This one's a long one, so I'll keep the A/N short. Just wanted to say thank you all so much for your lovely reviews for the last chapter, and sorry if I freaked anyone out with the A/N. Don't worry, I'm definitely still continuing this story no matter what. It will be finished! At some point, hehe.
Also, new forum link is on my profile! Thanks for reading guys!
Kale Hackberry, 17, District 11
Even as the anthem ends, Sam prepares to leave.
"Are you seriously sure about this?" I ask, leaning against the wall and watching her lace up her sandals. That's about all she's taking with her: the clothes on her back. Plus the knife her district partner reluctantly gave up, but I hardly count that. What use is one puny dagger in Sam's hands if she runs into . . . anything?
"Relax. It's just a scouting mission." Sam smirks as she finishes up with her sandals, hand now free to take mine, which I hadn't realised was drumming madly against the wall. Dammit. "Aw, you're scared for me."
"You're still injured."
"I'm feeling much better, Doctor Hackberry." She smiles, bouncing on her heels. "Got a new spring in my step."
"What if you're not back in time? Those painkillers will wear off, you know, and just because you don't feel pain doesn't mean you should be running around."
"You have any better ideas?"
"Yeah. Remind me again why I'm not going."
Sam's goofy grin slips into something slightly more genuine. She squeezes my hand in hers. "It's better if only one person goes."
"Then let me—"
"Kale," she says, soft but firm. "I need to be there to observe them. Sorry, but that's not a task you're up to. Besides," she adds, nodding towards the corner of the room. "Doctor Hackberry is needed here."
I follow her gaze to the far wall, where Aemilius Lewellyn has been camped out ever since I beat him up then found myself saving his life. As if sensing our gaze, he glances up, sees us staring, and promptly resumes glaring at the floor, jaw now clenched tighter than before. To put it mildly, I don't think he's a people person.
Which, come to think of it, neither am I. And we're going to be left alone for hours. And I kind of tried to kill him that one time.
Yeah, that awkwardness isn't something I'm looking forward to.
But as much as I wish I could go, Sam's right. I gave up trying to follow hers and Lewellyn's line of thinking about five minutes into their brainstorming. Apparently the two of them have some genius plot in the making, but it requires checking up on the state of the Ones' alliance with the Ten girl, something I can't do because I don't know what to look for. Sam supposedly does.
"So." I follow her as she heads out the door, my hands held stiffly at my sides to stop them from fidgeting. "You know where to look?"
"Not a clue. Sort of hoping it'll just come to me."
"Sam."
"Relax. Del made a pretty nice trail coming here. I'll follow that as far back as I can, then scope around for signs of where the Ones might have gone."
The breath I was holding exhales slowly through my nose. It's as good a plan as any, I suppose. Just . . . "Stay safe."
"I will. Don't worry."
"In this place? Not possible."
She chuckles. I wave her off, and she turns to go, but just before she does, she changes her mind and spins back around to hug me. After a moment's hesitation, I raise my arms and hug her back. She seems even smaller when I'm holding her like this.
The thought makes me want to never let go, but I'd never hear the end of it from her, and rightly so; when the hell did this place turn me into such a mother hen?
I let out a cough, all gruff and manly-like, and let my arms fall to my sides. Sam steps away, smirking like she knows exactly what was going on in my head.
"See you, Kale. Try not to freak out while I'm gone."
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get lost."
She gives me a small salute. "Will do."
Once again, she turns around to head off down the corridor, following the faint trail of dried blood Lewellyn left last night. Or was it this morning? Damn, I hate not being able to see the sky down here. This whole place feels like a fucking crypt we're all going to die in without ever seeing the sun again.
By the time I jolt myself out of that morbid thought, Sam's already disappeared around a corner. I'm alone in the tunnel, staring off into emptiness.
Well, shit. Don't die out there, Sam.
Please.
My hands are already starting to twitch again, and I'm uncomfortably aware of how often my eyes jump to the torches on the walls around me. Another deadly fire is just about the last thing we need, so I hurry back into our base of operations, desperate to find something to distract me within. Or rather, someone.
Lewellyn looks up when I enter, his mouth open like he's about to say something. It snaps shut as soon as my gaze locks on him, though, and he returns to staring daggers at the floor.
I clear my throat. "Sam's gone."
"Really? I hadn't noticed."
I force down the desire to snap back a retort. Lewellyn may be a dick, but he's a dick I almost killed, so that makes me, I dunno, an even bigger dick, I guess. It falls on me to make things up to him.
So I swallow the sass and try again for a casual conversation. "Yeah, she was practically bouncing off the walls. I'm not sure painkillers were the only thing in those pills."
"Considering we got them from the same person carrying around a vial of LSD, that's entirely possible."
So much for trying to joke. Jeez, does this guy have any setting other than 'moody'?
"So, is that why you keep refusing to take them?" I say, unable to stop a little bit of irritation from seeping into my tone.
"Samantha wants to challenge some of the most powerful players left in this game." For the first time, Lewellyn makes eye contact with me. "If we're ever going to win, one of us needs to be clearheaded."
"One of us meaning you or Sam. Because I don't count."
I didn't realise how bitter I am about being left out of the loop until it comes out in words. But yeah, you know what, I'm pissed. No matter what happens, I always seem to be three or four steps behind. Whether it's Sam hiding her plans from me, or Lewellyn revealing himself to be not entirely a bad guy after I just tried to kill him, or the motherfucking Gamemakers treating us like pawns on a chessboard, I'm always the last one to know about shit. And I hate that it's making me question what I bring to this new alliance.
But then Lewellyn, caught in the middle of a disdainful shrug, moves enough to wrinkle the bandages tied tight around his side. His ensuing gasp reminds me I was stupid for ever thinking I bring nothing to the two genius idiots who probably would have bled out without me.
I roll my eyes as Lewellyn shifts again to check on his wound, eliciting another wince. "And I thought you were supposed to be smart. Don't move, moron. Let me take a look."
"I'm fine."
"Like hell you are."
Lewellyn looks set to run as I approach, but as he seems to finally realise moving isn't good to do in his condition, he's forced to remain where he is, lips pressed together in a hard line as I kneel at his side.
I think I preferred him loopy from blood loss. Things were slightly less awkward then.
Although we might be heading back in that direction soon. The bandages I used are slowly turning red as blood leaks from the other side—dammit, if he tore his stitches out, I'm not going to be happy.
"Yeah, I'm gonna have to take this off," I say, speaking to his right temple; he's got his face turned away from me again. "So don't move more than you have to. Also, take these."
I see the corner of his lips twitch down as I dump four pills out of the painkiller bottle. "Those aren't necessary."
"Stop whining and take the damn pills."
That gets his head turning. "I'm not whining."
"No, but you will be if I have to sew you up again. I heard that once already, thanks—I don't need to a second time."
Lewellyn's expression hardens, but there's something else in his face beyond the indignation. With me so close to him, I now notice the tiny twitch in his left eye as he glances from me to the pills. His gaze only lingers on them for a second, but when it does, I can see him swallow slightly. He's more than annoyed, he's . . . nervous.
. . . And I've just realised that maybe he's had bad experience with pills in addition to whatever the hell he's been through. Great. Now I feel bad.
"Hey," I say, my voice softening. "They're just painkillers."
Well, I was trying to be nice, but Lewellyn reacts like I've just personally insulted every ancestor he's got. Eyes narrowing, nostrils flaring, he snatches the pills out of my palm and snaps, "I know that. Fine, if it's so fucking important to you."
He dumps them into his mouth before I can respond. Anger still burns bright in his eyes, but it's not quite enough to push him into swallowing defiantly. Instead, we get an awkward moment of me watching him and him looking away as he trembles from the effort of forcing the pills down.
The water bottle we scavenged from Tesla's backpack is nearby, now full thanks to a conveniently dripping leak we found in the ceiling down the hall from here. Seems the Capitol is looking for a more exciting death than dehydration.
I offer the bottle to Lewellyn now. "This might help—"
"Mmm fnn," is the garbled response I get. Lewellyn's jaw is clamped so tight, I'm worried he's going to pull a muscle.
Just when it looks like something's about to snap, he finally manages to swallow the pills. "See," he mutters, lips forming a shaky grimace. "I'm fine."
". . . Sure."
We're treated to a lovely, drawn-out silence of maximum uncomfortableness as I set to unwrapping the bandages around his torso. Doesn't help that when Lewellyn's lucid, he's twitchy as hell. It's even worse considering my fingers are still shaking at the thought of Sam off on her own. Damn, we could start a club. Or maybe a support group.
Somehow I do manage to get the bandages off with only minimal grunts and groans from Lewellyn. The stitches look intact, thank goodness, and the gash is looking . . . well, not good, but I don't think it's infected. Then again, I barely have any idea what I'm doing.
The first-aid kit hasn't left his side since we found it; I rifle through it, sifting past adhesive patches to find a couple small tubs of gels buried at the bottom. Antibacterial cream, one reads. Sounds better than the rubbing alcohol I used up before, at least.
"You're looking okay," I say, returning my gaze to him. He turns away from me, mouth snapping shut as mine opens again. "But I'm going to smear some of this on that cut just in case, all right?"
His eye is twitching again. "Fine."
"It might sting."
"I'm sure I'll live."
Maybe he's right, but honestly I'm more worried about him jumping out of his skin when I move to touch him. We're going to need some kind of distraction if this is going to work.
"So," I begin, twisting the cap off the tub of cream and grabbing a cotton swab from the kit. "What is it you want to say to me?"
"Excuse me?"
"Surprise, surprise, I'm not as big an idiot as you guys think I am. I've noticed you looking at me—"
"I'm not—"
"—like you've got a question," I finish over him, taking my first stab at dabbing his side with the cotton swab. He suddenly becomes too busy inhaling sharply to continue interrupting. "So spit it out."
I honestly don't think that's going to work; Lewellyn's still watching me like I'm actively trying to kill him again. But then I get the biggest surprise of the day.
"You . . . know people in Eleven, yes?"
It takes me a moment to remember how words work. "Um, yeah?"
"Have you heard of Eltanin Yuca?"
Experimentally, I raise the cotton swab again. There's a small twitch of acknowledgement, but he doesn't try to shy away again. "Don't think so," I say as I begin to slather cream on the cut.
"He's five," Lewellyn continues fervently. "Blond hair, blue eyes. A child like that would stand out in Eleven."
"I don't know a lot of kids."
"But you'd have heard about him if something big happened. Trust me. So does his name sound at all familiar to you? Seen it on newspapers, TV . . .?"
"Not that I can remember. A five-year-old is really that important?"
He sighs, the first non-aggressive sound he's allowed himself to make. "Yes. And no news is good news, I suppose."
"Who is he?"
"It's not any of your business."
"Fine. Guess I'll just have to deduce the answer myself."
"You're welcome to try."
"Let's see . . . he's your . . . illegitimate son . . ."
Lewellyn chokes on his own breath. "He's five. I'm seventeen. And I'm not—"
"Married, yes, that's why he was illegitimate. And his mother was a . . . hmm, a homeless hooker who—"
"She's my cousin," Lewellyn blurts out. I raise an eyebrow and he continues, "I mean . . . we aren't . . . he's not my kid! She had a husband, they had Eltanin, he's my first cousin once removed." He leans back against the wall, face a brilliant shade of red beneath the dried blood. "Dear god, it's like I'm talking to Sam."
I have to smile a bit at that, although it disappears soon after. His cousin's kid . . . "This Eltanin, he, uh, he wouldn't happen to be Alvis Collard's grandson, would he?"
Aemilius turns his head away, but that's all I need in response. Memories of my mother's stories of the execution float back into my head; even vague as they were, they make me wince.
I take a look at Lewellyn's face, searching for some kind of emotional response. Damn it, I don't want to pry, but I can't help it. "Why do you hate the rebels?"
"Excuse me?"
"Look, I don't blame you for . . . anything or whatever. But it seems to me the Capitol should be number one on your enemies list. And you know, 'enemy of my enemy' sort of thing. Plus, they're literally your family."
"That's also none of your business."
"Come on, I answered your question."
"I wasn't aware we were bartering responses."
"Well, we are now. And I can tell you've got more stuff to ask." I finish swabbing the wound and turn to the first-aid kit, searching for a large adhesive patch; on the edge of my vision, I can see Lewellyn's gone back to glaring at me. Looks like I'm right. "So if you want more answers, you'd better give me some too."
He lets out a huff of annoyance, but he must still have some pretty burning questions in his brain, because the next I know, he's grumbling, "The rebels are—were—just as bad as the Capitol."
"What?" I look up from the kit, patch in hand but momentarily forgotten. "You're kidding, right? Why would you think—?"
"I've answered your question," he says over me. "Now it's my turn."
"Hang on. That was the vaguest fucking response ever."
"And yours was such a help in finding out what happened to my cousin."
Well, he's got me there, although I let out a long, grumbling sigh so he knows I'm not happy about it. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
"Your old mayor. What happened to him?"
"Mayor Endive? He died."
"I know that. I asked what happened. Did he surrender to the Capitol?"
"What? Hell no. Guy was about as diehard a rebel as you could get. Fought the Capitol 'til the end and got himself shot full of holes for it."
"He didn't give himself up?"
"Why would he?"
"The Capitol had his son." Lewellyn's speaking faster and more vehemently than before; he barely notices when I fix the adhesive patch to his side. "They told him if he didn't give himself up, they'd torture the boy mercilessly. They sent him his eye in a box. And you're telling me he didn't do anything about that?"
"Well, I didn't know the guy personally, but he never sounded like much of a family man on the radio. 'If we all must die for the freedom of Eleven, then so shall we die.'" It surprises me how easily the words of our crazy old mayor's broadcasts come back to me, but then they were almost daily occurrences before the war went south. What's more shocking, however, is the fact that Lewellyn looks so visibly pissed.
The Capitol had his son. Who I heard was around my age. It couldn't have been Lewellyn—he's got both eyes, for one—but still, there's got to be some connection.
Oh.
Of course. All the important prisoners were transferred to Mausoleum. Like, say, nephews of rebellion figureheads. Or sons of anarchist mayors.
My voice is quiet when I speak next. "Did you know him? The son . . . Reed, right? Reed Endive."
Up until now, Lewellyn's scowl has been as still and strong as the stone walls around us. But the moment I mention the name, his lip trembles.
My mom told me the stories of Reed Endive. They were her favourites for when I was acting particularly disagreeable or apathetic to the rebel cause. The way my mom recounted it, you'd have thought I was supposed to see the kid as a role model. "Look at this boy, giving up his eye for the war. Now his ear. Now his finger. Why aren't you sacrificing that much for the districts, Kale?"
My stomach twists at the thought. "Did they really . . . While he was alive, did they . . . fuck."
Lewellyn shakes his head. He's looking at the wall again, and I'm surprise when I get an actual, albeit whispered response. "Not while he was alive. I mean, with the eye, yes, but he . . . died too quickly after for them to do anything else."
"They killed him?"
"No. Sort of. It was . . ." Lewellyn's voice peters out into either a chuckle or a sob. With his face turned away, I can't tell. "There was this girl." His voice is hollow, but there's a tinge of disgust framing these last words as he spits them out. "This rebel operative. She had help, got out. They cracked down hard on security after that. Wanted to make it clear there was no escape. You ever seen a force field?"
"No." I'd heard of them—they're all over 11 now—but my backwater town wasn't important enough to merit one.
"They started making them before the war. We had a couple prototypes in Two, trying to help prevent cave-ins, keep people away from dangerous cliffs. Effective, but deadly if you walked into them. Worse than electric fences. I'd seen a couple. But I was too stupid to realise it."
"What happened?"
"They let everyone out into the yard. And one of the gates had been left open." Lewellyn's shoulders shake as they move in time with his breaths. "They wanted to show escape was impossible. More effective, apparently. Guess they didn't think it'd be the mayor's son who'd be the first to make a break for it."
". . .Shit."
Lewellyn laughs. "Yeah. Yeah, it is shit."
He turns back to where I've been kneeling, frozen at his side. Fresh tear tracks have cleared some of the grime from his cheeks.
"You know, that girl, the one who escaped, she's here." He's rambling now, spitting out words as fast as he can. I don't know if his emotions are getting the best of him, or the painkillers are wearing down his walls, but something's got him talking, and he doesn't look like he can stop. "The Six girl, it was her. What a fucking coincidence, right? I didn't know it at first, but she mentioned it, and I . . . I let her go. When she . . . she was the one who killed him. It was her fault. And I didn't do anything."
"Lewellyn—"
"He deserved more." The boy's fist beats weakly against the floor. "He was kind, he was smart, and his father just gave up on him and then I . . . she . . ."
I'm starting to get concerned by just how violently Lewellyn's shuddering. "Lewellyn—Aemilius, it's all right."
"It's not all right! He died because of her. And I could have brought him justice, but I didn't because she fed me some bullshit about helping each other heal." He leans his head back against the wall, eyes closed, tears seeping out from beneath the lids. "And I fell for it. Every damn time, I fall for it. I'm just . . ." His voice breaks. There's a wet gasp, a choked sob. "A puppet. A useless, naïve puppet."
"Hey," I murmur, but Lewellyn doesn't look up. "Listen, Aemilius . . . Del."
Sam's nickname gets him looking at me, at least. He's still crying, chest heaving, but it seems like he's listening.
"You're not a puppet, and you're not naïve. It's a shitty world we live in when trusting people is seen as a bad thing—but that's not your fault. None of it is your fault."
He trembles at that, yet, strangely, it seems like a good sign. I'm not great with people, but I get the feeling that this is something Lewellyn—Del—has needed to hear for a while now.
"But . . ." He takes a deep breath. "The Six girl. I c-could have—"
"It wasn't your job to kill her, and you're not weak for not being able to do it. Take it from someone who knows: sparing the person you originally wanted to kill isn't the worst thing in the world."
I offer him a small smile as he considers this. Then, surprisingly, he chuckles.
"R-Right."
He takes a deep breath, slowly returning to himself. His shoulders aren't shaking quite as much, and his lip is twitching, trying to resume its natural grimace. He raises a hand to the tear tracks on his cheek and lets out a half-hearted groan.
"Fucking hell," he says, rubbing the trails away. "If I do this in front of you one more time—"
"Don't worry about it."
"I'm not normally like this."
"I know. You're normally a dick."
He snorts at that; it sounds weaker, less disparaging than usual, but he seems like he's on the upwards swing. Figuring he might want some privacy while he collects himself, I give him a soft pat on the shoulder and get up to go check out the hall. The sound of Del's slowing, calming breathing follows me across the room.
That's one ally who's all right now—for the moment, at least. Now all I have to worry about is the other one.
Chance Hensley, 12, District 2
I finished the last of the food I grabbed from the feast today. It wasn't much—a half a plum and a few slivers of what I think was . . . pork?—but I was originally planning on making it last a bit longer, until I smelled the meat. It's cold and dry in the Labyrinth, sure, but it's not exactly a refrigerator. My food was already going off, but I figured a stomach full of anything was better than nothing.
I promptly regret this about four hours later when I'm forced to collapse down some random hall during my usual scout of the Labyrinth. Inside my stomach, it feels like the food is doing cartwheels; all I can do is curl up on my side and try not to moan too loud. I just hope nothing I ate was too toxic
Acid burns the back of my throat, but I keep my jaw clenched firmly shut. Bad or not, that was probably the biggest meal I'll see for a while. I've been exploring all over the Labyrinth thanks to the map, and so far all I've seen in terms of food is a few stray rats running around and some patches of dubious-looking fungi growing in the dark corners of the halls.
My stomach churns, and I groan again, but somehow I manage to twist my neck enough to let my forehead rest directly against the cool stone floor. It feels a bit better—reminds me a bit of the cliffs and mountains back home.
That's an almost-nice thought I manage to hold on to for all of two seconds. Then I hear the footsteps. And the voice.
"Screw this. Screw this maze and everything it stands for."
Someone's coming down a nearby corridor. Someone who's going to see me the moment they set foot into the intersection.
Oh no.
I nearly hurl as I scramble onto my knees, one hand clapped tight over my mouth, the other helping me crawl away as fast as I can. I'll never make it down and out of the hall in time, but there's a door to my right that's not too far; I don't remember where it leads, but anywhere is better than here.
Behind me, the footsteps grow louder. From the voice, I think it's a girl, but beyond that, I can't tell anything about who they are. What girls are left in the arena? Could I take any of them on in a fight?
Not in the state you're in, that's for sure. Move, Chance! Move fast!
I try. My arms are burning, my stomach tied in knots as I keep shuffling on my knees towards the door. There's no way I'm going to make it. The footsteps are too loud; any second now the person is going to—
". . . screw this maze's mother, and its father, and its—oh."
She's seen me.
Oh god.
I don't look back, too busy lunging for the door just a little bit further ahead. Whoever it is, she still has to run to catch me, and if I can just get inside, I might be all right. I will be all right. My stomach protests as I scramble to my feet, but fear and adrenaline keep the nausea at bay as I grab for the doorknob and—
Locked. The door's locked.
My eyes fall to the small keyhole set just below the doorknob, and I nearly start to cry. Out of all the doors in this stupid maze, I've found my way back to the only one that's locked, and now I'm going to die.
"No," I murmur, jerking the doorknob left and right. Down the hall, the footsteps are approaching. "No, no, no, please."
"Won't open?"
I gasp, whirling around to face the approaching tribute. It's a girl, like I thought, with curly orange hair and a bunch of freckles. The 5 girl, the one who bowled over the girl from 10 at the feast.
I suck in another sharp breath, one hand still fiddling with the doorknob, the other groping madly for the knife in my belt. The girl has one too—I can see it glinting in the torchlight—but she makes no move to grab for it. Her eyes aren't even on me; she's staring at the door, a confused frown on her face.
"I've see doors blocked by stone walls, but never one that's been straight-up locked. And is that . . . a keyhole?" She looks at me, brow furrowed. "What's up with that?"
I ignore her, doing my best to pull off a menacing glare as I brandish my knife with one hand. My stomach twists sickeningly. "S-Stay away from me."
The girl puts her hands in the air; I'd feel a bit more confident if there wasn't a smile growing on her lips. "Hey, kid, I don't want any trouble. Just wanted to let you know you dropped this."
She waves a yellowed piece of paper clenched tight in her right hand. It takes a moment for it to click.
My map. It was lying beside, completely forgotten as I tried not to be sick, and I didn't spare it a moment's thought once I heard the tribute coming. My one advantage over the older, stronger kids in this arena, and I've lost it.
No, not yet. "Give it to me," I snap, hoping my legs don't look as shaky as they feel. "Now."
"Hang on." The girl unfolds the paper, glancing over it with a grin. "This is a map of the maze, isn't it? It's brilliant! Kid, am I glad I ran into you."
"Give me the map."
She whistles over my voice, continuing to scan the page—I don't think she realises she's holding it upside down. "I'm going to assume you didn't draw this, but some of these markings are yours, right?"
"Give it to me." Fear is making my voice almost as high as hers. "Right now. Or I'll kill you."
She raises her hands again, but her smirk is telling me she's not taking this seriously. "All right, all right, I will. But I need your help first."
"Why should I help you?"
"Because me and my allies have a plan, and if we pull it off, you'll benefit too. Help me and you'll get three steps closer to winning this thing. You could help me take out the biggest threats in this arena and you wouldn't even have to put yourself in danger to do it."
"Wh-Who are the threats?"
"The Ten girl. And the pair from One. If you'd ever run into them, trust me, you'd know they're bad news."
Oh, I do. I remember the gurgles and gasps from Stanley as Vesper stabbed him in the chest. And the Ten girl, she . . . she was the one who killed Milo.
No, you killed Milo when you ran away.
But you wouldn't have had to run if the Ones hadn't come.
It . . . It was their faults. If Stanley hadn't died, he could have stuck around to help us. Jeanette wouldn't have lost her mind, and I wouldn't have been forced to abandon Milo. We all could have been okay.
Deep down, I know that's not true, but I want to believe it. And I want to believe everything is the fault of the Ones because hating them is so, so much easier than hating myself. Yet I can't stop thinking about Riley's words to me at the feast.
"Want me dead? You know who thinks about that stuff? Psychos."
I gasp, my stomach lurching as I take a step away from the other girl.
She frowns. "You all right?"
"I don't want them dead," I blurt out. "I don't . . . I'm not a psychopath."
"Of course not," the girl says quickly. "Neither are we. It's the Ones that are nuts. Tesla Sinclair, specifically. She's the one making her district partner do awful things. All we want to do is help him get justice for that."
"Y-You said you wanted to take them out."
She waves a hand dismissively. "Poor phrasing. Look, kid, it's complicated, but the bottom line is, we're going to make Vesper see how evil she is, then he's going to punish her."
"By killing her."
"That's up to him. What he does won't be on any of us."
"What about the Ten girl?"
"We're not sure yet. I need to see where she fits into all of this—which is why I need your help." The girl scans the map again, still holding it upside down. "I've been trying to find them for ages, but I'm a shit navigator. Think I've been going around in circles. But you seem to know this place pretty well. What are these markings you've made here?"
She flips the parchment over to me, pointing her finger in turn at three black, smudged circles. Beside each are a couple of shaky numbers I drew with the charcoal from an extinguished torch.
I keep my mouth shut, not sure if I should respond. She sighs.
"Look, kid, I need to find the Ones. And I'd really like you to help me with that. But if I have to do it on my own, I will."
"I won't let you take the map."
"Frankly, I don't think you can stop me. I've seen glue sticks less pasty than you."
She's right; it's taking all of my energy just to keep myself upright, and even then I'm practically bent double, leaning against the useless door for support. I can't fight her, and if I don't help her, I'll lose my map. Maybe more than that. She might smile a lot and seem casual with her words, but there's something about this girl that makes me think she just might kill me.
"Okay." I swallow hard, stomach twisting at the thought of what I might be getting myself into. "I'll help."
The girl's whole face lights up. "Fantastic! Glad to have you on board."
"But I'm just going to show you where the Ones are," I add. "After that, I'm leaving. With my map."
"Of course, of course. But you're saying you do know where they are?"
I nod to the map. My vision's so blurry I can't see the finer details, but I know what's there. "Find the circle with the ones beside it."
"Ones . . ." She scans the map, then stops. "Oh. '1110,' it's one, one, ten. I'm such an idiot. And . . . here. '5511.' You know where we're camped as well?"
I start to nod, but stop almost immediately. The mere act makes me nauseous.
"And here, just an eight. The Eight girl, right? Holy crap, kid, you're amazing."
"I like to . . . know where people are," I stammer, wiping a hand across my brow. This place suddenly feels like a sauna.
"Well, so do I, so, lead on!"
"Just . . . wait."
"For what?"
In response, I drop to my knees and throw up every bit of my last good meal.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
The spot where I collapsed isn't actually too far from where I last saw the Ones camped out. Today was supposed to be the day I went to check up on them to make sure they weren't moving anytime soon, but that plan went off the rails pretty quick. Still, I've resumed heading there now, and while time always feels like it moves slower in this maze without the sun to guide us, I'm pretty sure it shouldn't be taking us this long to get there.
"Slow down, kid. Jeez, you're as bad as my district partner. Does Two teach you to march straight out of preschool?"
I sigh, turning around and waiting for the girl—Samantha, she said her name was—to catch up. My legs still feel a little weak, but I've been steadily gaining strength as we've been walking through the tunnels. The only problem is while I'm getting better, Samantha's getting worse. She doesn't seem to have the best endurance.
"I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible," I say, directing her down the right tunnel as we approach the intersection. "We're almost there."
"Thank god."
"And remember, sound carries down these tunnels." My words echo faintly back to us over the sound of our reverberating footsteps. "So, you know—"
"Shut up?"
"Yeah. Please."
Samantha smirks, but she doesn't say anything else as we continue on, and her footfalls do get a bit quieter. Or maybe that's just because the floor's getting more dusty, muffling our steps as we get closer to our destination. I wonder why . . .?
Oh. No, I know why. I saw the same thing when I found that destroyed door set into a wall showered with blood. Unlike the map room, that smelled; that was real. A tribute had actually died there—there was too much blood for anything else to have happened. And yet all down the corridor were faint red trails, like the person had been dragged off somewhere.
I didn't risk following the blood; I knew what I'd find at the end. The note in the map room had warned me about it.
Beware the Minotaur.
My hands are trembling again, my ears strained to catch the barest hint of anything living in these tunnels. At the moment, all I can hear are my own sharp gasps and Samantha's laboured breathing.
For now.
"This way," I whisper to Samantha, motioning her down another intersection. We find ourselves in a long corridor that splits off into two more tunnels at the end of it. Down the left is the hall with the door to the last known location of the Ones.
I motion to Samantha to be as silent as possible, and together the two of us tiptoe down the corridor. There's more dust here, shaken from the ceiling; the Minotaur definitely came this way. But there haven't been any cannons since the boy from 4 died last night. Whether that's good or bad, I don't know.
I stop Samantha with a gesture as we reach the end of the hall, pointing to the left corridor and mouthing, "Door around corner." She nods, stepping past me to look. I wince every time her foot touches the ground.
"Holy shit."
I want to hit her for making a sound, even if it was whispered, but that would be putting us in a worse situation. Instead, I hold my breath and prepare for the worst.
Seconds pass without two murderous District 1 tributes appearing. I exhale slowly, ignoring Samantha's pat on my shoulder until she hisses my name.
"Chance."
My finger goes to my lip immediately, but she ignores me, gesturing for me to look around the corner. I have absolutely zero desire to do so, and yet I don't want Samantha so much as whispering my name again. If the wrong person hears us—or the wrong thing—we're dead.
So I follow her lead and peer slowly around the corner to the corridor beyond. It looks about the same as all the others, save one difference: the door set into the far wall is warped and dented, like it just got hit by a truck. Or something stronger.
"What do you think did that?" Samantha breathes in my ear as I pull back around the corner, heart drumming painfully against my chest. "There haven't been any cannons. Do you think they're still . . . oh."
Samantha stops short, listening intently. I flinch as a new sound reaches my ears, but it's not the roar of a monster that I was fearing; it's human, feminine, and loud, like someone's near shouting.
"That's her." Samantha smirks. "So, what should we do—?"
I don't hear the last bit; I'm already gone, taking off down the hall as fast as my shaky legs will carry me. The map is scrunched up in my fist, impossible to read, but that's fine. All I need is to get away from here.
I wait for the sound of pursuing footsteps, but there are none. Good. I saw the way Samantha eyed the map; if she got me in a position where she could take it from me and keep it for good, I have no doubt she'd do so. It's better this way—she can't catch up to me, and she can't risk calling my name and drawing attention to herself.
Besides, I did what she asked. That was the Ones' last base, and from the sounds of it, at least someone is still there.
Too bad for them. I'm getting out of here while I still can.
Reese Durnham, 18, District 10
"They just tried to kill us. Do you understand? The Gamemakers just tried to kill us!"
"We don't know what that was," I say, watching Tesla limp about in front of Vesper and I. "Tesla, please—"
"You know damn well what that was, unless you were stupid enough not to listen to your escort. What did ours say, Vesper? About what we might find in the arena?"
Vesper glances nervously at me. Since our fight with Aemilius Lewellyn, he's barely left my side. The odd time I've had to leave him, I've come back to find him shaking, eyes shut, hands over his ears, or else madly scraping his nails against his tunic like that's going to get Aemilius's blood out. I think he's worried that without me, he might do something violent again, and I feel for him, I really do, but he hasn't slept since the fight, which means I've hardly had a chance to rest either. It's been rough. Especially since I'm even more worried for his district partner.
"Vesper!" Tesla snaps, stopping her pacing to glare at him. "What did our escort say?"
He jumps and quickly stammers, "M-Muttations."
"Exactly. I'm assuming you do know what those are, Reese, considering your district was the one that created them."
"So it was a mutt," I say, still trying to be calm. "But Tesla, that doesn't mean—"
"Of course it does! Damn it, are you thick? It's a warning, and if we don't act on it soon, the next time it comes around, we're not going to get off so easily."
Her voice crescendos on the last word before falling silent; furiously, she resumes her pacing. Vesper watches her go, sitting so close to my side I can feel him trembling. It's all I can do not to sigh.
Early this morning, we were treated to a bit of a nasty surprise: a deafening, ferocious bellow, the kind I might have likened to a bull's had I ever heard any bull as loud and angry as that animal. Nor had I ever heard a bull with hoofbeats that rumbled like thunder
We hadn't been able to do anything, all of us too shocked too react. By the time Tesla opened her mouth to give orders, the sound of racing hooves had grown so loud, we had our hands slammed over our ears. Still, each of us seemed to understand that if we left our base, we would be dead. But if we waited by the back wall and whatever the arriving thing was smashed its way into the room, we'd be trapped. So, as one, we lined up alongside the door, Vesper and I on one side, Tesla on the other, each clutching weapons tight to our chests. We weren't fooling anyone though; Vesper was crying just like me, and I could see Tesla shaking so badly she could barely hold her machete. If the beast outside came for us, at least one of us would die.
And then, just when I thought the thundering hooves would become so loud, my eardrums would crack, they stopped. Almost. Instead of a droning tidal wave of noise, we heard first one heavy, echoing clip-clop, then another. Like the monster outside was on its hind legs walking upright—and walking slow. No animal I'd seen had ever done that.
We waited, each of us holding our breath, as the individual hoofbeats grew louder—closer—until they seemed like they were right outside our base. Then they stopped completely.
BANG!
I gasped. Vesper nearly collapsed. As did our door, which folded inward like it was made of paper. One more hit and it'd have been torn off its hinges completely. As it was, I could see through the new cracks between the door and its frame; through these, blocking all light from the hallway torches, was something dark and massive that carried with it the curiously familiar scent of my ranch and the horridly familiar stench of death.
In that moment, I was so sure I was going to die. All I could think about was my siblings back at home, and my mother, and . . . Milo.
Was this how scared he felt, when stuck him with the needle?
Did . . . Did Riley feel this way before I killed him?
The thought was so unsettling, I was almost glad I wouldn't have the time to mull it over.
Only, I did. Because after one savage roar that sent all three of us to our knees, the creature outside turned away from the door and took off down the tunnel. I couldn't believe it at first; I don't think anyone could. Nobody spoke until the echoes of hoofbeats had long faded from the tunnels. Even then, no one wanted to move—certainly not to go outside where the beast might have been.
Of course, the fear eventually turned into anger for Tesla, anxiety for Vesper, and weariness for me. So now we're here, Vesper curled up at my side and Tesla ranting in front of us.
"I told you we needed to move," she mutters. "Damn it, why didn't we move?"
"Tesla, I'm sorry." I struggle to find more words, wondering if any possibly exist that could calm her down. "But nothing happened. No one got hurt. If we'd been in one of the hallways and that thing had come—"
"You're missing the point!" Tesla all but screams. I can't help but notice that, while she's talking to me, her eyes are continuously jumping back to Vesper. "If we'd been out doing things, the Gamemakers never would have sent that thing after us in the first place. I keep telling you, it's a warning. You screwed us, Durnham, and now we're paying the price."
She takes another step on her bad leg, and her features contort into an ugly grimace. Seems her anger is no longer enough to keep the pain at bay.
With that, Tesla groans, collapsing back against the wall across from us. For a moment I worry she's seriously hurt, until she puts her head in her hands and mutters, "And we were doing so well. So well until you came along."
That stings, even if I try to pretend otherwise. It also seems rather untrue, as I nearly point out; Tesla's burns and Vesper's deteriorating mental state don't really hint towards a past that went "well." But I catch myself just in time to keep the harsh words from escaping. They'd only lead to further arguments.
Besides, I . . . I do feel bad for Tesla. And I think, to a certain degree, I understand her—at least, how she feels about me and Vesper. Haven't I been in situations like this before?
Yes. Only I was in Tesla's position.
When our farm was struggling, I was pulled out of school to work with my parents. Kids in 10 usually didn't get much formal education, but my mother hoped to keep my siblings in for at least another year. The only problem was she had no time to make the long trip to pick them up every day, so she asked the family on the ranch closest to us if they could help out. We knew the Franks a little bit, but it was still gracious of them to accept, especially since they did more than just get my siblings from school. My father's drinking was growing worse and worse, so to keep the young ones safe, Ma asked the Franks to look after the kids after school and often well into the evening. I hardly got to see them anymore.
Until the weekend of the Alvarna Community Fair, a sector in 10 of which we were a part. The war was still a distant, albeit unnerving worry, so our town's sub-mayor had pulled out all the stops for the festivities. My mother had even convinced my father to let us all go. I was so excited; finally, I'd be able to reconnect with my siblings.
Except all they wanted to talk about was Hadley. Hadley, the smart, funny, cool daughter of the Frank household who, incidentally, joined us at the fair. She was all smiles as told me what wonderful kids my siblings were, and how she wished she had some of her own. Then she made a joke about having to steal mine instead. To which my brother Jonathan, four years old and so shy I could barely make him talk, clapped and laughed and said, "Steal us, steal us! You can be our new big sister!"
It hurt. I thought I'd long run out of tears to shed, but more came that day when I watched Hadley carry my brother off on her back, both of them beaming without a care in the world. I wanted to scream that she didn't understand anything, that she only had my siblings around for a few hours a day while I was on our ranch working myself to exhaustion to help keep them fed and clothed. She thought it was so easy to take care of them, but she had no idea.
I did wind up confronting her about that, and I did yell at her. In response, she merely cried and apologised, speaking to me about how lonely it got around her place. She had no siblings, and she wasn't used to talking to people her age, so she'd made few friends as well.
That day, however, she got one. I don't remember exactly how we went from arguing to smiling, but today she's one of the few people that, besides my family, I'm desperate to see again.
Now, the roles have been reversed. I'm the carefree person who swooped in and "stole" Vesper after Tesla had been singlehandedly looking after him for two weeks. Does she feel the same burning resentment that had eaten into me? Probably—it might be even worse, if she has deeper feelings for him, as I still suspect she does.
So is it possible for us to make up and become friends, like Hadley and I did?
Maybe. I just have to make the first move.
"Tesla."
"What?" she snaps, looking up from her hands. Vesper flinches again.
"I'm sorry," I repeat, pausing in anticipation of her cutting me off. All she does is throw me a withering glare. Hoping that's some sort of progress, I continue, "I know I've changed things since joining you. I know it's been awkward because, well, we don't really know each other. Vesper and I, we . . . er, share some things in common. And I think you and I do too. We just haven't had the chance to talk about them yet."
Tesla snorts at that, but no words follow. Her earlier rant seems to have tired her out.
Emboldened, I keep talking. "I also think you're right. Maybe not about the . . . ah, killing, per se, but being cooped up in this room isn't helping anyone. I think we all need some rest, but after that, maybe we could go out searching for a new base? One with a, heh, sturdier door? We could split up from here, cover more ground, and then meet back up in about an hour to see what the other has found?"
"Right. So you and Vesper can go find the honeymoon suite while I limp around waiting for someone to kill me, is that it?"
"No! Not at all. I was actually thinking . . ." I take a deep breath. "We could go together."
In response, I get two shocked stares, followed by a synchronised "What?" Tesla's tone is skeptical; Vesper's is so high-pitched, it's almost a squeak.
"Y-You want . . ." Vesper's already paling. "You want to send me off alone? But w-what if . . ."
"It wouldn't be for long. And you'd be okay, Vesper. Believe in yourself." I offer him a warm smile. "I do. I know you can handle being on your own. It'd be good for you to realise that too."
I actually do think it would help build his confidence if he didn't have someone around who he was constantly looking to for orders. Besides, separating Tesla from Vesper would be good for her too; after so long watching out for him, I think it might be nice for her to have a break.
Vesper, however, doesn't look convinced. His wide eyes dart between me and Tesla, lips trembling as he stammers, "But what if something h-happens to you?"
It's moments like these where I feel horrible for even considering the idea that he's a burden; he's so concerned for our wellbeing, it makes me want to hug him. But I'm toeing a fine line here with Tesla, so all I do is squeeze his shoulder and say, "I think we'd be all right. We're both injured, sure, but together we could hold our own. If you were with one of us, the other would be left completely defenceless. But I know you can keep yourself safe. You're strong, Vesper, and brave."
I really do believe that, even though he looks like the complete opposite at the moment. It sends a pang of sympathy through my heart, especially since his fears aren't unfounded; with that creature out there, splitting up isn't without its dangers, but if we remain together under this failing dynamic, I worry for the future of our alliance. What I need is time to talk to Tesla, alone, without Vesper clinging to my side and fueling her grudge against us both.
Speaking of Tesla, the decision is up to her. Whether she's unstable or not, contesting her position as leader of this alliance would not be a good move on my part.
So I look to her, and am surprised to find her staring right back at me. She pays no attention to Vesper, even when he stammers her name, searching for guidance. Her expression is unreadable.
Seconds pass. Vesper's shaky pleas dwindle into silence as Tesla shows no sign of responding. She's too busy processing my plan, probably calculating the probability of something going wrong. I'll admit, there is a chance of that, but as this morning proved, we're no safer here. Eventually, Tesla must realise that, because she shakes herself out of her thoughts and says, "Yes."
I'm too surprised to respond properly. "Sorry, what?"
"Yes. I think we should do it. Vesper searching in one direction, you and me in the other. It's logically sound. We'll leave after we rest." She's already turning away from us, lying on her side to face the wall. Only then do I hear a murmured, "Well done, Durnham."
My smile grows so wide, my cheeks hurt from the strain. Already she's praising me, and we haven't even talked yet. This is going even better than I hoped; it feels like an enormous weight has been lifted off my chest.
Mark my words, Tesla Sinclair, we'll be friends by the end of this. I know it.
Samantha Marie Hoffman, 17, District 5
I knew it. I knew it!
I can't stop smiling as I continue to peer through a crack between the warped door and the wall. The conversation seems to be over; Tesla's on the ground preparing to sleep, and from the rustling I hear, it sounds like her allies are doing the same. I should get back to my own team, report in on what I've learned—but I can't stop staring at the 1 girl's vulnerable back.
I knew she couldn't beat me. Hell, she was too stupid to even notice me watching her through the sliver in the doorframe. Not a great vantage point by any means, but I saw more than enough. And unlike the idiotic 10 girl, I know what's going on.
In a few hours' time, they're going to send Vesper off. He'll be wandering the corridors alone and afraid—and far from the influence of Tesla. She's going to be with Reese, supposedly searching for a new base.
But I know what's going to really happen. I saw that split-second look on her face before she turned away.
Tesla is going to kill Reese.
Still unable to stop grinning, I begin to crawl away from the door on my hands and knees, moving as quietly as I can. No one makes a sound inside the base, raising the alarm or coming out to see me. They're all too ignorant.
Once I'm far enough from the door, I get up and run. There's still a stitch in my side, but I can hardly feel it over the exhilaration coursing through me. Ahh, this is amazing! This is the single best outcome I could have hoped for. Soon, Tesla Sinclair is going to lose everything.
And I'm going to win.
