Samantha Marie Hoffman, 17, District 5
It had never occurred to me that, up until now, Kale and I haven't actually done anything in this arena.
Okay, scratch that, I'm not giving us enough credit. We've done tons of things. We fought a lion. We blew up a replica of one of the biggest open-air stadiums in history. And, you know, we've been surviving this whole time too, so bonus points for that.
The thing that's missing though, I guess, is . . . consequences. Never thought I'd find myself using Dad's favourite word, but here we are, whoo.
Consequences.
After our first fight with Tesla and Vesper, we almost had to face that little word. But I've been (relatively) recovering, and the Ones popped up again in short order with a thirst for vengeance that outweighed any injuries they sustained. So, great. Reset. Round 2, go.
At the feast, I admit I almost, almost, for a shred of a second, felt something akin to fear as Tesla turned her eyes on me. One of those life-flashes-before-your-eyes moments, because I swore she was about to end me. Except then the floor dropped, and we got stuck in this stupid maze, and hey, no fight. Anticlimactic, but whatever. Round 3.
And now two people are dead.
We've been on the move ever since the anthem; Kale's setting an excruciating pace up ahead. I've been staggering along using the wall as support, my wound throbbing, my mouth dry at the thought of the painkillers in Kale's pack, but I don't ask him to stop. His shoulders are so tense they're nearly touching his ears, and his fists have been clenched this whole time. Whatever's going on in that head, there's only a flimsy veil keeping it from exploding out, and I'm not gonna be the one to pop that balloon.
Behind me, there's even more ragged breathing. Del hasn't said a word either, and I doubt he ever will, but I can't imagine he's doing well. To hear Kale tell it, Vesper wasn't trying to kill me when he attacked, but he certainly made his best attempt on my district partner.
We can't keep this up. But no one wants to risk a break where, god forbid, we have to deal with what went down yesterday. So on we march, listening only to our pounding footsteps, and the torches popping, and the increasingly monstrous growls of our empty stomachs.
We all smell it at the exact same time. I know it by our quiet, synchronised gasps.
Meat.
Kale's pace doubles, but so does mine, and somehow Del sounds like he's keeping up. Pure, base instinct takes over; if I was more than semi-conscious, I'd be grateful that every thought in my brain is now gone except foodfoodfoodfoodfood. It smells just like the roasted pork at the feast, the feast we literally just missed, and if something like that happens again, I will actually kill a man with my bare hands, I swear to—
I sniff. That wasn't just meat.
Pine. Sulphur.
Shit.
"Kale," I try to say, but my dry lips only mouth the word. He's practically jogging; it takes everything I have just to keep up. Danger is nowhere in my mind—just the soul-crushing knowledge that we won't be finding any food ahead. "Kale."
I watch him skid around the corner. And watch him go dead still with the same realisation.
No one immediately leaps out of the shadows with a murderous screech though, so I guess at least Tesla isn't still around.
I limp up to Kale's side and peek around the wall. And nearly laugh. Because we just went in a giant goddamn circle. There's the rotunda with the creepy death mosaics. The puddles of still-smoldering Greek Fire. And two corpses charred to a crisp.
And honestly, my first thought is thank god, because now Kale's going to force us to talk about this, but hell, at least we can do that sitting down.
I slide down the wall, close my eyes, and just breathe. Wild that I already don't smell the sulphur or burnt bits of flesh anymore—the human body really adapts that fast to familiar scents. From the sound of it, Del seems likewise unbothered as he collapses beside me.
Kale doesn't, though. His sandals click across the stonework and stop somewhere in the middle of the room.
When I open my eyes again, he's standing over a blackened skull that's gaping right at me.
My stomach twists, which I think is a bit unfair considering there's nothing in it, but there you go. That's life, I guess.
I'd never seen a dead body before these Games. Not in all five years of the war. And I wouldn't even quite count Selene, because that was more . . . pieces. Blink and you miss it.
So then I guess my first was Soren. And yet, I only remember his gruesome demise with a detached oh yeah. That happened. The details are gone; maybe my brain's way of protecting itself, scrubbing the slate clean of any image as horrific as a fifteen-year-old's pulverised skull. But I'm not so sure that's the only reason, because I also can't seem to recall . . . well, anything about Soren. What he looked like, you know, pre-head-smashing. Honestly, I'd completely forgotten right until now that we'd all witnessed his death.
So. Three bodies I've seen: Soren, and now, presumably, Reese and Vesper.
Reese.
Unlike Vesper, who remains an irritating mystery I'd unravel if I was in a better mood, I know exactly how the 10 girl died. Watched it, just like Soren. No more than a day ago. And yet there's that same black hole where my impression of her bloody demise should be. Definitely not my brain's fault this time, or PTSD or whatever—it's because my eyes were solely focused on Tesla during that entire encounter. If I really strain, I can hear a vague, ghostly gurgle of Reese choking on her own blood, but that was just a background track, hardly registered. All I really cared about in that moment was the sound of a cannon so I could start my slow clap.
Like some kind of two-bit villainous cliché.
"Did she die before or after you got here?"
And here we go.
I drag my eyes up to Kale, who's still fixed firmly on the corpse that I think was probably Reese. His jaw's clenched so tight it's hard to believe he actually spoke.
Del coughs up a lung at my side, forcing words through gritted teeth. "We should . . . leave. Tesla . . ."
Aw. Sweet of him to give me an excuse to avoid this. Or maybe he genuinely is worried Tesla could come back. Rational, but, buddy, we're past the point of no return on that one. My aching feet have decreed we are not moving for another hour, at least. Which means we've got all the time in the world to talk.
"Before," I say back to Kale, letting my head thunk back against the wall. "I got here mid-fight."
"And you didn't do anything."
"I didn't really want to get stabbed again." Come on now, Sam, that's not it. "And I wanted to see what would happen."
"What would happen."
Here it comes. The dam's a-breaking. Lay it on me, Kale. I can't even find it in myself to care.
"What happened," he says, still in that slow, deliberate first stage or a fury, "is two kids died."
"Yep."
"Any feelings, Sam? Anything going on in there at all?"
"Hey," Del says again, and bless him, I think he genuinely is defending me. Who'd have thunk. "This was—"
"This was not the plan!" Kale kicks out, just to show he's angry, I think. At least I'm pretty sure he didn't mean to hit the burnt-up skull, which his foot goes right through as part of it collapses in a puff of black dust. "Fuck, fuck!"
He staggers away, nearly tripping over the other corpse splayed out on the ground, and why am I tempted to laugh? I can almost hear Shelby's voice in my head. Not appropriate, Sam. And me, muffling a giggle, asking, Why not?
God, I miss my friends.
"Look at this shit! Fucking . . . god." Kale's regained his balance, leaning against the far wall of the rotunda as if physically repulsed by the corpses. He drags a hand over his face and man, when did he start looking thirty? "We just murdered two goddamn . . . fucking abuse victims."
"Wasn't technically us—"
Kale's glare would scare me cold if I wasn't so exhausted. "We planned it. Wanted it this way, did everything we could to make that happen You know what that is, that's first degree. Worst kind of murder."
"You're thinking of the old system, Kale. Now the Capitol shoots you no matter what kind of murder."
"Or anything else," Del mutters.
Kale stares hopelessly at him, like of all people he was expecting Del to back him up. Del, who, hey, I think is a cool guy, but also straight-up killed the Seven girl and like, you know, is all around a little questionable.
"So we're fine with this," Kale says slowly. "That's our stance. This is fine."
"I don't know what you're looking for," I say, and really, I don't. I get that he feels the need to pull this crap every time we do things against "societal rules," but for the love of Panem, those rules have very obviously been changed. They literally told us: murder is fine! Murder is fun! "Kale, I never spoke once to Vesper. I don't even remember Reese's last name."
"Durnham."
"Why? What does it matter?"
"She has a family, Sam."
"So does everyone. She's not special." It doesn't come out bitter; it's just . . . honest. "You've got a mom. I've got parents and a sister. And Del's got a stupid amount of second cousins or something. So what good is beating ourselves up over Reese and Vesper? Really?"
"Oh, I don't know, maybe it shows that we're human."
"Humans kill each other all the time and don't feel bad." I gesture vaguely to the arena at large. "Case in point."
"We're not like them."
"Hate to say it, but biologically, we are."
"Bio . . ." Kale shakes his head. Slowly at first, then faster, faster, until his matted dreads are cutting through the air. I can see his lip twitching, until finally he throws his arms out and snarls, "You're right. You're right! 'Cause I killed the president's brother!"
" . . . What?"
"My team. My bomb. We meant to get her, obviously, but whoops! Fuckin' blew him up. Just like Selene."
"Kale," Del says, very slowly, eyes on all the corners.
"Oh, they already know about it. Why else would I be here?" His hands drop, and so does the anger. "None of us would have been here. Every single death—"
Ah. Now I . . . well, I don't understand it, not quite, but there's one variable solved. "It's not your fault."
"It is, Sam."
"It's not," Del adds emphatically. "Trust me, you have no way of knowing how any of this would have gone otherwise. For all you know, it would have been just the same."
"For fuck's sake, don't comfort me! I literally just confessed to murder." Kale's hands are wringing a mile a minute; I don't miss the way his gaze flickers to the torches, though in a strange moment of self-awareness, he growls at his own behaviour. "And I'm not looking for excuses. I can't, because as soon as I get one, I think I can pull the same shit all over again. Fuck, Vesper was seventeen. He needed help." Kale's eyes drag across the other corpse, one blackened forearm still outstretched, as if reaching to him. "Instead, we got him killed. Him, and her, and everyone else."
Maybe I'm finally tired of this song and dance. Maybe I just want to sleep. Either way, I'd like to believe I'm still at least half-joking when I say, "D'you want me to kill you right now?"
Oh, that stops him cold. "What?"
"Hand over Del's knife. Between the two of us, we could probably figure it out. Make it pretty painless"
Del's hand brushes my arm. "Sam—"
"Come on, you got the Seven girl, right? You've had practice."
"Sam," Del repeats, and there's something about that classic Dad-voice he adopts that makes my throat close up. Quieter, he adds, "Don't say those things unless you're serious."
I glance over at Kale and am stunned to find his eyes wide. Like he's scared. Which is ridiculous because I'm a string-bean ginger flopped on the ground and Kale's 6'2" no matter how the arena eats away at him.
Maybe you're not a physical threat, doofus. Maybe you're an emotional one.
"I was just trying to make a point," I say, flapping my hands about like that's going to lighten the mood. "Twenty-four go in, one comes out. Kill or be killed. It's gonna keep going like this, so, you know, unless we choose the latter option, why waste time moaning over it?"
"And when it's one of us?" Kale's voice cracks, cracks there, and it hits me deep in my stomach harder than I'd thought it could. "You gonna moan over it then?"
"Come on, we don't have to think about that right now."
"You just did."
"As a joke. Are we not allowed to joke anymore?"
"No, Sam! No we're not!"
Maybe it's the shrillness grating my ears, or the concerned look from Del—Del, again,of all people—or the fact that the one-and-a-half skulls that were Vesper and Reese are presiding over this whole exchange like some kind of peanut gallery, but for the first time in life, I genuinely wonder if something is wrong with me.
Shelby used to say it, with a roll of her eyes. Marcus too, joking, but it still stung a little bit. And Natalie, my bright-eyed sister, who would giggle as she declared, "you're kinda scary, Banana."
I don't think anyone ever fully understood what they really meant by those words, me least of all. My life, even during the war, didn't afford the opportunity to really peel back the layers of my psyche. Sometimes, I used to lie awake at night worrying that I was, I dunno . . . missing a piece, I guess, but my grades were good and my employee record was flawless, and I was exceeding all the benchmarks of a normal, well-adjusted teenager, so I figured it didn't matter.
And it never has, until Kale gives me the same look he gave Tesla.
My first instinct is to protest, because I'm sick of Five and Three being constantly lumped together when we were basically peer-pressured into the war and still got the worst end of it. I've proved I'm smarter than Tesla Sinclair, proved I'm destined for more than a life in some power plant flipping switches so some lucky moron in Three has electricity to play with tech that I would die to lay my hands on. My parents got their goddamn PhDs when that still mattered, but now Doctors Hoffman and Hoffman work sixteen-hour days hauling boxes just to afford a tiny two-bedroom apartment with their two teenage daughters. Three, the rebellion, it all brought us nothing, so don't ever compare me to someone like that.
But of course, Kale's not thinking of Tesla-the-Three, he's thinking of Tesla-the-fucking-monster, and I've got no internal rant to disprove that one.
Kale knows it, too. So, after a shuddering breath, he turns and walks off down a tunnel.
"Kale!" Del calls, because I certainly don't have the energy. "Don't be an idiot—"
"I'm not," he hisses, whirling back around. "I'm not your idiot, or the 'stupid one', I'm the only guy on this team who ever actually thinks. About people. Other people." Abruptly, his gaze breaks away from Del. "Look, I . . . still don't know where I stand with you. But I get you, at least." A glance at me, quick and angry, like I'm not the person he's spent more than a dozen days looking out for. "Sam, I don't get. But I do know what both of you are going to keep doing, how you're going to keep playing this, and I can't. Not like that."
"Then you'll never win," I murmur into my knees. Louder than I thought, for Kale still hears.
"I was never going to. You heard what I did. They'll never let me leave alive." His eyes shine in the torchlight, damp, like he's only just fully accepted that. "But I get to choose how I go out."
And then he's gone.
Well, not quite so quick and painlessly—footsteps echo for a long time in this maze, and Del never stops shouting Kale's name. He even attempts to chase after him, but our forced march did a number on his wounds, and he never makes it off his knees. For my part, I keep silent and let Kale go.
The moment his last footfall fades, a panel in the ceiling slides open, and down drops a white parachute with a brimming picnic basket. Rye bread and cheese, fat bunches of grapes, smoked salmon—more food in one place than I've seen in weeks. It should be vindicating, to have one of my hypotheses confirmed: that the Capitol was deliberately starving us thanks to Kale's Eleven roots, as payback for their tactics in the war. I'd guessed it only two days into the Games, after the seventh house we'd searched turned up an empty kitchen like all the rest.
Why did I stay with him, then? Even when I knew the consequences?
I don't know—the question doesn't even register. Del and I are practically robots at this point, dragging ourselves over to the basket and stuffing our faces. It's weirdly hard for me to swallow, and I think Del's dripping tears on the apple slices, but neither of us stops. We just don't have the power to.
Not anymore.
Adia James, 15, District 3
Dust showers from the ceiling as a distant, thunderous footfall slams into the ground.
My own foot, hovering just overtop of the dim stone floor, freezes as I go completely still.
It's back.
Already my pulse is quickening, pounding in my ears, thump thump, thump thump, thumpthumpthumpthumpTHUMPTHUMP—
BAM! Not my heartbeat. That was another step from the monster in the maze.
I force my legs, stiff as stone, to turn. It's not just fear that's weakened them, but exertion, because I have lived this a thousand times over since I set out on my own.
It's hunting me.
But not anymore. No, this time, I'm going to stand my ground, and I'm going to keep my eyes open, and I'm going to stare this thing down when it comes for me, because fuck the Capitol, fuck them for treating me like some trapped rat in a maze, I'm Adia fucking James and I . . . I don't . . .
The torches are going out up ahead. Two by two, with the near-silent fwish of a vacuum. The wall of darkness creeps closer. Closer.
Stand. Your goddamn. Ground.
What was once an eighty-metre corridor is now eight. Seven. Six.
The floor is shaking. I can see pebbles skittering across the larger cobblestones. The individual footfalls have been replaced by a constant, rhythmic run.
Five. Four.
My fists clench so tight, my knuckles crack. Fists. The only weapon I have.
Three. Two.
The torches right in front of me go out.
Then the ones beside me.
And all that's left is black.
It takes me a moment to realise all sound has ceased as well. No racing hooves. No crackling torches. Just my own raspy, too-loud breaths and the pounding in my ears.
And then, from directly behind me, there comes a roar.
I'm sprinting before I can think, half-shrieking, half-sobbing, not that I can hear myself over the thunderous sounds of pursuit. It's right on my tail, oh god, I can feel its hot breath on my neck. It smells like blood and month-old meat; I gag, stumble, and cry out as my pace starts to slow. It's going to catch me!
It's not! a tiny voice screams back. It never has! They're playing with—
I crash face first into the wall at the end of the tunnel; my head explodes with pain, vision blurring. Hot, wet blood starts leaking from my nose.
A feral howl steals my breath. The thing can smell me. And it's starving.
My feet keep racing, down to the left, but I'm completely blind and have no memory of these tunnels. One after the other, I slam into walls and spin off down perpendicular shafts with absolutely no care for where I'm heading. My arms and legs are battered and scraped, my forehead is swelling, and I can't breathe through my nose anymore, but it doesn't matter; something primal in my brain, a force that can't be fought, knows that in this instance, this is a chase, I am the prey, and survival is all that matters.
But even that can only go so far when I've been running non-stop on an empty stomach. Already there's a blazing stitch in my side, and my legs are shaking with ever step. If I could see the floor, I'd probably realise that I'm hobbling barely faster than walking speed. And the creature hasn't caught me yet, so . . . so that means I can . . .
The moment I drop my pace, a barely perceptible tempo shift, a skeletal grey claw wraps around my shoulder and tears five red lines straight down my back.
I screech at the top of my lungs, girlish and childish and I don't even care, because it hurts, oh god it hurts. But more than that, the thing has hands, hands that look almost human, but that creature is definitely not, and its flesh was rotting off and it touched me. My feet trip over themselves to pick up the pace as I go careening down the tunnel—and plow head-first into another wall.
This time, the world goes dark as I rebound and fall flat on my back, but though I'm dazed, I don't forget the fear, the monster, the absolute need to get away. My calves are cramping horribly, and I can't stand, but I can crawl, and crawl I do, hands out, searching for the next way forward.
On my right, there's a wall.
On the left, there's another wall.
Nonononono . . .
It's right behind me. Snuffling, growling. Something drips on my head, thick and warm, and I scream, retreating as far into the corner as I can, arms over my head. Even in the dark, I have my eyes squeezed shut, because I don't want to see this thing, even if it eats me, especially if it eats me, oh god, please no, no, no, no . . .
Hot air blasts across my arms in snorted puffs. Its nose is right above me, and its tongue—wet and rough and heavy as a brick, it slaps the side of my head and trails down, over my chest, my legs, my back, everywhere. Lapping up blood and sweat, hard teeth pressed up right against my skin. Any second now, they're going to tear into me, and just like Magnus, I'll be gone. Mom and Dad and Aiden won't ever see me again; there'll be nothing left, like I never existed at all. Swallowed up into nothingness and wiped off the face of the earth and oh god—
. . . it's gone.
It takes a long time for me to notice. To drag together enough scattered corners in my mind to form a coherent thought. Did I hear it retreat? I don't think so, but I don't . . . I don't hear anything at all now.
Whoosh.
I squeal, tensing once more, but the sound is not an animal's. It's the torches, coming back to life. Through the cracks between my arms, I can see faint flickers of light.
Unfolding myself is like trying to reshape a sculpture. My joints threaten to snap if they straighten too far, and the slits on my back pull painfully at any inch of movement. Still, I manage to draw my arms away just enough to peek out at the corridor beyond.
The newfound firelight shows off a tunnel identical to every other hellish hall in this pit. The only difference is this floor is littered with jagged cracks and chips from two enormously powerful hooves. Right in front of me is a pair of circular indents as big as dinner plates.
A steady trickle of water runs down into one of these; already it's half-full. Just enough that I can make out my distorted reflection. Blood-spattered, ghostly thin, eyes red and puffy. My white tunic, long since stained brown, hangs off my trembling shoulders in shreds. And my hair sticks straight up on one side, licked into place and clotted with the saliva and bile of that thing.
I wish I could say I don't recognise myself. But that girl in the water is all that I know now. A far worse realisation is the fact that I don't remember what I looked like before I came into the arena.
That's what the Capitol's been waiting to show us, since our alliance first banded together. They whittled away at us, bit by bit, until at last they twisted Riri, and broke Tully, and completely erased Adia James from existence.
"Fuck." The word sticks to my cracked lips in a half-moan. "Fuck. ARE YOU HAPPY NOW?!"
The ceiling gives me no response. But from somewhere in the distance, there is a muffled roar.
Heaving from bone-dry sobs, I drop my face into the puddle and slurp up as much water as my raw throat can take. Then I'm up, somehow staggering on, out of the dead end and off into the Labyrinth, knowing the second I slow, the monster will be on me again.
Riri Kramer, 15, District 6
She's still waiting when I get there. Cross-legged, eyes closed, sword on the ground in front of her. Wrappers for dried fruit and protein bars are lined in neat little rows atop a white parachute.
Andromeda Eriae. It didn't take a genius to guess who left Arc the message. I saw her speaking briefly with him in training, and besides, only someone from Two would be so delusional as to still be for the Capitol at this point.
It's day fourteen by my count, and there are nine of us left. How many were her victims? Supposedly none of those killed before the feast, as per the announcer's words, but I wouldn't put it past the Capitol to be protecting their "asset." Regardless, five people have died since. Aside from Magnus, any one of them could have been by her hand.
Arc was. By proxy maybe, but the fault lies squarely with her.
I slink back around the corner, confident I haven't yet been noticed. I'm in a tunnel on Andromeda's left right now, but there are eight offshoots from this first chamber, and I'd like to get behind her if I can. Take whatever advantage I can get.
Silent as a shadow, I slide back into the Labyrinth. And about twenty minutes later, by my internal clock, I re-emerge exactly where I want to be.
Andromeda still hasn't moved.
Realistically, she can't be waiting for Arc. She must know he's dead. So, presumably, she's waiting for his killer. And it's clear she doesn't think much of their skill, if she's not even bothered to maintain some semblance of a fighting stance. I suppose she believes it doesn't take much to kill a scrawny fourteen-year-old from the fishing district.
On the back of my hand, my tattoo prickles. I resist my subconscious reflex to rub it and instead draw my knives. I'm almost one step closer to regaining my life back in Four; the time for hesitation has passed.
So I soundlessly line myself up with Andromeda's unprotected back, and I charge.
My feet slap loudly across the stones, unavoidable with these sandals, but it doesn't matter, because I'm fast. Faster than she is, anyways, sitting down without her weapon in hand. I'll have my knives in her neck before she can—
She moves. A twist of her torso, a stretch of her knee. Suddenly, her right leg is whipping out towards me, and I'm going far too quick to stop.
Wham. She gets me right in the ankle, knocks my feet out from under me. I go sprawling across the ground, knives flying from my grip, as Andromeda grabs her machete and brings it down on my head.
With a chink, it hits the stone right where I used to be. Sheer reflex has me scrambling away just in time, on my elbows, hands, until I finally rise to a low crouch, arms out, one leg pointed and oddly balletic as I prepare to dodge again.
Andromeda uses the pause to rock up from her knees and onto the balls of her feet. She should have been the ballet dancer; she's all leg, with long, willowy arms. I'd put her final height at 5'10", easy. Which makes her reach, especially with that sword, far longer than mine.
Shh. Breathe. You can do this.
"Wasn't expecting just you," Andromeda says. "Where are your allies?"
"Surrounding you," I reply, and dart closer when she checks behind her.
Her sword whirls to meet me; I drop into a somersault and come up behind her, lashing out with my foot to get her in the back of the knee. She's prepared though, and already twisting, bringing that damn machete with her.
I roll away again and spring back to my feet along the safe edge of the room. Much the same position as before, except now I've got a knife back in hand.
She frowns at the blade and keeps her sword pointed my way as she steps firmly over to the other one still abandoned on the ground. That's right. Bend over, pick it up. The moment you're off-balance, I'll strike.
She doesn't, though—just keeps guarding it with her presence. "Funny," she says, "I thought you were the only real rebel among them. But you're playing the game like everyone else."
I've met people like her before. The Capitol loved training their agents in the art of manipulation. When we captured one, my captain made all the prospective rebel hopefuls watch his interrogation. We had to take notes on his every sentence, every phrase he used against those drawing hot knives across his body. "You'll never win." "You're no better than the rest of us." "Look what you're forcing your children to witness."
The moral of this lesson? Manipulation is a stalling technique for lesser opponents who know they've already lost.
I start circling, feinting closer every few steps and watching Andromeda's sword jump to meet me. She remains where she is by the knife, however, which puts her at a terrible disadvantage for mobility. It's strange at first, because by the way she stands and the look in her eyes, I can tell she is trained. And older, possibly stronger, and certainly better equipped. But she's not so keen to engage. Interesting.
The Capitol always did prefer targeting those who couldn't fight back. Maybe in an actual melee she's not so experience. Maybe she really hasn't killed anyone in this arena yet.
Then I'm one-up on her.
For a heartbeat, I hesitate. A face flashes momentarily through my head, of pained blue eyes and floppy brown bangs. My left hand itches, and my right nearly rises to it.
Andromeda notices. And strikes.
I leap back into one of the tunnels and duck beneath her next swing. It hits the stone wall hard—tsk, tsk, these narrow corridors—and she stumbles with a curse, thrown off her rhythm. Her stomach's unprotected; my knife's already plunging towards it.
She smacks my elbow with her free hand, pushing the blade just far enough to instead slice a shallow gash in her side. With a snarl, she rears back and kicks me just below the ribs. I stagger back towards the room and realise the knife on the ground is free now, mine for the taking—
A line of fire erupts across my back. I gasp, drop, and roll instinctively; bad move, as contact with the stone immediately sends pain lancing up my spine. My tunic is hot and sticky against my skin.
I saw lots of whippings in Mausoleum. It was their favourite torture for the well-to-do prisoners on the first level. Keeps their faces pretty for when they have to make hostage videos, and fulfills the Capitol's sick love of treating District people like animals. I wasn't important or contentious enough to ever merit one, but I can still hear the cracks, the screams, the begging—
No! I dive to the side as Andromeda attacks again from behind. Idiot, idiot, remember where you are. You're Riri Kramer, and you're going home.
I slide my knife into my belt, squeeze my left hand, and turn to face Andromeda. If I'm going to do this, that sword has to go.
She hesitates as I raise my bare hands, mirroring her movements with the sword. One opening. Just give me one.
She does. It's a feint, a swing becoming a stab, but I'm already slipping to side. One hand around her wrist, one palm on her elbow, and I yank her arm with all my might just as my left leg rises and kicks her right in the side of the throat.
God bless my mother for teaching me my grand battements.
The combined strain is too much; Andromeda's sword falls from her grip. Immediately, my foot swipes from her neck to her legs, bringing her down exactly as she'd done to me.
She slams hard into the stone, and I come down harder with my knee into her stomach before slipping into a side hold. Andromeda chokes as I get my arm around her neck, battering me with a flurry of punches—even weak hits near my back are agony, but I grit my teeth and draw my knife all the same.
Her left hand tries to stop me, of course. As I bring the blade to her face, she grabs out at my wrist, but she's too fast for her own good. Instead, her fingers wrap tight around the knife's blade as I force it steadily towards her eyes.
Two quick plunges, then I'm safe to release her neck from the choke and finish the job. That interrogation lesson also taught us the quickest way to win any confrontation is to go for right for the eyes. I don't know why more people don't do so.
Pained blue eyes. What would Arc have looked like without those?
My jaw clenches, and I gain another inch on Andromeda. I can see my tattoo on the hand at her throat, black ink shining even through the smears of blood. A circle surrounding six fish leaping from a three-pronged hook. Six fish my father used to joke were me and my brothers. Percival, Irwyn, Seton, Neifion, Dylion. Meriel and Adron. Come ON.
I feel the tip of the knife puncture her cheek. Andromeda squeezes the blade harder, but her palm is in shreds. Even her other hand has stopped flailing, creeping up instead to clasp a simple ruby clip dangling loosely from her matted black hair. Her token, no doubt. My allies all had them. Katerina and her grandmother's ring. Volt with a rusted spring from some project his siblings had worked on. Bolt's bracelet from his sisters; Caragh's bracelet from a friend. Magnus's ring, passed through his family for generations. Tully's necklace, her last gift from her boyfriend. The feather Adia's little brother scooped off the street for her.
Arc and the lightning bolt charm his dead father gave him.
But I don't have anything. I don't need anything. I don't have to remember home, because I going back to it.
The knife scrapes bone. Andromeda screams, doing everything she can to hold the blade in place, while I keep complete composure as I inch it closer and closer to her eye.
I don't even care as her right hand swings out towards me. Because I don't notice that her ruby hairclip now has a two-inch blade jutting from the gem.
Which sinks completely into my left bicep.
And drags.
All . . . the way . . . down . . .
I don't feel it at first—now even as Andromeda tears the switchblade from my elbow with a frenzied shriek and drives her mangled left fist into my face. I release her throat with zero resistance and tumble back to the ground, trying to catch myself, but my arm . . . my arm won't move.
Andromeda grabs my abandoned knife and drives it so hard into the back of my splayed right hand that I swear I hear it break the stone beneath.
That's the switch that flips on the pain.
Pain.
I go limp. Numb, completely out of my head. Part of training—never give your enemy the satisfaction. Don't scream. Don't beg. Don't break. If you must die, then die for the rebellion.
"Yes, sir!" we'd all say, and we'd snap a salute. Right fist on your heart, left fist at your back. Even at eleven years old, I had perfect form.
But now my muscles won't respond. I can't even push myself up—but I can sit up, I can, we had to do ten sit-ups every day, no hands or they'd whack you, then twenty when you're twelve, thirty when you're thirteen, eventually you'll be doing a hundred a day—
I can't sit up, not even once. There's a foot on my chest. Andromeda's.
She's got her sword again.
Pointed at my neck.
"No!" It comes out higher than I've ever heard by voice, but that's because she has to listen, she has to. I can't go, not yet, I have to see my family, and run across the beach, and, and get to one hundred sit-ups a day, and . . . my tattoo, my tattoo, see, I'm from Four, not Six, not this maze, I'm not supposed to be here.
I lift my arm, not even to show Andromeda, just so I can see it, but the pain is so overwhelming that all I can do is gasp and squirm beneath her blade. Flopping about like a fish on the dock, the kind I used to cry about as a toddler, but Mom and Dad would always shh me and tell me it was fine, and Dyl would crack a joke, and Neif would ruffle my hair, and Seton would dump the fish back in the basket while 'Wyn rolled his eyes, and Percy, Percy would lift me up on his back and spin me around, and that's why I can't go. Not yet. Don't you see?
"Just wait," I mouth up at Andromeda. "Wait."
But her sword presses down.
"No, no, just waitwaitwaitwaitWAIT—"
Andromeda Eriae, 18, District 2
The cannon sounds.
I pull my sword from the Six girl's neck and step back to let the cameras get a good look. Another rebel dead. And my first in-Games kill.
Also, incidentally, my youngest ever target.
And the hardest, I snap back at myself, and yeah, there's the sting of pain across my side, my hand, and the small but bone-deep line from the rim of my cheek to the edge of my eye socket. Fuck, that could have got nasty fast. For all my training with the Roses, I've never actually had to fight anyone head-on before. Assassinations are a lot less complicated when it's a little something in a drink or a syringe in a vein while your target's busy getting his pants off. The switchblades in our hairclips are as much a last resort for defense as for shoving into your own throat if you ever get caught. Loyalty's a bitch.
But then, the rebels murdered almost my entire family for the audacity of not picking a side, so the Roses aren't the worst out there.
I wonder if Sobek would agree with me. Is my brother watching this right now, at work or on some community screen? He was just young enough when all the war shit went down that I could protect him from the brunt of it, but it's made him stupid since, and reckless. Even as we said our goodbyes, he couldn't resist raging against the Capitol. As if that would do any good. God, I hope he does see the Six girl's corpse so he smartens up.
Damn it, no. I hope somehow, miraculously, he's not seeing any of this. We can never go back to how we were before, not without our parents and our siblings and the boy I once loved—but we can put all that rotten fucking shit behind us. If I come out of here alive, offing a few more rebels in the process, then I'm pretty sure that's my service to the Capitol done for life. Sobek'll get over it. We'll have a house again, and money, and food, and everything we need.
I clean my blade off with that thought in mind and set off back into the Labyrinth, leaving the Six girl behind.
If I'm quick and brutal enough with the others, then maybe the Capitol will even let me go back home to Four.
Chance Hensley, 12, District 2
I've found it. The way out.
The tunnel I'm in seems endless, one enormous straight line that I'll admit has made me nothing but jumpy since I started creeping down it. In the twists and turns of the maze, sound carries a lot faster than sight, so if I'm quiet, I can pretty easily avoid any confrontations. But if someone peeked around the corner I came from, they'd spot me long before I heard them—not exactly anywhere to hide in a tunnel lined with torches.
My head jerks again to check what's behind me: nothing, as usual. It does exactly squat to reassure me, but I'm almost at the other end now. Glimmering in the firelight, practically waiting for me, are two golden, arching double doors.
What lies beyond isn't even on my map; this tunnel is so long, it runs right off the page. But I'm pretty sure the Gamemakers wouldn't have made all this just to laugh as I stumbled into a dead end. The way I see it, there's only two things important enough to be out this far: the Labyrinth's exit, and the minotaur's lair.
As always, the thought stops me cold, but I force myself on. Why would there be doors, if this was where a monster lived? I haven't ever seen the minotaur (thank god), but I don't think it's the type of thing to lock up on its way out to eat people.
Besides, I think if there were some kind of . . . feeding ground up ahead, then the Capitol would've probably had a field day with the decorating. But the hall is spotless, no blood (real or fake) to be seen. Even the stones seem shinier than the rest of this grimy maze.
No turning back now, anyways.
Map clenched tight in one fist, knife in the other, I cover the rest of the distance in first a series of nervous tiptoes, then all-out sprints. Okay so maybe this isn't the minotaur's lair, but if it does show up, I don't want the only thing between me and it to be one open ramp.
With that in mind, I don't hesitate to grab the giant gold rings on the doors and heave. Their faces are textured with raised swirls of what looks like metal yarn; it catches the firelight in strange ways and creates deep, twisting shadows that only worsens the deafening drum of my heartbeat. Don't let it be the minotaur, don't let it be the minotaur, please—
With a rusted screech, the doors open just wide enough for a Hunger-Games-sized Chance to squeeze through. I have my knife up instantly at the crack, waiting with my breath held for something to lunge out of the darkness.
But in the pitch-black shadows beyond the door, nothing moves. Or at least, nothing that I can see.
Not reassuring. At all.
I half-consider running again, but back to what? The maze? The monster?
I have to hop on my tiptoes to grab a torch from the wall sconce, burning my hand a bit in the process, but at this point, the pain barely registers. My knife glints reassuringly in the firelight as I step closer to the crack and let the flames shine through.
And rear back immediately because people, there's people in there. Already I'm turning, set to run, but no, there's nowhere to hide down the hall, and any kid that's left has longer legs than me. But I'm fast, right? Faster than some, at least, so maybe I could . . .
Too late, I realise I've overthought it. In an alley back in Two, I'd already be dead.
But here, nothing's happened.
Those people I thought I saw . . . did they even flinch when I approached?
I inch the torch back through the doors. Hold my breath as light catches the curve of an arm, the hem of a tunic. The materials are all wrong though. Not flesh or cloth: everything is bronze.
Statues, I realise, and, relieved, I slip through the doors. Only for my heart to sink immediately.
Not just statues. I know these two all too well, their poses, their faces. A girl, arms raised to address a crowd, a sad smile on her lips. And a boy, fists clenched, yelling at imaginary judges.
Selene. Soren.
Now that I'm inside, I can see the outline of the path before me. It's a spiral, curving upwards, so wildly different from the rest of the maze that I should be elated. This is the exit.
But the way is lined with murdered tributes.
They can't hurt you. It's like the bloody workshop. It's all there for . . . show.
Swallowing hard, I step forward.
Two by two on either side, they loom out of the shadows. Tierza, expression angry, arm outstretched as if someone's trying to drag her off. The 11 girl, backing away, wide eyes fixed on something that towers above her. The boys whose names rhymed, Volt and Bolt; one with a knife and a fierce look on his face, the other with his hands out, pleading with imaginary figures.
My mind's not smart enough to piece together who's next; I stumble up the first bend in the ramp, barely paying attention to the girl from Seven, and that's when I walk right into him. Stanley. Reaching out to me, so tired and sad and understanding that I almost start crying right here and now.
I'd been too nervous to talk to him back in the Capitol, but I'd wanted to; from what Jeanette had said, he'd been living a lot like I had, and I just needed someone who got that. Who was older, who could tell me what to do if I broke my arm on my own, or where to find food if I was starving, or whether a cut is like, normal infected, or infected infected. All these things I had no one to explain to me.
But then, that's selfish, isn't it. Because I should be more sad that I didn't have the chance to thank Stanley for saving my life. Three times.
And I should apologise, since it's my fault he died.
Not as much as the next two though.
The torch wavers in my grip. Hinting at their forms.
They've got Jeanette with the syringe and Milo on the ground. Like she's just about to stab him. And I have to walk right between them to continue on.
I do, and I don't look. Not once.
Easy when my vision's so blurred from the tears.
And then it's Riley, Riley Byron snarling at me, and with a squeak, I sprint up the last curve. The boy from 10, who caused so much pain, who somehow I've outlasted.
"You're crazy, kid. A complete psychopath."
That's what they called my dad, after he killed five Peacekeepers. Psycho. Wack-job. Monster.
I wonder what they're calling me back in Two, now that I've got the same amount of corpses piled up behind me. Stanley, Jeanette, Milo, and . . .
Reese and Vesper. I raced right past the 4 and 8 boys, and now here they are: the real reason I've been trying to get out of this maze. Because anytime I do anything, people die.
I knew Samantha Hoffman was going to kill them, and I still led her right to their base.
Five kills. Just like Dad.
Not anymore. I'm getting out.
I storm past the girl from 6's statue, only subconsciously marking her down as the cannon from earlier. It doesn't matter—none of it matters. All I care about is the door ahead of me with its simple iron handle and sunlight, sunlight, seeping through the crack beneath it . . .
. . . and four more empty pedestals flanking its stoop.
No. No.
I grab the handle and yank with all my might, ram my shoulder into it, kick and kick and kick again. The door just stands there, immobile.
I throw the torch over the side of the ramp and batter it with all my might. I think I'm screaming, too.
The light beneath it weakens and dies. The spiral sinks slowly into darkness. Still I fight on, blind but desperate. Just let me see the sky again. The stars. Please.
The whole room flares suddenly to life as the Capitol seal appears gleaming on the roof, accompanied by that awful, awful anthem. Sixteen statues bear stoic witness to the 6 girl's face as it shines down.
I'm assuming it does, at least. My eyes are solely focused on the door as I droop against it, heaving.
But I do catch another glimpse of the empty pedestals before the world goes black again. And despite the fact that tomorrow I'm going to wake up and beat the door again, I know in my heart exactly what it will take to escape this place.
Four more corpses to add to my pile.
And we're back with the first "real" update in four years! *throws confetti, blows party favours*
I gushed my heart out in the last chapter so I'll keep it short here, but thank you again so much to everybody who's reading this, who's reviewing, who's PMing me. The amount of support and total lack of anger at my random disappearance is just astounding. You guys are seriously the best and I love you all!
Bit of an update re. me because I'm trying to get better at keeping you in the loop: so I was going to give you a head's up that there might not be an update for a while, depending on if I can squeeze a chapter out before March 31st, because I'm supposed to be going to New Zealand for a month on April 1st, but with the way the world's at . . . well, unfortunately I've gotta play that by ear, so there may be a break in updates, but there may also not, I'll let you all know hopefully in the next chapter, if I can get it posted before then. I hate to leave you guys hanging, you've all been so patient and amazing (have I said that enough?), but after that, it's pedal to the metal to get you and ending to this story.
We've got nine chapters left. Single digits now. You ready?
