A/N: This chapter was a bit harder to get out, since I had midterms. (I also had a snow day on the 27th, though, which was awesome.) I hope you like it.
The Arena
1244 hours
20:02:44:36
Anvil Wolfe is tired.
After so many days of running and fighting and not daring to let his guard down for even a moment, it is only natural than even a tribute as hardy as he would become exhausted. It is at these moments that the sixteen-year-old regrets terminating his previous alliance. He had not completely trusted Zarath or Edelweisse, of course, but he had trusted them not to betray him, not to slit his throat in his sleep. But now Zarath and Edel are dead, and there is no one to watch Anvil's back, awake or asleep.
Twenty days after the gong that began it all, ninety are dead. Six remain, Anvil plus five others, five who he does not want to fight, five who should each be allowed to walk out alive and unharmed, the blood on their hands and the awful memories more than enough punishment for their ancestors' deeds so many years ago.
But Anvil is not naive, nor is he a liar, to himself or to others. He knows a fight is inevitable. Unless he dies before encountering another tribute or the others kill each other off for him, blood will be spilled. All he can do is hope it is not his.
Anvil's pace has slowed to a sluggish tread. He is determined not to appear weak to the viewers and potential sponsors, but the exhaustion has leeched the strength from his muscles. He fumbles for the canteen in his pack and lifts the metal rim to his dry lips. He tilts it back, and a drop of water slips onto his parched tongue, but nothing more.
Anvil groans and leans against the building. That's right - he finished his water this morning. He remembers it now, swallowing down the last mouthful, dreading the hours to come. Knowing that if he was not sponsored soon he would not have long to live.
In his mind's eye he sees his mother's face, lined and tired, smiling as her dark eyes meet his. She reaches out to touch his cheek. Anvil, my boy...
A wave of overwhelming sadness washes over Anvil. Mother.
And then she is really there, standing beside him, the cobblestone background fading to a distant blur. Anvil, you've made it far.
So I have. I've missed you, Mother.
She hugs him tightly, her tears dampening the sleeve of his ragged jacket. There's a fight coming, Anvil. Promise me you'll win.
I'm not sure I can do this, Mother, Anvil whispers, the cold itch of fear creeping back up his spine.
Nonsense. Be brave, Anvil. All our hopes are resting on you.
Something falls to the ground with a loud clatter. Anvil's mother disappears, and the street surges back into focus. Anvil lifts his mace, adrenaline coursing through him. Someone is near.
At the corner of his vision Anvil sees something move. He whips around. It's a kid a few inches shorter than him, dressed not in a tribute's suit but in a plain gray tunic. Anvil does not recognize him. The boy bends down and picks up a short sword from the ground, his shoulders hunched against the cold. When he straightens, his eyes, so blue Anvil can pick out their shade from across the street, find Anvil's.
"Who are you?" Anvil calls.
The boy shivers, both from the cold and from fear. "I - I'm Jake. Jake MacNeil." He glances left and right, but there is nowhere to run. One one side is a tall stone wall, on the other an armed tribute.
"You're not a tribute," Anvil says.
"No - I mean, I wasn't. I don't know what I am now. I should be here. But I am. I just woke up on a ladder, going down." Jake's eyes are fixed on the larger tribute's mace. "Are you a Career?"
Anvil makes a face. "No, I'm not a Career."
Jake exhales in relief. "You still shouldn't kill me. I'm one of the Gamemakers' experiments."
"Or a mutt." Anvil's expression is unreadable. "A mutt they sent into the arena to mess with me."
"No!" Jake cries. "I'm not a mutt, I swear. I'm an experiment, and the Gamemakers wouldn't want you to kill me. If you try, you'll be putting your own life on the line."
Anvil almost laughs. "Putting my life on the line? My life has been dangling off the line for three weeks now. Why do you expect the Gamemakers landed you in here? If you were a precious mutt they didn't want anyone to kill, I doubt they would have let you run into me."
Jake wipes a bead of sweat from his forehead. "So you're going to kill me."
"It depends," Anvil says, and Jake slumps with relief. "Have you any water?"
The teenager freezes, alarmed. He pats at the pockets of his tunic, but comes up empty handed. "I - I, um, I'm afraid I don't have much on me."
"Your sword, then," Anvil says. "I will not let you go free with a weapon."
Jake hesitates, but reluctantly starts towards Anvil. Something catches Anvil's eye as Jake approaches: a misplaced cobble, torn from its place and turned haphazardly on its side, as if removed and carelessly replaced. And under it, a small red flag.
Anvil recognizes it immediately: a land mine, hardly a meter in front of him. He steps back instinctively, opening his mouth to warn Jake, but just as the words leave his mouth the boy's foot lands heavily on it.
The world erupts in an explosion of stone shards and flesh. Anvil falls backwards, his hands clamped over his ears, his eyes squeezed shut, a cry slipping from his lips. The explosion ends as quickly as it began, but Anvil remains curled on the ground long after. How long he lies there he does not know. All he knows is the feeling of the cobblestones pressing against his shaking shoulder.
When Anvil finally rises, it is to a soft, high tone and the glint of silver. He turns from the gaping hole and fumbles for the clasp of the parachute. It takes him several minutes, but when he succeeds, something cool spills out over his fingertips, washing off the dirt and the grime.
Water.
Anvil does not bother to free the canteen from the parachute, but lifts the container to his lips and drinks.
Rainwater washes down the corner of street, the last remnants of the brief downpour early this morning. A girl squats by the gutter, a thirteen-year-old with tired eyes and dark hair gathered by a fraying band. In one hand the clutches the strap of a worn backpack, and in the other she holds the reddish gray shards of a cobblestone. A 12C is pinned to the sleeve of her jacket.
One by one Naya Smoke casts the stones into the thin stream of water, watching as the ripples expand in concentric circles, eventually washing over her boots, which are crossed at the ankles resting on the gutter. Periodically her eyes sweep up and down the street, but she sees nothing but an endless gray expanse of cobblestones and dust.
Naya wants to collect the water, to store it in her spare canteen, which she did not get the opportunity to fill during this morning's downpour. Her throat is dry, but she is reluctant to spend her carefully preserved water. While she would like to fill her canteen in the somewhat clear water streaming into the gutter, she knows it has accumulated several blocks worth of dirt and grime by now. She would rather endure the thirst than sicken.
The hours are winding down. Six tributes remain, and at least one more is likely to fall today. The Capitol will be growing impatient for the endgame. The Games have lasted three weeks now. It is time for the showdown.
Naya has always had a decent level of self confidence, but though she had told herself repeatedly since the reaping that she would make it, that she would be the victor this year, never before had it seemed any more than a fantastical daydream. Winning the Games, that was something the rich kids of Districts One and Two and Four did, not a measly town child from District Twelve. But now her odds have increased from hardly over one percent to a rich sixteen point six seven percent. Should another die, her odds would from there jump to twenty percent, and then to twenty-five, and up and up until she has done it, until she has become the first victor from District Twelve in a quarter century.
But as the tribute count diminishes, the number of targets for the Gamemakers decreases as well. If a day is boring, the odds of Naya being affected by a Gamemaker's plan is far higher. The Gamemakers will want to get at least one more stab in before the Games end, that is certain. What will they do? Breed a new batch of mutts? Host another Merging - throw the remaining six tributes into a three by three meter room and force them to hack it out until five are dead?
So deep is Naya in her contemplation of how she will die that she does not notice the parachute until it rests on her knee, the silver netting still billowing in the gentle breeze. Excitement courses through the thirteen-year-old as she breaks open the metal lid and removes a small canteen of water, an apple and a large sandwich.
Sponsors. Naya can't remember the last time she laid eyes on a gift from outside the arena. It has been days. Weeks.
Naya opens the canteen and lets the water stream into her mouth, relishing the feeling of the cool liquid moving down her dry throat, tears budding in her eyes for the first time in weeks. She has water now, and food, and her knife. She is as prepared as she will ever be for the final fight.
District 7 Male A: Jeffane Stoil's POV:
Guilt has swamped me since the moment I left Jonan alone last night, sleeping and utterly defenseless. I have felt anger before, and sorrow, and even sparing moments of happiness, but guilt is a new emotion for me, and I am not sure how to deal with it. I want to believe it was for both of our benefits that I left Jonan, but part of me screams at me that I have killed him, that he cannot survive for even a day without me.
It is time to see if that is true.
The Capitol anthem blares from invisible speakers, and the red seal appears overhead. Two have died today, lowering our numbers to six. Of the ninety-six healthy, breathing children who entered this arena three weeks ago, six are alive.
The first face is one that I recognize but cannot assign a name to. It is a boy from District Four, a boy who can't be more than a year or two older than me. I do not know him, as many do not, but somewhere someone is crying out his name, sobbing with the knowledge that he will never return. Somewhere, someone's life has been ruined beyond repair.
The boy fades away, and a resist the urge to close my eyes. I must know who the second death is. I must.
A new image forms on the screen: a young boy, not yet into his double digits, with light brown hair and angry eyes. I shut my eyes tight as soon as I see it, but the image is forever ingrained on my closed eyelids, the ghost of a boy I could have protected, the ghost of a boy I left to fend for himself. I might as well have killed him.
I bury my face in the crook of my arm to muffle the scream that rips from my throat. I left him, I killed him, I am a murderer, and no longer simply out of self defense. Jonan was my friend, a small child who depended on me simply to live, and I chose to let him die. No, it was not passive - it was my action that led to his death.
The bitter words play over and over again in my mind, battering me with all of their terrible strength: my fault, my fault, all my fault.
When I awoke this morning I was still sprawled on the street, my backpack lying a few feet away, my sleeves stained with last night's hopeless tears. When I lived in District Seven I committed myself to being stoic and never shedding a tear. But it did not matter, none of it mattered. There was no point to any of it, from my struggles against my family to my own values. What silly things I was concerned over.
When I volunteered, never did I imagine that I would end up here, crying on the street for a child. Not for a sibling, and certainly not for an unremarkable eight-year-old I had only met in the Capitol. Never did I imagine that the Games Effect that victors speak of would affect me in any shape of form. They say the Games changes you in ways you cannot imagine, and that is true; never could I imagine it.
I am completely vulnerable now. My sword is lying several feet away next to my backpack. I am oblivious to everything beyond the cobbles surrounding me. If a tribute came along now, whether they are a Career or a child, they would be able to take me down. I would not see it coming, and even if I did, why should I stop them? If I win, what is in it for me? I do not want to live in a secluded house in District Seven's Victor's Village, plagued by nightmares and memories. I know I will never be able to forget the sight of Jonan, curled up so peacefully on the floor of that damned room, not knowing that when he woke up, if he even got the chance to wake up, he would be utterly alone in a world of blood and stone.
I do not know how much time has passed since I awoke. It may have been ten minutes, or ten hours. I am neither hungry nor thirsty, and I have no reason to arise. Why should I expend whatever energy I have left? I have no use for it. There is no reason to do anything, now. I can only sit and wait, for what I do not know.
The street has become a distant smear of gray, replaced by faces. Jame, Mika, little Chiny. Kaila and Jonan, Belladonna and Axel. So many faces I will never see again, swimming before my unfocused eyes, clammering at me, asking me why I survived when they did not. Jonan stares at me with such hatred in his eyes, hatred that does not belong in a face so young.
Mika had never been fond of me, but now she shouts at me to move, to get up before the Gamemakers force me to. And perhaps they will do something to force me to move. It does not matter how they try to propel me. I do not care.
Something cold is slipping around my ankle. I slowly lift my heavy hand to touch it. It is slippery and scaly, a smooth cord with a diameter of maybe an inch. It is moving, wrapping farther up my calf. I open my eyes, and two bright green orbs stare back at me from the end of the thick column.
A snake.
I bite back a scream and lunge for my sword. My fingers reach the hilt, but a second serpent squeezed out from between two cobbles and wraps around my right arm. I try to pull away, but the snake is too strong. I hack at it with my sword, and it takes me four full swings to sever the thick body. I turn my attention back to the snakes at my feet. There are two now, one around each foot. I stab at one, but my blade slips off the scales and cuts into my calf.
I try to run, but the snakes hold my feet fast, and I tumble to the ground, somehow managing to keep my sword in my hand. As soon as my palm hits the ground, yet another snake squeezes from between the cobbles, moving up my right arm with surprising speed. I am about to swing at it when the first snake reaches the top of my leg and curls down into my trousers.
I yelp, twisting around in surprise. I fall to my back, and more snakes seethe instantly from the cobblestones, jumping at my arms, my legs, my torso. My neck. Horror shoots through me, and I struggle with all of my might. My efforts are in vain; the Gamemakers must have built these mutts from steel.
I can feel the cobbles disintegrating, and I know that beneath them the dirt has been replaced by snakes, tens of hundreds of them, all clamoring for my blood, seething.
A snake squirms over my eyes, and I feel myself being pulled down. I can feel the snakes rubbing against my back, and revulsion fills me.
I'm going to die. I'm doing to die.
I scream, and a serpent takes the opportunity, diving between my parted lips. It slides down my throat, and my little supply of oxygen disappears. The strength leaves my muscles, and the hissing fades away to a distant hum.
I'm going home.
They will lie me in the graveyard, Mother and Father, next to Jame, Mika, little Chiny. There I will rest.
The pain has faded, replaced by a soft buzzing in my muscles. For the first time in years the pain is gone, the struggle brought just by life in Panem. The faces return, but this time Jonan is smiling, and Mika rests her hand on my shoulder. And I know that soon I will be with her, resting only yards from her for all of eternity.
Somewhere far away, a cannon blows.
District One
0000 hours
The night is silent but for the breeze wafting through the empty streets of District One. It is long after curfew, and not a soul not clad in the white uniform of a Peacekeeper is in sight. Shutters have been closed, curtains pulled over windows. The long hand on the large district clock mounted above the Justice Building inches towards the twelve.
Twelve low gongs resound from the clock, rolling over the streets, reaching the outskirts of the districts and seeping into the barren hills beyond the fence. It is midnight.
A car pulls up silently beside an old brownstone only blocks from the district square. The doors swing open in unison and four armored Peacekeepers exit the vehicle. They pull open the trunk, revealing a wooden casket. They reach into the trunk and wrap their gloved fingers around the casket's handles. Their muscles tense as they pull the casket from the car.
The Peacekeepers slowly ascend the steps and deposit the casket just before the door of the brownstone. Three of the white-clad officers turn back, but the fourth lingers by the box, his fingers tracing the plain metal lock. His eyes bear sadness.
"Come," one of his companion urges him. "We haven't any more time."
"Wait." The word leaves his mouth, a hiss of steam in the silent air.
The Peacekeeper twists the latch and lifts the door of the casket, revealing a youthful face still vibrant with fading life, framed by wavy dark hair. In her death she has an ethereal agelessness; her face at once bears the youth and hope of a young child and the sadness of a woman wizened by all she has seen in her many years.
The man's eyes are drawn to the hands clasped over her abdomen. Under the laced fingers is a long ridge stretching from the top of her stomach to the hem of her tunic. An incision, precisely made but carelessly hidden. The Peacekeeper has heard the rumors, of course, the whispered tales of the pregnant sister of the district's last contending tribute, taken for care by the Capitol's medical team and never returned. It has been two days, and here she lies before her childhood home, her stomach concave.
The man has heard whispers from the Capitol as well, muttered words passed between the officials from whom his orders tonight came. Two, one had said. A boy and a girl.
I thought he didn't make it, a second had said.
He didn't, the first had replied. But one is enough. At that point they had seen him looking and abruptly cut off their conversation.
The man's attention returns to the body below him and wondered how the life had left her.
"Come now," the Peacekeeper beside the car repeats.
The man gives one last long look at the still form beneath him. Then he tears his eyes away and lowers the top of the casket, his hands shaking as he twists the latch. He hesitates for just a moment, his hand resting on the rim of the box, then turns and slowly walks back to the car.
A/N:
6) District 7 Male A: Jeffane Stoil, 12 - killed by mutts
Five left: Sage, Gemini, Woody, Anvil and Naya. Please rank them from one to five on who you want to win. I've got the layout of the next chapter done, but I'm continually switching between two potential victors. Thanks for reading and please review!
