XV : À la mort et à la gloire
Here's to change
Here's to my yesterday
Here's to my future
Goodbye to yesterday
"Are you afraid?"
At the back of the classroom, Laney's big brown eyes are wide as saucers.
"Afraid?" I ask.
"Yeah—for the presentation."
The last Friday of every month is book report day for the grade fives. It's now Friday, September twenty-seventh, and all morning Laney has been as relaxed as someone having their teeth pulled.
I laugh, closing the book I've been reading under my desk. "Of course not! It's just a presentation, why would it be scary?"
"Because it's in front of everybody."
"I know that," I say, eyeing the small stack of notecards on my friend's desk. The corners are frayed and folded—she would never pick at them, so I know she must have read each word on them half a hundred times by now. "But we talk to our class all the time; it's not that different to talk to all of them at once."
She frowns, suspicious of this generalisation. She's often suspicious of things I say. But we've been friends our whole lives, and in those ten years she's learned I don't make a habit of lying to her. "I guess… but you're not even a little nervous?"
I shake my head, giving her a reassuring smile. "Nope. Don't worry, you're good at everything you try, and you'll be good at this too. Just don't think about it very much, and you won't be nervous either."
I've always hated endings, ever since I was a little kid. The last day of school? Devastating. The day before my birthday? Catastrophic. Even the end of small things—like a dinner where my whole family is getting along and laughing so much it takes us twice as long to eat, and we all feel more full afterward for no particular reason—always leave me with a tightness in my chest. I mean, you never know when things are going to suddenly change, right? You never know which family dinner is going to be your last.
I'd thought it had gotten better as I moved deeper into my teenage years, thought the horrible panicky feeling was some weird childish quirk.
As I open my eyes to the pale light coming through the window of my room, that same familiar feeling in my chest, I realise just how wrong I was.
This could be my last morning. My last breakfast, my last time hearing Rhodendra give us the day's schedule rapid-fire as a Peacekeeper. It is my last time sitting across from Jace, watching him poke at his plate, not eating so much as pushing the food around. One or both of us will be dead before a month has passed. He looks as worn and desolate as I feel.
Any appetite I may have had evaporates, and I have to turn away. Thanks to a pill dissolved in warm milk Rhodendra gave me just after midnight, my last night before the Games was long and dreamless. Still I feel a bone-deep weariness… though I'm at least hoping the extra sleep will help with the little I'll likely get tonight.
Tonight. My first night in the arena, if I'm still alive.
Cato isn't going into the arena with me.
"Stay close to your cornucopia," he said. "Avoid the bloodbath, but stay close. I'll get there quickly."
There had been very few details forthcoming after Caesar's cataclysmic announcement. Actually, there had been only one: the cornucopias are five kilometres apart. All the rest is extrapolation and stipulation—not that takes any great mental leap to conclude that those five kilometres will likely be rough. There wouldn't be "a material advantage" for Pairs who find each other if it was going to be a walk in the park.
"There's no Career pack, so the bloodbath might not be as bad as usual. Of course, there are fewer other Tributes for the Careers to go after…"
Cato steps into my space, cutting me off. "Avoid Farley. She will want to kill you as soon as possible. Don't let her."
Fra takes a seat at the table beside me. I almost burst into tears.
Whether he realises my acute emotional instability or not, Fra takes my hand and gives it a quick, reassuring squeeze. He accepts a bowl of oatmeal from an Avox with a polite nod, like this is just a normal breakfast in the Capitol. I almost want to scream. It's not. It's not normal at all. It could be my last breakfast—not just in the Capitol, but anywhere.
How could anything feel normal?
The roof is especially cold tonight. Or at least it feels cold—maybe it's just me—it is July, after all, and even in the Capitol, even at night, it probably doesn't get very cold in July.
I take several deep breaths—the air almost stings my lungs. "I'm fine," I say, though I'm not sure to whom. Am I talking to the air? To the Capitol? To him? "Rolling with the punches is what I do." Another deep breath. "This is just… really unexpected."
Cato is silent for a long moment. "Your feelings won't help you," he says, his voice low. "You're not an idiot. Trust that. And trust your gut."
The atmosphere of the apartment is tense and joyless. Rhodendra doesn't seem to notice, flitting about as usual with pep in her step and barely-restrained impatience at the schedule we're keeping. The Capitolite is always a little out-of-place in our company, with her outlandish wardrobe and fluorescent enthusiasm for the Games, but this morning her presence itself feels almost garish. This morning, more than usual, it's apparent that she's the only one here who doesn't know what it feels like to face the arena. She doesn't understand, and it shows.
And yet, despite the grey tension hanging like a wet blanket over all our shoulders, I don't want to leave this place. I don't want to get in the elevator with Fra, leaving Rhodendra behind to energetically prod Jace and Clyse along. I don't want to feel my Mentor's hand on my shoulder, or listen to him tell me he believes in me.
"What if you can't get to me within twenty-four hours?"
I'm calm now. It's time to consider the possibilities, to prepare. I won't get a chance to talk to him tomorrow, so we need to make sure we are on the same page about everything tonight. Of crucial importance is how he's supposed to find me when he won't know where I am.
"Who cares?" Cato paces back and forth in the gazebo, long legs covering the distance in just two strides. "We don't need some fucking 'material advantage' to win. We have sponsors to help us if we need it."
He's right. I hate the idea of missing out on any assistance available to us, but he's right. I have to trust that we know what we're doing, that we've done enough, that we can do this on our own terms if we have to.
I have to trust that I'm not an idiot. I have to trust my gut. No matter what happens tomorrow.
I don't want to tear up when I realise I haven't said goodbye to Bran.
My mom's ring fits on my finger but feels safer on the chain around my neck. I touch it, then grab it tightly, looking up at the ceiling to keep the tears from spilling over. You'll see him again. You'll see them all again.
No matter how many times I repeat it to myself, I'm not certain I believe it.
Fra surprises me by stopping in the hallway before the shuttle room. He brings me in for a hug that lasts just long enough for the tears to start, and makes me feel so much better and worse at the same time.
"Cry now," he says softly. "Let it out now. It's okay."
I do.
I cry, and cry, and cry.
"You just have to stay alive," Cato says. "I'll take care of the rest."
The shuttle takes us to the hovercraft, waiting in a hangar whose roof open to reveal a grey and sombre sky. Thematically appropriate, I suppose.
Although it would be nice to see the sun, if this is my last chance. The sun in the arena won't be the real thing, after all.
Other Tributes stand nearby, waiting with their Mentors for the hovercraft doors to open. I look around for Cato, but I don't see him yet.
It's not like him to be late.
"You did really well tonight."
He stops on the stairs, and I almost run into his chest when he turns to look up at me. "What?"
"The interview," I say. "You did… well. Better than I expected. Better than I even dared hope."
He rolls his eyes. "Thanks."
I grin. "I'm serious, though. We're in a great spot going into the arena. Thanks for going along with all this."
He nods.
I wonder if he remembers that the lying has already started.
We're not waiting for very long before it's time to climb aboard. Fra mentioned at breakfast that the day's schedule seemed a bit more rushed than usual. It certainly seems to me like the day has been moving along at a nauseating speed.
He and I have been quiet while waiting; his presence at my side is a calming one whether or not we speak. When the voice over the speakers instructs us all to begin boarding, he turns to me, smiling. His smiles are nearly always sad, but this one is, strangely, an exception.
"Extremity is the trier of spirits," he says. "Common circumstances can be borne by common people—"
"—and when the sea is calm all boats show mastery in floating," I finish. I find myself smiling back, though tears are starting to well in my eyes again.
He takes my hand. "This isn't about proving yourself, of course. You have nothing to prove to anyone. You have only to bear these circumstances, and to come out the other side."
I look up at the grey sky until I'm no longer in imminent danger of crying. I give my Mentor one last hug. "Thank you, Fra. For everything."
He starts to say something, but the words don't seem to be able to come out.
I pull back, glad I've somehow managed to keep from crying again. I really did not want to cry in front of everyone. "If something happens, please… please tell my family I love them so much. Tell the same to Dack and Nal, Laney, and Tristan. Please Fra."
He nods, wiping tears from his own eyes. I'm glad he doesn't tell me to tell them myself. I'm going to do anything and everything I can to make it home, but I already feel better knowing that they'll hear I love them one last time, no matter what happens.
"I believe in you," he says. "I look forward to seeing you again in a few weeks."
"Mom is going to kill you."
Nye and I turn at the sound of our brother's voice. He looks so small, standing down there with his hands on his hips, that familiar look of superiority on his sixteen-year-old face.
We're so used to looking up at him—especially since his growth spurt last spring—that this is a more-than-welcome change.
"How did you get up there anyway?" he asks. In addition to the look, Brody has truly perfected that patented, older-sibling tone of complete and utter indifference. He makes use of it now, not sounding at all curious to hear the tale of how the two of us managed to find ourselves on the roof of the barn.
But he's still asking.
I open my mouth to tell him the grand tale of the climb, but Nye speaks before I get a chance. "Oh wouldn't you like to know!"
"I'm not going to snitch," Brody calls back.
"I'm sure."
"I'm not!"
Now he doesn't sound so indifferent.
I grin down at him, and Nye just shrugs.
He walks to the base of the wall, looking around for a ladder or rope, then reaches out to feel the logs at the base. He must feel the unevenness in their structure—creating just enough space for a few hands and feet.
Even from here, we can see the look of understanding cross his face. But when he looks up at us again, he's once more wholly unimpressed. "You really should get down, guys. Mom will kill you, if the fall doesn't."
"We're not going to fall," I insist, pretending I'm not almost rigid with terror at the prospect. "We climb on the roof of the house all the time and we've never fallen!"
Nye shoots me a glare. "Caerwyn!"
I grimace. "Sorry."
Brody shakes his head, then tentatively looks around. He tests the first few handholds, then begins to climb.
On the hovercraft we're sat in two rows of twelve, each facing our partner. Whoever the genius is who's responsible for this decision should be fired; we're not quite elbow-to-elbow, but we're definitely close enough that a private conversation is be impossible. It's the most nerve-wracking part of the whole Games experience so far, the time when it would be the most beneficial to have a reassuring word with your partner, but discussing anything more consequential than the weather is completely off the table.
So we fly in silence. And I try not to stare at Cato the whole time.
I'm not sure if his presence is reassuring or not, in light of last night's news. Part of me is glad just to be reminded that I do still have a partner in all this—and a good one at that—but the other part (the control freak part, as Lowri would point out) is panicking at all the things that could go wrong before I see him again.
I have been counting on us working together, balancing each other out, in the arena, with Cato bringing competence and tenacity and me bringing some strategy and good sense. Now that we'll be separated… I'm not sure if I'm more worried about how I'll do without his guidance or how he'll do without mine. I've certainly seen enough glimpses of the anger lurking beneath the surface to have justifiable concerns about how he'd handle a major setback. And thanks to the last days of training, I know all too well how easy it is to kill me.
Watching him—his head tilted back against the seat, eyes closed but awake—makes both the relief and apprehension expand in my chest until I feel I'm about to explode. This doesn't help how frustrated I already feel about how off-balance the announcement has made me. It's really not that big a deal to spend a day without my partner, right? If this was any other year I wouldn't have a partner at all, so what's the big deal?
And wasn't I supposed to be good at adapting to a change of plans?
A technician comes around with a small gun-like machine—our trackers. I almost choke when I see the giant needle entering the arm of a Tribute a few seats down. It's huge.
I look up at Cato instinctively, wondering if he's seeing this too. The smirk he's wearing is subtle, but it's very clear to me that he is laughing at me.
Fine. Whatever. Maybe Careers have training not to be afraid of giant needles too. That seems very on-brand for them, the bastards.
It doesn't hurt as much as I expect it to, but I think I might pass out if I have to watch the tracker slither and blink into my body, so I close my eyes tightly. It might make me look childish; I don't care. I also don't care about Cato's snort of laughter.
Just don't think about it. It's fine. It's fine.
I stare down my Career when it's his turn, but he barely notices the Capitolite approaching him with the gun, raising his arm casually. Then there's a flash of green from his fingers that distracts me from watching his face when the tracker goes in.
He's wearing his ring.
Are you afraid?
Three hours later I'm in the stockyard.
That's not what the Capitol calls it, of course, but I'm not sure I've ever heard a Tribute call it anything else. Although it really isn't anything like any stockyard I've been in, and I'm something of an expert on the subject.
The room is fairly small, but made to feel cozy with plush furniture lining the walls and a table set with silverware and china beneath the food dispenser in the wall. The attached bathroom has no door, only a wide archway. It's nearly as big as the room itself, though much of the room is taken up by the spacious shower-and-tub combo.
I wonder if the lack of door is to prevent Tributes from trying to barricade themselves inside. Someone's got to have tried that once, right?
Vo is waiting for me when the Peacekeepers drop me off at the catacomb entrance. The door locks behind me. There's only one way out now.
My stylist rushes over to me, taking my arms in her hands. "Are you ready?" She's almost trembling with excitement.
Her teeth were edged with gold when I first met her—now they're silver. I wonder if it's a nod to my last few outfits, or if I'm reading too much into it. "I'm a bit nervous," I reply. "But I… I'm as ready as I can be, I think."
Vo's expression softens, and she doesn't yet release me. "That's very normal," she says. "You will do very well; I know it! The best thing you can do now is try to relax. Eat and drink plenty, take a shower, rest a little. We still have time."
I take her advice, immediately ordering a large glass of water. I can't stop thinking of Katniss, dehydrated and delirious at the beginning of the Games last year, and I drink the whole thing at once.
Despite the long flight and the hours that have passed since my meagre breakfast, I can't get anything down besides the water. It's hard to even think of eating when my stomach feels like a pile of writhing snakes.
"You must relax," Vo admonishes. Then she brightens. "I have just the thing!"
She orders me to strip from the loose pants and shirt I've been wearing since the Tribute Centre, then rifles through the massive bag she's brought along with her. She gets almost half into it, then emerges with a giant glass jar. "I mixed this up before I left, thinking you might need it."
It's full of a light blue gel, which she applies to my face, neck, and chest in a heavy layer. While it feels weird and gooey at first, it quickly starts to cool on my skin, and I let out an involuntary sigh of pleasure.
Vo laughs. "Good, hm?"
It is. And it smells nice too—a little herbal, but fresh and sweet. "It's wonderful; thank you, Vo."
"It'll make your skin glow, too," she says, heading for the bathroom.
She draws me a bath, pulling more bottles and jars from her bag and adding their contents to the water while it rises. By the time she lets me in for a soak, the bath is fragrant and the surface of the water is shimmering gold and pink.
Once I'm in the bath, Vo's ulterior motives make themselves known. I'm at her mercy in the tub, with nowhere to run from all the food she brings and practically blackmails me into eating.
It's good, in a way. I do need to eat, and feeling like I have to for her sake helps me force the food down. Of course, the fact that she knows her way around the Capitol's delicacies doesn't hurt—she brings me a curled pastry stuffed with chocolate that makes me think I've already died and gone to heaven.
The blue salve works its magic too, cooling and soothing my skin until I'm relaxed enough to almost make me forget about why we're here.
Almost.
Vo helps me dress after about half an hour of soaking, at which point I really do feel much better. She unpacks the parcel of clothing left on the table almost reverently, peeling back the delicate layers of tissue paper as if she thinks there's a baby inside instead of just clothes.
She lays the clothes out on the table one at a time. A thin, tight-fitting black shirt with long sleeves and a high neck. Sturdy trousers in a nondescript greyish-tan colour. Black lace-up boots that look to reach about mid-calf. A long jacket with a deep hood in a similar colour to the trousers.
Vo inspects each item as she pulls it from the package. The undergarments—simple, functional, and black—are last, and she hands them to me while she runs her long-nailed fingers over the rest of the clothing.
I shimmy into the underpants, then test out the support of the compression bra. It couldn't fit better if it was built around a mold of my boobs. Which… I mean, it might have been.
"What do you think of it?" I ask, noticing Vo's deep frown.
She sighs. "Much of this doesn't make sense to me." She gestures to the trousers. "They have pockets. I've never seen a Tribute outfit with pockets before. And these boots," she lifts one, showing me the sole, "they're designed for grip, but the sole is stiff and thinner than I would expect. They're designed for something specific, but I can't think of what."
"Not for running?" I ask. That wouldn't be so bad. I don't hate running, but I'm not particularly fast.
"No, they'll be quite nice to run in, since they're rather light. Not hiking, and uneven terrain might be tricky…" she lifts the boot, looking closer. "They look almost like a pair of boots I have at home—a very comfortable pair; I wear them all the time and just about everywhere." She's still frowning as she hands them to me.
I don the pants, then tie up the boots. She's right—they are comfortable. "What else?"
She smiles as she picks up the shirt. "Now this… this I like." She rubs the fabric between her fingers, sniffs it, then holds it up to the light. "It breathes well. It's not designed to offer much warmth."
"Why are you smiling?"
She turns to face me, handing me the shirt. "Put it on."
I do. It's extremely comfortable as well—perfectly fitted—with a strange little crescent-shaped cut-out above my chest. What purpose is that supposed to serve?
"I don't get it," I tell her.
"It's fashionable," she purrs. "It's designed to be flattering, and stylish… all without sacrificing practicality. See how the panels come together to shape your figure?" She touches my stomach, where a piped seam makes a soft curve from beneath my breast to the shirt's hem. "It's subtle, but expertly done. Though it too is strange for a Tribute outfit."
The jacket proves similar. Vo spends perhaps too long admiring the structure, the cut, and the silhouette—reinforcing the novelty of such a stylish choice. The jacket reaches to my knees, with a double zipper for mobility. So running is definitely happening.
"It's not designed to be particularly warm either, but notice there's room between the sleeves and your arms. Room enough for a warmer shirt or sweater to fit, if you can get your hands on one."
Which means at some point I'll probably need one.
"How is the mobility?" she asks.
I move my arms, bending my elbows and reaching above my head. The jacket is extremely flexible—especially for how long it is. "It's excellent." No one will have any problems wielding a weapon. Well, not because of the jacket, anyway.
"The colours are interesting," Vo muses. I'm not sure anymore if she speaks for my benefit or if she's just thinking out loud. "It won't provide much camouflage, I'm afraid, but… the colours are too light to blend in with trees," she murmurs. "Unless it was night and you took the jacket off… a desert doesn't make sense either, nor does a prairie. No, it's too grey for that."
"It is a Quell," I offer, shrugging. "The arena must be something unique."
She still frowns, but nods, slowly. "It will be, I'm sure. I can't think of what though—I might have thought snow or sand, but the colour isn't quite right, and everything is too thin for snow and too thick for sand."
"Does it seem like they're supposed to be camouflage-y?" That's not the case every year. Sometimes they dress the Tributes in colours specifically to make hiding more difficult.
But Vo nods emphatically. "The jacket and pants are a very particular material, designed to cause a little illusion." She takes my arm, crinkling the sleeve to show how the expected play of light and shadows is absent. It's almost like the layers blend together. "I can't think of any other reason to use that material besides camouflage. But it just seems as though all you'll be able to blend in with is dust and ash. And… maybe rocks?"
Well that's encouraging.
"Thirty minutes until launch."
The mechanical voice makes me jump. Thirty minutes?
It's really here.
I take a seat on one of the chairs, nursing a small glass of lime-basil water (ordered by Vo, of course) while she does my hair. Parting it down the middle, she tightly braids each side from my hairline to the crown of my head. She then grabs the rest of the hair on each side and shows me how to twist and knot it all into a sturdy bun without a hair tie.
The finished result is two buns like the ears of a bear on top of my head. It's cute, but also very practical; my fringe is out of my eyes and there's nothing like a braid or ponytail for another Tribute to grab a hold of.
Vo finishes by fastening the chain bearing my mother's ring around my neck. She leaves her hands on my shoulders, looking at me in the mirror above the dressing table, and smiles. There are tears in her eyes.
She quickly looks away when she sees me notice them. "I always hate this part!" she exclaims, barely holding back a sob. She presses her sleeves to her eyes gently, careful not to smear her makeup.
I stand and give her a hug, trying not to think this might be my last experience of non-hostile human contact. I close my eyes. You'll find Cato, I remind myself. He'll find you.
It will be okay.
Vo pulls back, giving her head a vigorous shake. "Ah. One last thing!" she pulls a stick of makeup from her bag, brandishing it with a flourish and a grin.
"Eyeliner?" I ask, staying very still while she wastes no time attacking my eyes.
"As I always say: put enough black eyeliner on anything and it becomes at least a little sexy. And you're such an excellent canvas—a couple of swipes and you look twenty!"
And, as I know all too well, my bare face makes me look fifteen. "O-okay."
I'm not sure what's supposed to happen with it in the arena—will it come off? Will it just melt away and look like I've been bawling my eyes out the whole time?
I look in the mirror. Well, I do look a bit tougher, which is nice?
"Ten minutes until launch."
No amount of deep breathing is really calming me down anymore. Vo holds my hand, not complaining that I'm squeezing so tightly it must be painful—though she does smile gratefully when I relax my grip. "Sorry."
"It's alright."
"Five minutes until launch."
I start to shake a little, and tears start leaking out the corners of my eyes, though I don't think I'm actually crying. No… no I've just stopped blinking, staring at the stick of eyeliner poking out of Vo's bag.
I take another drink of water, not wanting to overdo it, but feeling more paranoid than before about getting dehydrated in the arena.
In the arena. In five minutes.
"Caerwyn," Vo's voice is soft, "it's time."
One more deep breath. Another. I grab the ring hanging around my neck, thinking of my family, picturing each of their faces. Mom. Dad. Lowri. Brody. Nye. Brynn. Griffin. Tristan. Laney. Nal. Dack. So many. So many people I want to see again.
I squeeze my eyes shut. A final deep breath.
I've been resolutely ignoring the tube in the corner of the room, but no longer.
"One minute until launch."
I enter the tube, the reinforced glass immediately closing around me. The ring is almost cutting into my palm by now, and I force myself to let go of it, flexing my fingers.
Vo presses her hand against the glass. She smiles. "Goodbye, my dear. May the odds be ever in your favour."
The platform begins to rise.
"CAERWYN!"
I don't move a muscle. I barely breathe, hearing the footsteps getting closer and closer.
"Caerwyn come on! You win already."
"Dack, she's not here. She probably left."
"The fuck she—er sorry. She's still around, she wouldn't have cheated."
"Yeah she would!" Bryn argues. Even through the walls of the freezer, her voice is so loud it sounds like she's right beside me.
I scowl, though they can't see me. I do not cheat. I hate cheating.
Griff's voice is scarcely quieter. "Is she just going to keep hiding until Mom and Dad come get us?"
No chance.
"Probably," Dack says.
I hear more footsteps. Would they just look in the freezer? I'm going to die of hypothermia if they don't hurry it up—that or my face is going to get stuck to this bag of frozen chicken feet and I'll have to peel my own skin off to un-stick it.
"She's not in the house," Tristan says. "I'm sure of it."
"Did someone help you look?" I almost laugh at the skepticism in Dack's voice.
"Yes," Tristain replies. "Thanks for the confidence, jackass."
"Not Laney, right?"
My teeth chatter—as close to a laugh as I'm going to get. We've been playing hide-and-seek at my grandparents' house for two hours now, and Laney has proven herself to be, without a doubt, the worst seek-er I've ever seen.
I'd bet money Tristain is flipping Dack off. "No, Nal did."
Nal must be having so much fun with this. She got found early, and when I heard her looking afterward I poked my head out and asked her to bring me one of my grandmother's sweaters. It's the only reason I'm still alive, though I won't be for much longer if they don't hurry up and stop yapping.
Still, I can't come out yet…
Bryn sighs dramatically. "Okay, either she cheated, or she's even better than Lowri."
Or maybe I can.
I untwist my body, popping the lid off the deep freeze and springing out. I have to blink several times against the sudden light, but the sudden warmth feels nothing short of heavenly.
Still, it doesn't feel as good as winning for the fourth time.
Dack jumps. "Fuck, seriously?"
I grin. "S-s-stop s-swearing in front o-of the k-kids."
He throws his hands up. "Alright, you're officially the hide-and-seek champion. Now can we please find a new game to play?"
Griff gasps, still full of unmatchable childish enthusiasm at ten years old. "Grampa has cards! We can play go-fish!"
Without missing a beat, Dack turns around, pressing his forehead to the wall of the storage room. "One, two, three, four…"
I don't understand.
I blink a few times—my eyes didn't take long to adjust to the bright sunlight, but I still don't understand what I'm seeing.
Where are we?
It's… well, there's the cornucopia, large and off-white and surrounded by crates and bags, as expected… but this is the arena?
In every Games I've ever seen the arenas have been variations of wilderness, from deserts to forests to swamps to tundra. There have been Games set partially in ruins before, places where civilisation thrived long before the Dark Days, but they were always overrun with plants and animals and all what remained of the buildings was piles of stone and rubble.
This… this is nothing like those arenas. The buildings that bracket us in are in pristine condition, complete with window-boxes stuffed with pink and yellow flowers, and small wrought-iron balconies at higher levels. I almost expect to see people milling about on the cobblestone streets, pushing babies in carriages and laughing arm-in-arm with their friends,. I expect I could turn at any moment and see people in outrageous clothing emerge from the buildings, arms laden with shopping bags and boxes of food like I've seen them do in the Capitol.
This can't be the arena. But somehow it is.
I shake my head, coming back to reality. It is the arena, and I need to focus. I need to get the lay of the land, strange though it may be, and figure out what to do the second the gong sounds. I only have one minute; I have to make it count.
The twelve of us are in the middle of an intersection of three streets, stretching straight for as far as my eyes can see in every direction like six spokes of an enormous wheel, with the cornucopia at the hub. To my right and behind me are buildings in shades of cream and dove grey, partially obscured by thin, tall trees planted along the streets, while to my left the wedges between the streets look like parks, filled with long stretches of crisp green lawns and well-manicured trees.
A quick look around the circle confirms I'm not the only one surprised by what I see. Some of the other girls still look shocked, unable to make sense of what they see, or stare up at the sky, mesmerized by the unnatural, crisp blue or the overly-artificial fluffy clouds.
I look to my left, then my right, scanning the faces, looking for a pattern to the way we're organized. Sorrell is to my immediate right, Aidell from Nine just beyond her. Marissa from Five is to my left, then Nadia from Eleven.
Congruence mod six. Unable to help myself, I smile.
Not that it's very important, but that little piece of information does provide the order of the three Tributes I can't see: Majestie, Farley, and Erika from Seven. Erika will be directly across from me, with Majestie to her right and Farley to her left.
I thank my lucky stars that the Gamemaker who organized the circle this year had a penchant for mathematically-pleasing patterns. Thanks to that nerd my two biggest threats are almost as far away from me as they could be. That advantage will make a big difference, considering how closely-spaced we all are and how far away the buildings are behind me that will offer cover.
So while the bags and boxes littered around the cornucopia are tempting, they're definitely not tempting enough to overrule my need to survive. With Farley and Majestie so far away, surviving the bloodbath is looking more and more possible—all I'd have to do is turn and run, and once I reach the buildings it should be pretty easy to get lost.
But then I notice something else: a short distance in front of each platform lies a small blade (a sword? A dagger? Cato would know but I sure don't). I look around at the various bags and boxes of supplies all around the circle, looking for other weapons, but if there are any they're all packed away. The only ones available for the bloodbath are right in front of us. And there's only enough for one each.
It's a pretty sinister move on the Gamemakers' part; the sword is just too good an offer to pass up. We all know there have been years where the weapons have been extremely limited; this could be the only weapon available for the entire Games, and it's only two steps away.
Rush forward, grab the blade, get the hell out of here. That should be easy enough, right?
I look behind me, trying to judge my escape route. The buildings are nearly a hundred metres away—if I turn and run without getting the sword, I should be fast enough to disappear before Farley can catch me. If I run forward first… I'll have to run very fast.
After hours of feeling like my heart was crawling further up my throat, now I feel strangely calm. I feel ready. I have a plan, and a good chance of making it succeed. And (as soon as I can find him) I have a partner who's going to help me win this thing. I just have to survive until then.
"You just have to stay alive. I'll take care of the rest."
I clutch my necklace in my hand, preparing to run. There can't be more than a few seconds left.
I just have to survive a little longer.
The gong sounds.
I dart off the podium, lunging to the right, toward Sorrell. She may be a Career, but she's not expecting me to run at her, and she startles a little—just enough for me to take that extra step toward the sword while she hesitates. I cut back left, reaching, grabbing, feeling almost euphoric as my fingers close around the grip. And even though I trip a little turning around I don't fall, and before three seconds have passed I'm out of the circle, sword in hand, sprinting for the cover of the buildings.
I almost drop the blade as I flee, moving faster than I ever have in my life. I head directly for the street to my left—it's narrower than the one to the right, and will hopefully have more places to hide.
I don't slow down, even as I see the buildings all seem to be joined together, forming one big wall of stone and windows with nowhere to turn or hide or—
No! There's an opening!
I'm still close enough to hear individual voices—individual screams—from the bloodbath, but I block them from my mind and race toward the opening to my left. This puts me dangerously close to the cornucopia, but at least now no one can see where I go from here.
Only… there's nowhere to go from here.
I want to scream. I'm in a garden, filled with cute little trees and grass lined with flower beds… and buildings on every side.
I can't stop moving, though, even if I don't know where I'm going. I'm circling the garden like a madwoman when I notice a drain pipe snaking up on wall.
How did you get up there, anyway?
I don't have time to think of a better plan. I shove the blade through the back of my belt, praying it isn't going to stab me somehow, and run to the pipe. I give it a hard tug. Then again, harder.
It doesn't budge.
I look up the wall, decision already made. Hopefully those window-boxes are sturdier than they look.
I'm able to make good progress by shimmying up the pipe and using the windowsills and balcony railings as hand and footholds where possible. I test every step, willing to move backward if need be, so long as I keep moving. I've climbed buildings enough times to know how to do this—I just can't think of how high up I am. I just can't think about how I've already almost climbed higher than I ever have, that I'm still only halfway, that I'm high enough that the fall would probably kill me. Or worse, it won't, and the Careers will find me in excruciating pain, lying in the garden, unable to move.
No, can't think about any of that.
Mom will kill you, if the fall doesn't.
The top of the barn still made me anxious—I only ever climbed it in the first place because Nye said he had never done it and "knew" that I was too afraid. I was maybe too easily goaded as a kid, but it's amazing how easily fear evaporates when you're proving your brother wrong.
Climbing was never the problem, though. Climbing was fun, requiring a bit of cleverness and ingenuity as well as strength and balance. And like I said, if you're doing it right, all you're thinking about is where to place your hand next, whether that foothold is sturdy, whether you're strong enough to pull yourself up with your arms or if you need to back up and find something to push off of with your feet. There's no time left to think about heights or falling or danger or what exactly your long-term plan is.
This building is not the tallest around, but it's comparable to all the buildings in the near vicinity and allows me a good view of the arena. I scramble onto the roof and crouch low, both to not be easily spotted from the ground and to try to calm the feeling that my body is going to suddenly fling itself off the roof and ruin all my hard work.
The arena is even more strangely beautiful from up here, where so much more of it is laid before me. Buildings make up most of my view, but there's enough green speckled throughout to give me hope of some sort of food supply, although from here I can't see any woods that would be big enough to support large game. Hopefully that also means no large predators; I certainly wouldn't mind not having to contend with them as well as the other Tributes.
I remember what Cato said about staying close to the cornucopia, so I move slowly, carefully across the roof back toward the bloodbath. I'll be seeing faces in the sky tonight, but if I can get some idea of who's alive now it would be helpful.
By the time I can see the cornucopia, I'm flat on my belly, inching closer oh-so-slowly. Once I'm as close as I dare, I wrap my arm around a little chimney, clinging to it as I look out.
I take several deep breaths to calm the urge to lose all the food Vo forced me to eat down the side of the building. I'm not as high up as on the roof of the Training Centre, but there's nothing here but a chimney to keep me from falling, which makes it so, so, so much worse.
Trying to focus on the sight below doesn't help much. The uniform grey of the pavement disrupted by smears of red, trails leading to the bodies of girls laying in unnatural positions. Most of us were smart enough to try to flee, but some clearly wasted too much time trying to grab the small supply bags that were closest to them. I can only see two bodies from here, and neither appear to be Careers—I knew it was too much to hope that they would somehow all kill each other—which doesn't bode well. Small bloodbaths are terrible omens, as they usually mean the Gamemakers will do something drastic in the near future to increase the Games' excitement.
And what's worse: Farley is still very clearly alive. She's chasing poor Marissa from Five around the cornucopia like a cat chases a mouse, cutting her off at the last second every time it looks like she's going to get away. Marissa's shrieks are horrifying. Farley's laughter is worse.
I'm watching, mouth dry, wondering why Farley is being so careless. Is she not worried that one of the other Careers is going to catch her unawares while she's busy with this sadistic diversion?
Farley, perhaps realising this, or maybe just beginning to tire of her little game, gets close enough to Marissa to swipe at the back of the smaller girl's knee with her sword. She must just nick her hamstring, because there's no great spray of blood, just a blood-curdling scream as Marissa spins and flails and crashes into a pile of crates close to the horn.
The crates collapse underneath her like they're made of paper, spilling sand all over the cobbles.
Sand?
I squint, wondering if I'm not seeing things right from this distance. But Farley hesitates and lowers her blade a little; she's shocked as well.
Marissa, however, barely notices, and her screaming seems to jar Farley back to reality. No longer playing, she skewers the smaller girl through the stomach once, twice, then turns away. She doesn't even check to see if she's dead.
Farley inspects a nearby crate, giving it a tentative kick with her boot. Nothing. Then again, harder this time, and the crate—which, like the others, looked to be made of solid wood—collapses. Sand spills from it faster than blood spills from Marissa's body.
Farley makes a noise that might be a curse. She goes around kicking bags and boxes, like a child throwing a tantrum, moving faster and faster and wilder and wilder as each proves to be as useless as the last. Sand, sand, sand.
I was right to suspect that these swords may be our only weapons, but I could never have dreamed that they would be our only supplies. The cornucopia isn't always an overflowing bounty, but it's never been nothing.
Farley lets out a loud, guttural scream of frustration, and I feel my eyes widen. Is she soft in the head? She's going to bring them back!
I'm right. Majestie and—to my surprise—Sorrell come running back into the circle while Farley is still taking her anger out on the supply boxes. The other two Careers don't rush at her, like I expect them to, but instead watch Farley slice into a bag that looks to be stuffed with apples. Of course, sand comes out.
Majestie walks up to her, and seems to ask a question. I can't hear what she says, but Farley's answer comes through loud and clear: "fucking all of them."
A cold feeling seeps into my belly as I continue to watch, waiting in vain for one of them to turn and attack another.
Then tall, gangly Elinnor lopes into the circle; one hand covers her mouth, the other trembles so forcefully I can see her sword shaking from here.
I grip the chimney tighter, squeezing my eyes shut. The calm I'd found so briefly on the podium is long gone, and I have to fight the panic threatening to choke me.
The Careers are working together.
I can't stay here.
Despite the uselessness of all the supplies, it becomes clear that the four girls aren't in any hurry to leave the cornucopia. They've carefully organised the remaining bags and boxes in and around the mouth of the cornucopia, probably in hopes of attracting hungry Tributes for them to kill. It seems they think they're the only ones who know about the supplies being a sham (the piles of sand Farley has left all around the circle might throw a wrench in that plan, but hey, points for trying).
When Cato and I decided that he would come find me close to our cornucopia, we agreed that this was the best use of both of our skillsets. Mostly because all it required of me was hiding well enough to not get killed, and left the messy business of confrontation and tracking to Cato. He could handle himself against any Tribute he might run into on his way here, and with his endless stamina and twenty-four hours at his disposal, finding me shouldn't have been too difficult. Problematically, when we made that plan, we were also relying on the fact that there wouldn't be a little party of other Careers camped out at the cornucopia when he got here. Depending on how fast and/or lucky the Career boys are, there could be as many as eight of them here by the time Cato arrives.
A Career pack of eight.
Fuck me.
No, I can't stay here. Even if the girls aren't planning on sticking around for long, the last thing I need is Cato having to take on Majestie, Farley, and Sorrell all at once on the first day.
But if I don't stay, where do I go? I don't exactly have a way of communicating a new meet-up spot to the Career.
If he's even still alive.
Thinking about what might have happened feels like pulling at the loose threads of my composure, playing with the risk that it will all unravel and I'll break down and lose it. But I have to come up with my next move, and that means examining the possibility that something truly horrible has happened.
I start at the beginning:
Brutus told Cato that there was no alliance this year.
Brutus may have been lying to him.
Brutus may have been lied to, by someone else. Someone like Farley, or more likely Enobaria.
Whoever was lying, their goal is clear: they wanted Cato to believe there would be no Career pack.
Whoever was lying, they must have known that there would, in fact, be a Career pack.
Someone didn't want Cato in the Career pack.
All the other Careers must have been in on it, since they are all clearly in an alliance together, and since this trick would not have worked unless all of them knew Cato was being deliberately excluded.
But why? Why wouldn't they want him?
I watch from the roof as Majestie and Farley argue about something. I can't hear more than a word here and there, since Farley is no longer shouting, but it seems to have something to do with Elinnor. The girl in question stands somewhat awkwardly nearby, frequently looking at Sorrell, who resolutely continues inspecting the structure of "supplies."
Farley would have wanted Cato cut out of the pack because they can't stand each other, but Majestie? She's smart—probably much smarter than the rest of them—so if she signed off on this plan there must be something more to it than a feud between District partners. Something like thinking he would be a liability as an ally.
Not necessarily. The voice in my head sounds like Fra's. She doesn't need to think he would be a liability; she might have just decided that the benefits of keeping him outside the alliance outweighed the benefits of having him in it.
I watch as the argument seems to end, and the three Careers head left down the widest street, leaving Elinnor to guard the "supplies."
They wanted Cato to believe there was no alliance so he would not have expected them to work together at the bloodbath. That has to be it. So if Glint, Logan, and Domas have any sense they would have attacked him all together right away, otherwise they would lose any advantage they gained with this little stunt.
And if they were arranged the same way we were…
My heart sinks. If they were arranged the same way we were, Cato would have had Domas to his left, with Thane and then Glint to his right. There wouldn't have been much time for him to figure out what was going on before they were all over him.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Cato versus Domas and Glint, with Thane in there just to further complicate things. Where was Logan? Fourth to his left—almost across the circle, so at least there would have been supplies in the way, slowing him down a little. Still, he would have been able to join the fray before it was over…
Anything could have happened.
Anything except all five of them surviving, likely.
Cato's the best of the them, if training scores are a reliable metric. All he would have needed to do was not get killed in the first few seconds, and then get away. But would he run? Or would he stay and fight, furious and determined to prove that he is better than the other Careers?
I taste blood and quickly unclench my teeth, poking at the cut with my tongue.
It's a bit of a moot point, I suppose, trying to fit the pieces together when there's so much I don't know. Ultimately I just have to assume Cato's alive until proven otherwise, or else I risk being wrong and potentially never finding the partner I'll need to survive this.
Elinnor continues dutifully marching around the cornucopia, looking every way for someone approaching. At one point she looks down at something by her feet and retches, turning away quickly.
So… Cato's out there trying to find the girls' cornucopia. The best thing that could possibly happen is I intercept him on his way, before any of the other Careers can find him. But to do that I'd have to know where he's coming from.
If you were trying to find something but you didn't know what direction to go…
I scan the horizon once more, eyes settling on a tall metal structure, high above the other buildings, pointing like an arrow towards the clouds.
You go up.
The sound of the cannon is such a shock I nearly let go of the drain pipe on my climb down.
I scramble to keep my grip, bracing my feet on a window ledge and pausing to count the blasts. I'm not counting for long.
Six? I almost whistle before I can stop myself. That's got to be a record low for the bloodbath. The lowest count I can remember on a first day is eight. There are several hours left in the day… but still. Six?
Not good. Not good at all.
The second my feet hit the ground, I pull my sword from my belt and begin jogging. I try to move as quietly as I can, which is hard when every bone in my body is screaming to run as fast as I can as far as I can right now.
We've been in the arena for roughly an hour at this point. No one can have gotten very far, so I'm wary as I move between buildings, trying to keep my sense of direction despite not being able to see the sun. I've got to make it to that tall structure.
Progress is slow, thanks to the maze-like streets, but while I have to double back a few times and end up zig-zagging all over the place, I think I'm not doing a bad job. I'm actually feeling pretty good about this new plan.
Then I hear footsteps.
It's impossible to stay calm as I turn and sprint back in the direction I came, ducking around the corner of a building onto the street adjoining. I don't think I've been spotted, but the footsteps grow louder, closer, and I look frantically for a place to hide. The tree trunks are much too thin, and the street is too long for me to make it around the next corner before I'm spotted.
My heart must be beating triple time in the two seconds it takes for me to spot a doorway set back in one of the buildings. The alcove is not even two metres deep—pretty shit as far as hiding places go—but it will have to do.
I vault up the three shallow steps and into the alcove, and frantically try each of the double doors—neither of which have a handle. I'm careful not to make much noise as I push against them, hoping against hope they lead somewhere. When that fails, I try shoving my finger into the tiny space between them, but my fingers are too big. I try again with the tip of my sword, wiggling it into the space, but when I apply some pressure, I hear a crack, and the very tip of the blade is missing when I pull it out. Great. So the doors are as fake as the supplies—and our weapons are shit.
Great.
What a Quell this is shaping up to be.
The footsteps are now close by; in a few more seconds the Tribute will pass by my hiding place. I raise the broken sword, pressing the flat of the blade to my chest and tucking my body against the wall. I barely breathe, staying as still and as silent as possible, feeling like my heartbeat is so loud it will give me away.
I'm only picking out one set of footsteps—which is great news, since I really didn't feel like taking on the entire Career pack—but they're speeding up.
Please, please don't see me.
The figure who races past the doorway doesn't even look my way. She passes by in a blur, distinguishable only by the crown of blonde braids atop her head.
Primrose.
I continue to hold my breath, glad to not have been spotted, but feeling even more sick than I did on the rooftop. Because there is a second set of footsteps.
There's no time to be relieved or surprised, really, to see it's only Elinnor giving chase. She doesn't look my way either, but keeps sprinting after Prim.
What is she doing? I step forward in the alcove, checking quickly to make extra sure no one else is on the street before sticking my head out to watch them. Just a little while ago I watched Elinnor almost lose her lunch looking at one of the bodies at the bloodbath, and it certainly seemed like the Career girls told her to stay put and guard the cornucopia. Does she really think that she'll be able to catch and kill Prim? Does she think that will somehow score her points with the Careers?
Problematically, while Prim seems to be faster, she doesn't have a weapon.
Shit.
I grit my teeth, knowing what I have to do.
I jump down the stairs and begin running after them.
Even if I didn't feel horrible thinking of Primrose being chased down and killed so early in the Games, I know that I just can't afford to do nothing. Standing by while Panem's favourite sister gets killed is not going to endear me to any sponsors, especially if they were to find out we trained together before the Pairing.
I'm don't think I'm fast enough to catch them too quickly, but I just came from the streets they're running down, so I know where I'm going. I know that when Prim turns left down a long street that they're not taking the shortest route, that if I cut through here—
There's no time to think. It's been less than a minute since I jumped down the alcove stairs, and now I'm rounding the corner right in front of Elinnor. She doesn't even have time to stop running—barely slows down, barely starts screaming—before my sword is in her stomach.
The sound… it's horrible. I've always known that the speakers on our ancient tv never did it justice: the wet, squelching sound of internal organs being severed. I've heard it before, many times at butcher shop… just never from a human girl.
I don't think I get her heart—I don't think I got her at a high enough angle, and with its blade broken the sword is difficult to direct. Elinnor's thin, long-fingered hand claws at my shoulder, reaches for my face, tries to push me away. With a shaky breath I pull back the blade and try again.
Without the momentum of running, it's much harder this time, but I remember Cato's advice. I don't hesitate. And I get the angle right.
The cannon makes me jump, sounding just as Elinnor hits the ground. I force myself to look at her body. My first kill, but not my last. Not if I want to survive.
It's horrible. I feel sick. I keep looking. It's necessary.
She dropped her sword when I surprised her. I pick it up now, and I'm about to tuck it into my belt when I remember Prim.
"C-Caerwyn?" her voice is high, shaky.
I turn. I hand it to her instead.
"I can't use that," she says, shaking her head. "I c-can't… y-you keep it."
"Prim," I say, glad my voice is steady, if cold. She can't stop looking between Elinnor's body and me, big blue eyes terrified. "Come on. Someone might have heard." I practically force the blade into her hand, closing her fingers around the grip. I keep the blood-soaked, broken one.
She doesn't follow me right away, but I don't realize this until I'm almost halfway down the street. I look back at her. "Come on, Prim!" My voice is definitely louder than it should be, but if it gets her moving then so be it.
It does. She's running after me, following me as I lead her back toward the alcove with the doorway that leads nowhere.
I stop here to get my bearings and to listen for anyone following us. No sound comes from the streets; all I can hear is our own breathing. We're probably safe—unless someone was close enough to pinpoint the location of Elinnor's scream, they won't be able to trace us.
Except for the hovercraft, I think, looking out once more and seeing it fly overhead, dropping the claw to retrieve Elinnor's body. She'll be back with her family in District Three tonight.
I breathe slowly through my nose, fighting the scream rising in my throat, just itching to get out.
I look back at Prim, whose face is white as a sheet. I try to smile. "Are you okay?"
She opens her mouth, then just nods vigorously.
"Good."
"Th-thank you," she says, still nodding. "You—you didn't have to do that."
I almost say something about how without going on offense every once in a while I'll never get out of here, but bite it back at the last second. "You're welcome. I couldn't sit by, not after all the fun we had in training."
It's a bad joke, but now at least her sponsors know I've been friendly with her for a while now.
She tries to smile too, but doesn't quite manage.
"We need to go now, though," I say, my voice softer this time. "Stick with me?"
She nods.
As we're leaving, I notice a plaque on either side of the arch outside the alcove. Banque Transatlantique. Neither of the words mean anything to me, but I still stare at the letters for a good three seconds before shaking myself and heading off down the street.
It takes me a minute to figure out why it's so strange. There are never messages in the arenas—Mentors aren't even allowed to send notes to their Tributes explaining how to use medicines or other gifts they may send. One of the first Games I ever watched the boy from Four misused a serious painkiller his sponsors sent him; he went loopy and fell into a ravine, died with his skull cracked by a rock. The Gamemakers still refused to allow written communication of any kind between Tributes and Mentors. So the presence of any words at all, even unintelligible ones, is extremely odd.
As we run, I notice several more signs on the sides of the buildings. Almost none of the words mean anything to me, although most of them look like real words and not just jumbles of letters. Le Ruban Rouge. Patissier. Galerie Francis Barlier.
So some of them are names, I think, passing by this last one, written in block letters on a red awning. Beneath it are huge windows, revealing a collection of paintings on the walls inside. I want to try smashing the windows, to see if that's how we can get inside these buildings—almost none of them have doors, and when I stop to try one that does, it doesn't open. But we must be able to get inside somehow, otherwise what's the point? There are easier ways to create a maze, after all.
I don't smash the windows. I don't have time—not when we're still close to the cornucopia, and likely the Careers.
Or… I think we're still close to the cornucopia; my sense of direction is usually much better than this, but I feel shaky and unfocused and haven't been able to keep track of all of our turns. I'm not entirely sure where we are now, or where we're going.
The fact that we don't see or hear from anybody is a good sign, at least, but I don't want to think about what will happen when the Careers get back to the cornucopia and discover Elinnor is gone. Maybe they'll think she got scared and ran, that she didn't feel safe in her place in the alliance, but they will have heard the cannon and they'll put it together before too long. Maybe Farley won't, but Majestie will.
No, we need to get further away.
We get to a large intersection, and I slow to a stop. "Prim." My voice is a hiss. "Where are you trying to go?"
We move close to the side of one building on the corner, panting and looking every which way for someone who could easily spot us on these wide roads. There's a blue and green sign above our heads that reads RUE DE COURSELLES.
"Thane and I said we were going to try to meet at the western side of the arena. We thought that would be the best way to find each other."
A smart move—Prim and Thane certainly don't need to sweat about the twenty-four-hour advantage, with all their sponsors, and heading west gives them a concrete plan from the get-go.
I look up at the sky, better able to see the sun now that we're not enclosed in a narrow street. "Then it looks like we're headed down… that street," I say, pointing to my left. "Might not be west, strictly speaking, but it's the way the sun is setting."
Not the real sun, of course.
Prim watches me closely. Not a strand of hair has come loose from her crown of braids, despite everything. How does Cinna do that? "You're coming with me?"
"Why not?" I scan the intersection, noticing something across the way. "I don't know for how long, but we'll be safer together until we can find those boys. My plan is to get to some high ground to get a better idea of what we're dealing with in here." I turn back to her, beckoning with one arm. "Coast is clear. Ready to run again?"
We take off at a brisk jog down the street that leads west. As we turn the corner, I get a closer look at the sign that caught my eye, on the side of a building across the street. It's another blue one, reading Bovlevard Havssmann. A little further down another: Boulevard Haussmann.
Streets don't have names in District Ten, but they do in the Capitol, and they do in some of the books in Fra's library. Apparently they do here, too.
The street branches off in a few places, but the main stretch of it goes almost directly west, which feels like my first stroke of luck all day.
Five more minutes of running and I see a structure beginning to take shape ahead of us. As we get closer I can see clearly that it's a large archway.
Large? No: giant. It takes us probably close to fifteen minutes from the end of our little break to reach it, and by the time we do I can see that this thing is absolutely enormous. It's also sat in the middle of an intersection several times larger than the one our cornucopia was in. Prim and I wait on the edge of our street (called Avenue de Friedland), surveying the monstrosity before us, trying to decide what to do.
"It would be nice to get up there," I whisper. "We could see an awful lot."
"It doesn't look very easy to climb," she points out.
I squint, shading my eyes with my hand and noticing for the first time that they're still covered in blood. One look at Prim and I know she has been acutely aware of it this whole time.
I'm not really surprised I didn't notice—you get used to being covered in blood in the butchering business. Really, if I don't think too much about it, it doesn't feel weird at all.
Anyway, Prim's right about the climb. "And that fall would be a swift end to all this," I say grimly. "But let's take a closer look."
After what feels like an eternity surrounded by tall buildings, it feels horribly vulnerable to be out in the open, sprinting toward the archway. It's in the middle of a twelve-way intersection, and I can't help the feeling that anyone could be on one of those streets, watching us.
I'm so relieved to be within the structure and out of sight once more that it's a couple of seconds before I notice the hole in the ground.
It's like a grave for a giant: rectangular and easily four metres in length, lined with mirrors.
And it's filled to the brim with weapons.
I look from Prim to the stash and back again. My mouth opens and closes, soundlessly.
I can't tell how deep the thing is because of the mirrors, but it hardly matters; there's every kind of weapon imaginable inside, and far more than Prim and I could carry between us.
I crouch down, looking for some knives. Cato said I wouldn't get my pick…
I hand Prim a bow and quiver of arrows, without really thinking about it. She looks like she's swallowed her tongue. "I…I can't. I don't have the gift for it like my sister does."
"That hardly matters," I say, still holding them out. "The other Tributes don't know that; they'll still shit themselves when they see you with a bow."
She finally succeeds with a smile as she takes them, slinging the quiver over her shoulder and tightening the straps.
Prim watches my back, nocking an arrow with ease despite her protestations, while I keep looking through the stash.
I find a bunch of throwing knives wrapped in a long sleeve that looks like it will fasten inside my jacket. I roll it up and tuck it under my arm. I find another belt that has two long knives in its sheaths, and quickly tie it around my hips. There's so much I want to take—against all good sense, since much of it I don't really know how to use—but I try to be reasonable.
As I'm digging, after almost slicing my finger off on a sword that really didn't look that sharp, I spot something better.
I pull my injured finger from my mouth with a pop. Water.
I could sing. There are three litre-sized bottles, and one of them is full. Right beside them are three apples, some iodine tablets, and a sleeve of crackers. I look for more, but that seems to be it. It's all hiding way at the bottom of the box, beneath a giant hammer that probably weighs as much as Prim does.
I spot another quiver of arrows, dumping it out unceremoniously and shoving the apples, crackers, and tablets inside. "What else do you want?" I ask Prim, pulling out the sword that cut me, thinking Cato might use it. "There's everything in here."
"Um, maybe some knives?"
I find another belt, this one with three medium-sized knives, and hand it to her. Then I pull out the water bottles, placing them on the ground, and Prim's eyes nearly pop out of her head.
"Just like that?" she blurts.
I grin. "Apparently."
We don't dare drink it just yet. We haven't yet seen a water source, so who knows how long we'll have to make it last?
I strap the other quiver to my back, hooking the lids of the empty water bottles around the strap. "Can you carry the full one?"
But Prim isn't looking at me anymore. She's on the other side of the archway. "Is that the cornucopia?"
I spin, following in the direction she's pointing.
"Shit."
The cornucopia is really no more than a speck in the distance, but I would bet my life it's less than two klicks away. Despite the fact that we've been on the move for almost two hours.
I resume strapping the rest of my weapons to my body, double-speed now. "Alright, time to go—"
As I turn, I notice a door on the inside of one of the four posts of the archway.
A door… with a handle.
I rush over. Come on; please please please please—
It opens.
I knew one of them had to open! "Prim! Look at this!" I poke my head inside. No mutts, and no other signs of a trap, just a bunch of stairs in a spiral going way way up. "This climb will be easier than we thought!"
Prim follows me inside, still holding all her weapons from the mirror box. She ties the belt around her waist, then accepts the water bottle. "Do we… should we? When we're still so close to the cornucopia?" She peers up at the hundreds of stairs. "We don't even know if we'll be able to see anything from up there."
She's not wrong. "Well, there has to be some reason this building is open when none of the others were, right? I think… I think it's worth a shot?" I open my jacket, emphasizing that it's now lined with knives courtesy of the mirror box. "At least if it's a trap, we'll be ready, right?"
Prim bites her lip, then hooks her bow onto the quiver on her back, pulling one of the knives from her belt instead. "Okay. Let's go."
It's a grueling climb with all the added weight of our weapons, but not an especially long one. We probably don't pace ourselves as well as we should have, so we're both winded when we emerge from the stairs in a glass case atop the roof, but it doesn't even take us ten minutes.
I brace myself as best as I can for the view as I reach the edge of the roof, but I still feel dizzy as I look out at the arena below—far below. There are these horrible spikes all around the edge of the structure, which seems like just the sort of thing the Gamemakers would choose to use to keep Tributes from falling over the edge, though I'm not sure why they bother. It's not like we're meant to stay alive in here.
"Oh wow," Prim says, coming up beside me. "It's so pretty."
It's gorgeous, honestly, though I have to keep determinedly scanning for the other cornucopia to keep my heart rate down. I don't think we're as high as the roof of the Tribute Centre, but the buildings around us are shorter than the ones in the Capitol, so it feels like we're up practically in the clouds.
At least, we're high enough to see the crisp geometry of the streets branching away from the arch, each lined with fluffy green trees and carving out tidy wedges of the maze-like buildings. To our left, down the widest of the six streets, we can see our cornucopia. But no matter how carefully I scan every space between buildings, I can't see the other one.
"Do you see it?" I ask Prim, still squinting against the sunlight.
She looks for a minute longer before answering. "No; maybe it's on the other side?"
We do a circle of the roof, looking carefully in every direction, but nothing.
Of course I looked up tons of arena stats during my time in the Capitol, which is how I know that arenas have an average radius of twenty-three (and two fifths) kilometres. The biggest arena of the seventy four had a radius of roughly thirty-two kilometers, appropriately for a Games that had to accommodate twenty-four extra Tributes.
Prim and I can probably see more than five klicks in every direction, but most of what we see is the tops of buildings and trees. Unless the other cornucopia is on top of a building (which would be such an interesting and horribly impractical choice), we won't be able to see it.
We're just not high enough.
"Prim, think through this with me," I say, staring out at the city once more. The tall metal structure I noticed earlier is clearer from up here—it looks like a fancy letter A, only too long on top. It's by far the tallest thing around.
"Sure. Think through what?" she asks, still scanning the horizon herself.
I keep looking at the A. Something about it… it's gnawing at something in my brain, but I can't figure it out. And I have other puzzles to solve. "This arena has to be smaller than normal, right?"
"Why?"
"Well, the biggest arena was the last Quell, which had twice the normal number of Tributes. This time… it's kind of like there's half as many Tributes, right?"
Prim thinks about this. "Well, yeah, I guess."
"Because everybody is either playing with their partner, or their partner is dead, right?" Like Glint. I wonder what will happen when he meets up with the other Careers and finds his partner is dead. "So, if we count partners as one player, then there are no more than twelve."
She nods. "Okay, so the arena really only needs to be as big as it would be if there were twelve of us," she says, head still bobbing along. "Unless the Gamemakers just wanted to make it bigger?"
A fair point. "Yeah, I think that—holy shit."
It comes to me in a flash—I know where I've seen that tower before.
I step forward on the roof, almost heedless of how high up we are and how it's only a bunch of spikes keeping me from the edge. I grab two of them in my hands, staring at the thing in the distance.
The name comes to me a second later, while Prim is hurrying after me and asking what's wrong.
Eiffel.
There was an old book in Fra's library that I read three—maybe four years ago? It was a pretty cheesy romance, the sort of book I devoured at a two-a-week rate at that age. The thing was so worn and decrepit its cover was more vaguely associated with the book than attached to it, but on the cover was a picture, and in that picture was a tower.
"I know where we are," I say, feeling my pulse start to race and a smile spreading across my cheeks. "Prim, I know where we are."
"Um, the arena?" she says, a bit nervously. "Are you okay? Did you see something?"
I shake my head. "Prim, this is the ancient city of Paris."
6101719: Happy New Year everyone! This chapter has been such a bitch but after many, many, MANY edits (and countless hours running around Paris via Google streetview) I'm happy with where it ended up. It was supposed to be my last chapter before exams got crazy, then it was going to be my last chapter of 2020, THEN it was going to be my last chapter as a 24-year-old, but it ends up only being the most recent chapter. What can you do? However, clocking in at an astounding 13 281 words, it IS the biggest on yet, so I managed to do something significant right?
The quote thing between Caerwyn and Fra is a semi-paraphrase from my second favourite Shakespeare play-Coriolanus. It's so fucking good, and yes that's the name of President Snow, but the main character has been a big source of inspiration and reference for Cato, and just generally I would highly recommend it. Especially if you can find the version with Tom Hiddleston in the title role! Guys! It's amazing!
Umm also I know no one is going to ask, but in case anyone is SUPER confused about congruence mod 6, it's actually fairly simple. Two numbers are congruent mod 6 if they have the same remainder when divided by 6-you already know lots about congruence mod 2, because numbers which have a remainder of 0 when divided by 2 (ie are congruent to 0 mod 2) are what we call even numbers, and numbers which have a remainder of 1 when divided by 2 (ie are congruent to 1 mod 2) are odd!
Also, not to brag, but Caerwyn hiding in the freezer during hide-and-seek is basically straight-up ripped from my own life. I really did hide in my parents' deep-freeze during a game with my cousins, it was terribly uncomfortable and very cold, but unlike Caerwyn I'm Canadian and love the cold so it worked out quite well.
Okay, that's all from me folks. Thanks again for reading, everyone. Not to repeat myself yet again, but I really do just have so much fun writing this fic and every one of you who take the time to read it are just the best. And if you enjoy it, so much the better! Let me know what you think of the arena now that we're finally here in the comments!
Much love.