrieking. He jabbed out and the tip of his sword just scraped my stomach, stinging intensely as I shuffled back.

Henrik stabbed at him and sliced into his side, and I took the moment of weakness to plunge my sword into him, but it went into his stomach. He was still standing, and swung wildly at us, but it was easy to jump back and dodge.

I swung my sword around his several times trying to get close to him, and finally took a risk by lunging forwards and trying to knock the sword from his hand. Left, right, right, left, I swiped, and finally with another shriek of metal and a long swing, his sword flew off to the side.

I quickly plunged my own sword into his chest.

He fell to the ground. I started to shake. He was surely dead.

As the cannon sounded, I fell to my knees, emotions flooding me. Another kill. Because of me. Who was I, that I'd killed so many people? I felt so young—why did I have so many kills to my name, kills that would haunt me for the rest of my life—however short it might be?

I leant there over the gruesome body, not even quite crying. Henrik's arm went around my shoulders as he crouched next to me. We were quiet, and I didn't know what to do, until Henrik started:

"Sometimes lights fade, sometimes angels fall, without a farewell bade…"

He couldn't sing. But I didn't care in that moment, as the first tear slipped down my cheek.

"We give them one more glance, we give them one more stare…"

I was staring, at what used to be a boy. A boy who never said goodbye.

"But then they're gone forever, like they were never really there."

No. That wasn't right, that was what the Capitol wanted, not what we—

"As the world turns, we lose everyone, one by one; as the world turns, they lose us, one by one."

Everyone went away. Everyone we loved would slip away from us. And us, the tributes, we would slip away from the world. Soon we would be just memories.

"As the world turns, we say we're sorry, now; as the world turns, we say goodbye, now."

I reached out and closed the remaining eyelid of the boy from Six. I wasn't sorry I'd killed him. I was sorry that I'd had to. I was sorry that I'd had to kill all the others, too.

I shook off Henrik's grip and stood, wiping away my tears. "We should go," I said.

So we did.

. . . . .

Autumn "Fall" Yates, Age 14, District Eleven Male Tribute

I was supposed to be the happy one.

That was what I'd been all my life.

I was the happy one.

But after one day in the Hunger Games, I apparently broke.

I was not the strong one. I woke up in a dark and scary place after having bad dreams and I wanted to go home.

I'd spent my part of the watch on-edge. Shaking so violently that the flashlight's light jumped around the woods. A few times I screamed when I saw something move and woke Ryan up.

By the time dawn came, I was just a mess.

Now it was the afternoon. The sun had left our east section of the arena, not that we'd seen much of it before, as the thunderstorm raged on.

I followed Ryan around as he did the things we were supposed to, hunt, look for tributes, look for shelter. I moved limply, and all I felt was emptiness.

I never thought this day would come.

You never know what's going to break you forever.

Ryan led us downhill, past a waterfall, to a calmer part of the river lining the north side of the section, away from the rapids. He used his sword to fish, but he didn't have much clue what he was doing.

Just like I didn't have much clue what I was doing.

I watched, staring blankly.

Ryan tried to talk to me. "I caught a fish," he said, after he did. I had barely noticed.

I nodded. I could've done more, maybe, but the words didn't form right.

There had been two more cannons since the bloodbath. Bloodbath! There were fourteen of us left. Thirteen left to die. What a lucky number.

People were dying and I was supposed to think happy thoughts about fishing and all I could think about was how I was going to die.

I couldn't win.

I had acted so brave before. Talked about defying the odds. I had been an optimist.

I hadn't realized the reality of death. But after seeing everyone in the sky yesterday and feeling so sorry that they died—then waiting for their allies to come and kill me—I wasn't really all right.

I couldn't focus on extending the rest of my life or savoring it or doing anything with it. I was just so preoccupied with I'm going to die.

"Any idea what to do with a fish?" Ryan asked.

I shook my head. But I did know. We'd learned in training.

(Training us to die, sending us to our deaths, how could they just say goodbye, how could they do this to us—)

Ryan showed me what you were apparently supposed to do with a fish. It had been a rhetorical question.

We had the fish for lunch. It was a decent sized fish. It was a good-tasting fish, after we put up the tarp and lit a fire under it to cook the fish with.

I threw it all up right after.

Ryan dunked my head in the river a few times to get the vomit off of me. The water was freezing and clung to my skin and hair.

"Come on, dude," Ryan said at one point, "I know you're in there. You weren't this freaked out before; nothing's changed. We've just gotta deal with it, one day at a time."

I nodded again.

"Stay around here, I'm gonna see if there are any animals in the thicker part of the woods."

I nodded another time, and Ryan left, and I wondered if I'd ever see him again. I stared at the river, and then I got up and paced. I wouldn't even call it pacing. That made it sound like there was an order to it. I just wandered and thought.

Then I heard footsteps behind me. I jumped out of my skin, whipping around and throwing myself at the source of the sound. We collided with the ground, and I felt sick, flipped over before we recognized each other. Ryan stared down at me, then let me go.

He sat next to me while I still laid there.

"I'm sorry," Ryan said. "I let you be happy and you crashed hard. I should've let you down easy."

I continued staring.

"You can't live like this, man. We might not have long left. We can at least go back to how things were—you could be happy again—before…." He trailed off, then his voice took a different tone. "No. You know what? We're going to live. I don't know how yet, but we're going to live, and we're going to live good lives. I'm not going without a fight. Are you in?"

I blinked and realized I wasn't breathing, then gasped for breath, and rasped, "Yeah. I'm in."

"All right." Ryan grabbed my arm and pulled me up, gathered up our supplies. "No more sitting around. We've got to find a place we can protect ourselves from. Come on."

I followed him. His voice sounded so determined, so convinced. I'd been like that yesterday. But one night had changed me.

I wasn't really Fall anymore. I didn't know whom I was, but I'd left Fall, that little boy behind, somewhere in the orchards of District Eleven.

I hoped he was happy.

He deserved it, not me. I was apparently going to kill people to stay alive. Kill children to stay alive. Kill children for entertainment.

Fall wouldn't have done that.

I felt young for an identity crisis. I felt young to die, too.

Ryan and I moved on through the woods in the rain. I tried to think of happy things again. I thought of my family. I wanted to remember all the goods things about them before I died.

But Ryan said we weren't going to die. But I didn't know how that was going to work. And I was sure everyone else in the arena was saying the same thing.

And all but one would be wrong.