A/N: Day 10! We're incredibly close to the ending now, with the influx of action from the last chapter continuing here. I hope you all enjoy the read, and I can't wait to hear your thoughts about what will happen next!
Lord Parthenia, 16
District Twelve Male
I stare out of the single window in the cabin quietly, my dagger resting in my lap as I watch the sea of golden grass sway back and forth in the breeze. The sun is halfway over the horizon now, the sky still streaked in early morning pinks and purples. Miriam slumbers quietly on the bed next to me, the worn quilt tugged tightly over her shoulders. It's late enough in the morning now that I could wake her up, but she looks too peaceful in her sleep for me to awaken her yet. I just let myself stare out at the ever-shifting sea of grass, keeping my breathing slow and even as I think about what is left ahead of me.
There's only six of us left, which feels shocking to even think about. I always planned to fight and come home, but I never really expected to make it this far. I don't even think anyone from Twelve has ever made it to the Top Six, in all honesty. It's surreal to think that there's five people between myself and going home, between myself and getting to live the rest of my life in peace. I'm usually someone who likes to act more than I like to think, but this time in the Games calls for stillness and reflection. After all, just a couple of days ago, Miriam and I were sobbing about our childhoods, which is something I never thought I'd be able to do in front of anyone, not to mention on national television. The idea of it makes my cheeks heat up a little bit with shame, but I still don't think it was the wrong thing to do. It was nice to get that baggage off my chest. And now, I'm staring out the window blankly, wondering about nothing as I stare at the grass.
It makes sense to me, though. I've never been someone to appreciate my time on my own, but being in the arena under constant surveillance makes you hungry for privacy. I've also been with an ally almost these entire Games. I've always been covered with prying eyes ever since I was Reaped. Even more than that, I know very well that these Games are going to end in the next couple of days. And although there's only six of us left, I know that means I have a slim chance of making it home, especially with three Careers still left in. This could be my last morning to stare out the window, my last time to wander aimlessly in my thoughts before I die. So I don't know, I'll indulge it. I'll let myself long for whatever the grass makes me long for until Miriam wakes up or I'm through with being reflective.
Miriam slumbers on and my thoughts continue to fall quietly through my brain, and I don't stop them. Three Careers left, maybe together, maybe apart. The engaged Three girl and Omri from Eleven in the sky the night before. The Six boy out there still too, doing Snow knows what. Miriam, sleeping at my side. The rifle, leaning against the fireplace only feet away. The grass, golden, shifting, constant.
My mind stops running into phrases and thoughts and begins to think deeper again. I want to go home, obviously. I haven't had to kill anyone yet, and I'm going to have to do that if I want to go home. My mind skips around the thought of killing someone else. I think I could do it, if I have to, if I have to in order to go home. I've never been the most selfless person, and I'm leaning into that now, letting that greed overtake me. I'm going to have to kill someone if I want to go home, and I make myself think about that. I think about the Bloodbath with Soya being stabbed to death by the boy from One, and I think about that same Career bleeding to death on our doorstep after Miriam shot him in the chest. I don't flinch or shudder at the thoughts, letting them wash over me. Death. I'm going to have to kill someone to go home. I think I can do it. I should be able to do it. I'm a coward and a waste of time at this point if I can't.
My thoughts then wander to who I will have to kill to go home. The Six boy seems like the easiest one. His name is something after a car part. I should know it, but it evades my thoughts. We got the same score in training, and he was smart and handsome and well-liked. I still think I could take him. He seemed to have an element of class to him that you only get growing up safe. I could tell he came from a comfortable life. He was strong and witty and kind, and the warm innocence of a happy life seemed obvious on his face during his Interview. I remember he even dared to talk about a special girl back home, as if that was the most important thing going on in his life, as if the Games weren't looming behind him. Back then, I just thought he was suave for asking a girl out on national TV, but now the idea seems hollow. I wonder if the Games have broken him yet. I wonder if he still has that nice smile on his face. I know my cocky smirk is gone unless I'm playing it up for the cameras, so I doubt he still smiles like he used to either.
The Careers come next, and I try not to think of them as hard, because I know they'll all be able to beat me in hand to hand combat. I doubt I'll last more than a few seconds against Chavez or Tyberios. The Reaped girl, Cordelia I think, might be someone easier to defeat, but even then she knows how to fight and still was in the pack. If she's made it this far, and outlived half of the others, she must be able to take care of herself. With the gun, Miriam and I can defeat any of them, but without it, I don't think we have much chance.
My stomach sinks as I think about losing the gun. These past couple of days, I've been waiting for them to flush us out, to destroy the cabin or send mutts after us or steal the rifle away in the middle of the night. Maybe they'll let us keep it till the end, if we're still popular, but the fact nags at my brain that it could be gone sooner than I think. It feels comforting to have the gun with us. I've become almost used to it, and the thought of it leaving is unsettling. I know we need to start leaving behind this cabin and going out to fight, but every fiber in my body wants to remain in this chair, just staring at the grass, while Miriam sleeps peacefully beside me. I don't want to go face the other tributes and the Gamemakers and the other horrors outside. Childish, maybe, to want to pout about it, but whatever, I'm allowed to pout a little. I just want us to be safe. I just want Miriam and I to not have to deal with this shit anymore.
I glance down again at Miriam sleeping quietly in the cot, and my chest hardens a little. There's one another opponent left I haven't thought about, and she's right here. Miriam looks so peaceful, her chest rising and falling slowly, soft snores drifting from her open mouth. I know she's going to have to die if I want to go home, but the idea is difficult to really grasp. We've been together for over a week at this point, but it feels a lot longer than that. It's not like she's my little sister or anything, it's just...she's been here. She knows what I know about this arena and about the Games. She's smiled with me and she's cried with me. I don't feel all-encompassing love for her or undying loyalty. I just feel bound to her, through our circumstances. Miriam and the Games are the same thing. To leave behind one is to leave behind the other, and my mind can't fathom the idea of her being dead since we've been surviving so long together.
I know we're going to have to break apart soon though. Either she'll be dead, I'll be dead, or we both will be. I don't want to give my life up for her. I've clawed my way through these Games and through the sewers back in Twelve too long to die for anyone else. I don't have enough honor left inside of me for that. But I don't want to have to split up our alliance, even though I know that's what most alliances do this deep into the Games. If one of us has to die, I want to put it off as long as possible. Still, I know it's smartest to break it off soon, before it could just be the two of us left. I know I should take the dagger in my lap, cut open her throat, take the gun, and go out and hunt down the Careers. That would be the smart thing to do.
I don't do it, though. I just sit, staring out the window, until Miriam wakes up. She rubs her eyes groggily, groaning as she stretches her arms over her head. She looks around blearily as I stand up and rifle through my pack. There's only a few packets of jerky and dried fruit left, and we have to use them wisely. Our sponsor gifts have been running out, either because we're out of funds or because our Mentors are saving up in case we need something more later. Still, I doubt we're going to be in this arena for more than a handful of days, so we might as well indulge ourselves. I take half of the packets and throw them onto the bed once Miriam looks fully awake, having shoved the quilt off of her body.
"Good morning, loser," Miriam sighs, straining to grab one of the packs of jerky at her feet. A small, teasing smile comes onto my face as I brush the packets out of her reach, and Miriam groans in annoyance.
"I might be a loser, but I'm a loser with food, so you should be nicer," I chuckle before throwing a packet of jerky onto her lap. "You're lucky I'm feeling kind today."
Miriam is silent for a couple of moments, studying me quietly as she tears open the packet of jerky. She chews on a strip thoughtfully for a moment before swallowing and speaking.
"What's going on? You seem...I dunno, out of it a bit," she murmurs before pulling another strip out of her packet.
I grab my own pack of jerky from the bed, ripping it open as I sigh quietly. I decide not to play it off. We need to talk about things anyway. Now's as good of a time as ever.
"I've just been thinking," I reply steadily, pulling out a stick of jerky and turning it over in my fingers slowly.
"That's never good," Miriam smirks, biting another strip of jerky before continuing. "A pretty little thing like you isn't meant to think, is it?"
I roll my eyes. "I guess not. It's just...where we are at, I guess. Gets you thinking, you know?"
The warm bravado Miriam's been playing up slips away as she realizes that I'm not going to shake off my serious tone. "Spill it. What do you wanna talk about?"
"I just want us to figure out, like...well, what we're doing for the rest of these Games. There's only four others left, and I don't know what we should do next," I mutter, casting my eyes to the ground. "I like staying here in this cabin. It feels safe. But I just don't want us to unprepared for whatever they're going to send at us soon."
Miriam doesn't respond for several moments, chewing her lip in thought. "I've been trying to avoid thinking about it. But...yeah, you're right. We need to figure it out."
The silence pervades the cabin for long minutes. We eat the rest of our packets of jerky, then tearing into the packets of dried fruit. The quiet isn't oppressive. We're stalling, obviously, but I think we're savoring the comfortable mood between us while we can. I think we both know that it's not going to last much longer, now that we've acknowledged things are coming. We've been able to hide from the Games mostly in this little cabin, but that time is coming to an end. It's a hard thing to wrestle with, really.
Once our breakfast is finished and I've put the extra packets of food back into the pack, I turn to Miriam with a long sigh. "So. I'll just be blunt, we don't need to dance around the point. We're big kids, we can handle it. Well, at least I'm a big kid."
My joke feels a little flat, but Miriam still conjures a giggle at it anyway before becoming a bit more serious. "I'm a big kid too, don't worry. I can handle whatever you have to say to me, Mr. Parthenia."
"Okay, good," I reply, nodding my head slowly. "Well...are we going to split up or not? That's the big question."
"I don't know," Miriam responds plainly, and I can tell she's not lying to me. "I know we probably should, but...there's safety in numbers, I guess. And you're a big fat meatshield."
"You fucking suck," I laugh, shaking my head. "You just don't want to admit you don't hate me."
"Okay, you're right, whatever, I guess you're not the worst," Miriam snickers before pushing a loose strand of hair out of her face. "I just...well, I don't want us to be the final two, that's all."
"Yeah," I nod reservedly. "Yeah, I don't want us to be the last two either. But I also think we need each other to fight against the others. We can't take Chavez or Tyberios on our own."
"You're right, and then there's..." she trails off. "Well, there's the problem of who'd get the gun."
I hadn't thought of that before, but she's right. If we split up, one of us has to take the rifle, and the other has to be left with nothing. I have no idea how we'd ever be able to figure that out without it turning into a brawl. We get along, but I also know that we both understand that the rifle is our only ticket to beating people like the hulking Career boys in the end.
"I think we stay together for now," I answer instead of trying to negotiate over the rifle. "I think we stay together for a couple more cannons, and then if we're both miraculously still alive, we go our separate ways and wish each other luck."
"I like that," Miriam nods. "We've been...lucky, to face nothing yet, so I doubt we'll be so free for more than a day or so. We're gonna run into someone or something soon, I think. So it would be nice to be able to work together if we have to fight something else."
"But then we can still split up so we don't have to be the last two, and so we don't have to...kill each other, yeah," I agree.
"Well, what's the magic number?" Miriam asks. "When do we split up?"
"Six left, so...four? Two others? That sounds manageable," I murmur.
"Yeah, four sounds like, well, it sounds good," Miriam responds. "Better than five or three."
"So two more cannons, and then we go our separate ways," I say, a little more confidently. "I think that's a golden plan."
"You better enjoy me while you have me," Miriam jokes, smiling brightly and trying to dissuade the cold pall of seriousness that has fallen between us. It's been all too easy to forget that we're in the arena, stuck in this little cabin together. Negotiating things like this just reminds us of the harsh reality of the Games. I'm happy she's not trying to dwell on it. If I'm going to have to die soon or go it on my own in the prairie, I'd at least like to have a couple more hours of fun banter with her before we go our separate ways.
"I'll do my best to make the best of it," I tell her genuinely, and I can see Miriam's mouth twitching into an even more contented smile.
"Good," she whispers. "It's not over yet, so let's brighten up and have some fun, eh?"
"Shouldn't I be the one comforting the little girl, not the other way around?" I laugh, shaking my head. "Arena really fucks you up, huh?"
"It sure does," Miriam mumbles, swinging her legs off of the bed and standing up. "I guess I should get up, and we can have some fun."
"Fun?" I ask with mock seriousness. "I didn't know you knew how to have that."
"I promise you, I do," Miriam chuckles. "I'm more fun than you. Loser."
As our jibes continue, I let their warmth soak over me. I cherish every moment as the day begins to tick on, committing all of our jokes and all of our fun to memory. Everything inside of me tells me that this isn't going to last much longer, and I want to stretch the enjoyment while I can. It's not even like the two of us are exceedingly funny or heartwarming. It's just nice to have someone to talk to, someone to trust, in all of this, and the thought that it might all be gone soon is haunting enough. So I try to make the most of it, trying to make everything as lighthearted as possible as we whittle the day away cracking jokes and snacking on food from my pack in the little log cabin we know too well.
At about midday, a cannon shatters through the still air of the prairie, interrupting Miriam halfway through a story about her soccer team back home. We both sit bolt upright as the cannon rings throughout the air, gradually fading into silence. Even once it's gone, however, I still feel like I can hear it, resounding silently and ominously in my ears. It excites me and terrifies me at the same time.
"Only five left," I mutter, and we both know what that means. One more cannon, and this alliance is done. I can see the same thoughts flashing in Miriam's eyes as she chews her lip anxiously.
"What were you saying? About your soccer team?" I ask, as if the cannon hasn't fired. This alliance isn't done yet, and I refuse to get all wistful again. If this is our last time to crack jokes before we die, I want to make the most of it.
Miriam seems startled by my ignorance of the cannon, but she leans into it, continuing her story. She talks about girls I will never know and about soccer manuevers whose names I forget the moment they leave her lips. As the story continues, I stare out the window above us, seeing only startlingly bright blue skies. My mind swims again with that odd longing feeling, and I imagine the grass swaying all around us. The cabin seems to throb a little brighter with warmth as Miriam's story fills my ears. I suddenly realize the lightness in my limbs isn't just from the sun or Miriam's story. I feel just a little bit...well, free. I feel unburdened by the troubles of everyday life and by the fact that I'm probably not making it out of this arena any time soon. There's no bars to tend here, no flirting girls to distract myself with. There's no distant future to hedge all my bets on either. There's just a few spare hours between myself and the end of my life. A little girl from District Ten is telling me things that would only matter in a place like this. Outside, the prairie stretches out for miles as far as our eyes can see.
I find myself feeling thankful that if I must die soon, at least I got to feel free one more time. That thought resounds in my head quietly and powerfully as Miriam's pointless little story continues and the grass keeps swaying outside our little cabin window, glistening gold in the noonday light.
Chavez Belasco, 18
District Four Male
Sweat trickles down my jaw and drips onto the collar of my t-shirt as I jog through the knee-length grass. The dark brown fabric soaks up my perspiration easily, although the regions on my chest and under my armpits are a little darker from being drenched with sweat. My dark tan skin broils in the midday sun, and I can tell the Gamemakers are heating things up a little bit today for whatever reason. I let myself slow down as I jog, sliding the throwing knife clutched in my hand into the belt at my waist. Then I swing my pack onto only one of my shoulders and pull it around to my chest so I can access its contents easily. I unzip the flap and pull out one of my last water bottles, suckling at it eagerly as I let myself stop jogging entirely. I find myself emptying the entire bottle despite the fact I know I should be saving more of it for later on. Who cares at this point? I'm thirsty as hell, and I know I have enough sponsors in the Capitol to send me a little bottle of water if I have none left. If I'm going to run into another tribute today, which I really aim to do, then I don't want to be dehydrated and dry-mouthed the whole time.
I drain the last few drops from the plastic water bottle before tossing it into the grass beside me. Usually, such a thing would be foolish to do, but at this point I don't care. If anyone wants to come find me, they can do so. I'd be glad to see another face today. My fingers are just itching to whip out my knives and carve someone to bits. There's no one left in this arena that I fear, really. If Tyberios or Cordelia or even the little girl with the gun want to find me, they can be my guest. I'm done playing games and waiting for everyone else to die. It's been over sixty hours since my last kill, and my fingers are just twitching to throw a knife into someone's temple or carve open a gasping throat.
A brief flash of concern passes through my mind, but I quickly shove it away. Why does it matter if I'm daydreaming about taking down another tribute? It's what I'm meant for, after all. What would I be, if I wasn't a Career, out in this golden grass stalking for victims? A deadbeat like my brothers? Hardly. I could never fall that low. What else, then? A kid sitting on the pier, skipping stones and sneaking a kiss with some ugly girl working the docks? A slimy businessman like my father, taking from the poor and giving to the rich? No. This is what I'm meant for. I'm meant to send glittering knives into screaming throats and to rejoice at ruby-red blood spilling across the dry dirt. This is my place. I won't let myself feel ashamed for being what I am, for wanting what I want.
I growl quietly under my breath, the noise barely audible, as I scan the horizon around me. I try to push the thoughts away, but they keep creeping into my skull. What would I be if I wasn't here? It's a question that hardly matters, but the layers of it intrigue my curious mind too much to be shoved away easily. It's not like there's much to do, or see, or think about out here in this endless prairie. So what's the harm? What else would I be, if I wasn't a Career thirsting for blood? I know I shouldn't feel bad about it; I don't. I'm here, and I'm made to win this. It's just a simple thought exercise, to keep from going stircrazy while I wait to come across my next victim. That's it, really. There's no need for analyzing it any further.
So I let my mind really play through it all. None of my family members have lives I'd live up to. My brothers are insufferable; Cisco just binge drinks all day and parties every night without any motivation to him. And Lando's even worse, because he's always tried at things, but never been very successful. At least Cisco has the dignity to know he's not made for bigger things, and he tries to stay away from them. Lando always trained hard even though he was never better than middling at anything involving the Games. He always gave me those horrifyingly jealous looks, coveting the way my knives sunk into the target one after the other when I had barely gone through puberty and he was almost a full grown man. I could never be like either of them, no. A lazy drunkard and a hopeless tryhard. There's a reason I've enjoyed playing my pranks on them all these years, and it's not just because I liked to joke a lot back home.
My parents are worse, in a way. My father inherited everything our family owns from my grandfather, and he acts like he built it all himself. Really, all he's ever done is invest in some stable stocks and go into the safest business ventures. Never any risk, never any skill, just coasting on the coattails of his predecessors. He's always disgusted me, in the way he acts as if he's actually done something with his life. He looks down on Cisco and Lando like he's not a bigger fraud than both of them combined. And don't even get me started on my mother. I admire the way she worked up from begging for scraps on Abalone Street to living in one of the biggest mansions in the District, but she's slimier than the rest. I guess I inherited my cunning and my good looks from her and not my father, but she's detestable. I guess the only reason I loathe her so much is because she wasted her talents on a hapless man like my father.
So if I was not going to be like any of my family members, what would I have become, then? I had to become successful at something. At what? Business is tedious and dull. Politics are painfully polite and sincere. There's nothing else in District Four worthwhile that provides true success besides the Games. So that's why I'm here after all. I won't be a failure like my brothers. I won't ride ancestral coattails like my father. And I would never squander my abilities by marrying into money or anything else so petty and underhanded like my mother. I couldn't be a businessman or a politician. So I am here. I'm doing what none of them could do. I'm fighting for the highest honor in Panem. I'm fighting to become the Victor, and I'm succeeding at it, really. Four kills under my belt already, and five others left to play. I know I can take a couple more of them out on the way, and coast to my rightful Victory. There may be some blood, sweat, and tears, but that's what I'm made of, after all.
That is why I'm here. I couldn't waste myself on little things, little places, little people. District Four is full of those things. It's all little. Even the Capitol is little, in it's own way, obsessed with horrible fashions and pointless luxuries. Life is little, in its mundane ways. I've never been able to see that bigger picture of things that other people talk about, that interwoven tapestry of all mankind. They say we all breathe the same air, but that's not ture, it's never been. Some people breathe the air of the shantytowns in their peasant rags, and some breathe the air of gilded palaces in their robes of kings. We have never all been the same, and we never will be. Life is so little and insignificant, but the one place that has ever made me believe the world might be bigger, might be worth my talents at all, are the Games.
Everyone at home bowed to me from the start. Things were so easy, to play people against one another and make it here. Everything has always just been a simple hurdle for me. And maybe that's a bit arrogant even from me, to claim nothing has ever been a challenge in my life, but it would be a lie to say otherwise. Everything was easy, except for the Games. Everything was little, except for the Games. The pageantry of it all, the notoriety and the horror that makes it loom bigger than it really is. After all, this is nothing at all, this little arena with screaming children running this way and that. It really is just a game after all. But the way it's been built up in our collective consciousness, the way every child quivers at the words "Hunger Games" and "Reaping" and "Career"...it makes it the one thing in all of Panem that is just barely worth the things I have to offer the world. The flash of steel in the summer sun as I slaughter indiscriminately is the only way I can truly experience this life in a worthwhile manner. That's always been my reasoning, I guess. I can be no one else, and I can find nothing else to sate this desire.
I guess I don't really want to kill anyone, in the end. Well, at least not in the conventional sense. I'm not filled with bloodlust merely because I feel irrational anger towards the others, or even because I truly enjoy the sight of blood and guts and screaming, dying children. Really, I just imagine the end goal, the Victor's crown and the cheering crowd and the bloodsoaked blade that has earned me all of the glory in the entire world. The world is little, but each stroke of my knives makes it a little bigger, makes it a little stronger, makes it a little bit more deserving of my talents. If wood carving or trawling in the bays or even sweeping the streets of Abaco had given me this much glory, power, and size, I would've done it instantly. It's not about the murder, really, although it doesn't quite bother me much; I've grown to enjoy it, for what it means. It's all about the performance, and what that performance can get me. It's all about being the biggest man in the room. It's all about doing something where I don't feel squandered for once in my life. It's about being bigger than everyone else, about being bigger than the world, and there is nothing in this world quite bigger than a Victor, in the end.
My mind flashes briefly to thoughts of what will come next, to when this is all said and done, but I shove them from my mind as quickly as they have come. There will be time to examine my legacy and my future once I'm out of here alive, and I'm sure there will be plenty for me to do with the newfound power and fame I'll achieve by winning the Games. However, I know this is the best time of my life, now that I'm living it. Wandering these seas of empty golden grass is quiet at best and mind-numbing at worst, but each step is one of power and exhilaration. I have to make the most of this moment, because if this isn't worth it, then what else will be? If murdering children for glory in a burning prairie isn't enough to satisfy me, what will be enough? That's an easy answer: nothing will be enough. So I must continue to jog through this ever-shortening grass until I find my next victim, and I must tear them limb from limb, and I must enjoy every bloody moment of it. This is the best time of my life, I know it surely, and I won't waste it by being bored or disillusioned or fearful. Every moment in this arena is a gift, a prize for me to savor with every ounce of my being.
A brief flicker of movement in the corner of my eye quickly shuts down my train of thought immediately. Meditation on the murky past and the glimmering future is of no use now, when there is something in my line of sight. A wicked smile curls onto my features as I spot the bobbing movement of a tribute desperately running in the opposite direction of me, back towards the taller grass. Ah. It seems I have spotted a fellow opponent, at last.
My pace instantly picks up to a full out sprint as I tear through the grass towards my target, each hand flipping a knife out of my belt and clenching the handles in tight fists. As I've been searching, the grass has gotten so low that I must be near the edge of the arena; it brushes against my ankles as I run. I know what my target must be doing; they want to get to the taller grass so they can lose me and find a new place to hide. That must mean they're not Tyberios then, and although the tribute is far away, they don't seem nearly tall enough to be the Career boy from Two. In fact, they seem much too short to be either of the Outlier boys left alive as well. And with the way there haven't been any bullets whizzing through the air towards me yet, I can guess it's most likely not the wily little girl from Ten with her rifle either.
"Cordelia," I snicker delightfully under my breath, my legs picking up the pace even faster in order to intercept my erstwhile ally. It has to be her; I don't even think the girl from the livestock District is this short, and I'm gaining on her quickly due to my much longer stride. As I gradually get closer and closer, I begin to make out more details, and I'm certain it must be Cordelia. Her movements seem vaguely familiar from seeing her run around the arena before, from seeing her flee after she'd poisoned Trinity and Ardin. The thought of the other Career girls bloated and dribbling yellow foam from their mouths just makes me grin even wider. Cordelia murdered them like a coward, and now I get to have fun with the stout little District partner I've always despised. I had always been planning to make my next kill last, of course, but this one is going to stretch even longer than I'd imagined if I'm allowed to have my full way with her.
Within a matter of minutes, I'm a good fifteen feet from Cordelia. Although I want to drag this out, I can't resist throwing a knife her way. The blade arcs through the air in a metallic blur, and Cordelia barely dodges it, the knife soaring inches away from her left ear. My District partner begins to run more frantically at that, shrugging her mostly empty pack off of her back so she has less to carry. The only thing she has is the long, silvery spear clutched in her right hand as she runs. I know I could easily take her down if I get a bit closer; my aim is impeccable, and I could hit her in the nape of the neck or even try to throw a curving path right to the soft underside of her throat. But no. I won't do that. I won't let Cordelia go that easily; I'd also enjoy to fight against a spear with only knives. It ups the stakes, in a way, for her to have that much more reach over me. And it also will give me even more notoriety when I'm able to slaughter her easily despite her massive advantage. The idea makes my body thrum with even more adrenaline as I close in on her.
After about another minute of running, the grass is about at mid-thigh length by now, and I can tell Cordelia is flagging from the long run. I have to admit I'm a little bit winded too, especially due to the hot sun and my long search before I spotted her. Still, I have more than enough energy left in me to fight someone like Cordelia. I won't be daunted by a bit of panting. She's obviously much worse of than me anyway, if her hungry gasps for air are any indication of her tiredness.
Suddenly, Cordelia stops in her tracks, whirling and lashing out at me with her spear. The movement takes me by surprise, and I barely roll out of the way of her spearhead as she jabs it up towards my throat. I chuckle quitely as Cordelia stumbles backwards, shocked that her little trick didn't work on me.
"Tut, tut, tut," I scold Cordelia as I straighten, flipping the two glittering knives in my fingers around, making sure the sunlight glances off of them menacingly. "It won't be that easy to take care of me, Cordelia. Now, the most important question of the day: do you care to dance with me?"
Cordelia Nile, 17
District Four Female
Chavez's eyes glint malevolently in the searing sunlight as he flips his knives between his fingers, attempting to threaten me. His question rings through the buzzing prairie air, but I refuse to answer, instead tightening my grip on my spear. I know his words and his movements are meant to frighten me, and I really wish they weren't. But they're working, almost too well. My heart is hammering at a blinding speed, and I can barely catch my breath. My entire body is absolutely drenched in sweat, and my muscles already ache from my attempt to outrun him. And now I have to fight him, with just my spear, while he has two dozen glittering knives strapped to his waist on two separate belts. I feel a lump forming in my throat, but I refuse to cry. I won't give him the pleasure.
I'm going to die. The thought comes with such calm and clarity that it almost makes me want to laugh incredulously. I'm standing silently across from Chavez Belasco with a little spear in my hands, and he has an entire arsenal of blades to take me down with. He's going to kill me, and he's not going to make it quick. Oh no, I know Chavez too well by now to expect anything less than a full hour of bloody torture. I know he's going to pin me to the ground and flay every inch of skin off of my body until I bleed out or he gets bored with me, whichever comes first. There's no escaping this now. I couldn't outrun him if I tried, and I did, I really did try. I once again curse my stunted height and my short strides as Chavez begins to circle me, still flipping his knives ominously between his deft fingers.
"No answer?" Chavez pouts, jutting out his full lips in disappointment. "I had expected more manners from a girl like you, Cordelia."
"Fuck off, Chavez," I hiss in response, once again tightening my grip around the shaft of my spear. My palms are slick with sweat, making the sleek metal slippery, but I ignore that fact.
"You'd like me to fuck off? To where, exactly? There's nothing but grass here, Nile," Chavez snickers, his eyes burning with a haunting look that must be something like hunger and desire.
"If you're going to kill me, give me the dignity of not playing little word games with me," I snap back, furrowing my brow. "Have some District loyalty, at the very least."
Chavez begins cackling wildly at that, shaking his head at me like I'm the most foolish thing in the world. "District loyalty? Dignity? From the likes of you? Oh, you amuse me too much, Cordelia. So full of virtue. So absolutely hypocritical, and above all else, exceedingly dumb."
"What the fuck does that mean?" I growl back, shifting my grip on my spear anxiously. "I've played the Games just like anyone else."
"You don't get to speak of dignity with how you killed Trinity and Ardin," Chavez grunts darkly in response. "You're a pathetic little coward."
"I didn't know the almighty Chavez Belasco had feelings for our allies," I laugh, trying to exude confidence despite my racing pulse.
"I don't give a damn about them, you dumbass, I just don't respect someone who calls themselves a Career and uses poisons to pull off their little tricks," Chavez sighs. "And of course, I wanted to torture Ardin myself, and you stole that from me, which was entirely unkind of you. I was saving up all my anger just for her. I guess I'm going to have to redirect that rage at you instead."
"Stop stalling then, and fucking torture every last drop of blood out of me, if you're not going to give me the dignity of a quick death," I growl angrily.
"Can you stop mentioning dignity, Cordelia?" Chavez chuckles, shaking his head, his luscious, dark hair flapping in the light breeze. "You're the least dignified person in this entire arena. Even if I believed in morals, which I don't, you'd be one of the people here most deserving of a tortuous, painful death."
"Not as much as you, you fucking bloodthirsty manwhore," I clap back. Chavez's face contorts into one of pure rage for a couple of moments before he shifts back to his usual undeterred confidence. I'm happy I'm getting to him; if I'm going to have to die against him, I'd rather get it over with. I don't want to have to spend the next hour listening to him prattle on about my wrongdoings and my utter stupidity.
"I've been waiting to kill you since the first day I saw you on the Reaping stage," Chavez breathes, his eyes alight with dangerous hunger. My breath hitches in my throat at the terrifying sight, but I force myself to respond as brazenly as I can manage. Still, it's hard, with my mouth having gone completely dry at his words.
"Try it, then," I mutter back, although my words sound limp and frail against his burnished bravado.
"Gladly," is the last thing he says to me before he strikes. He doesn't even attempt to throw his knives at me, seemingly so confident in himself that he thinks he can take me at hand to hand combat. I want to laugh at his choice. Chavez is a much better fighter than me, but only arrogant fools would allow another trained tribute such drastic reach over them. A spear against a little throwing knife is a wholly unequal fight, no matter how skilled Chavez is with his shining blades. A small glimmer of hope bubbles in my chest as I dart away from Chavez's arcing blade and stab back at him in return with my spear.
The next several minutes are composed of the dance Chavez asked me to earlier, and I have to admit his movements are a bit beautiful even though my life is on the line. I'm able to hold my own with my spear, fending off his attacks, but my movements are utilitarian and short, straight to the purpose. Chavez moves like quicksilver, twirling around me and adding flair to his movements as he ducks and weaves and slashes with his glittering array of blades. My breath catches in my throat a couple times at his elaborate postures, and I begin to get more and more frustrated with how easily he is able to avoid my spearhead, and how hard it is getting to evade his slashing knives. My stamina is almost completely dried up, and while I can tell Chavez's strength is lagging as well, I know he has much better endurance than I could ever hope for.
Desperate to end the battle before I run out of energy, I make a sudden full on rush at Chavez, jabbing my spear upwards towards his stomach. Chavez is surprised by the ballsy move, barely avoiding the entirety of my spear slamming into his gut. Instead, my spearhead slices a small incision across his right hip. The little cut barely draws any blood, but the minor wound seems to enrage and fluster Chavez to no end. A grin works its way onto my face as I dive towards him again. Maybe his foolish arrogance is working in my favor. Maybe I'll be able to actually emerge from this fight alive, and surprise everyone once more.
Suddenly, I feel a rock under my foot that I'm certain wasn't there before. We've been circling in the same area for the past five or so minutes, and I haven't seen a single stone. Now that I think about it, I have barely seen a single rock in the arena at all. However, this one trips me up, causing me to crash to the ground hard. My body aches as it slams against the dusty ground, and I'm barely able to keep my grip on the shaft of my spear as I tumble. My surprised brain blearily wonders where that rock came from, but I don't have time to think about that now because the fight for my life is nowhere near over yet.
I'm barely able to avoid the next slash of Chavez's knife, and I desperately try to get to my feet, but it's no use. Chavez is looming over me now, laughing. I try to bring my spear up to stab him in the groin, but he uses his foot to kick my wrist before I can lift my spear enough. With a scream, I feel the bones in my wrist shatter under the force of his kick as he slams it back down to the ground. Red-hot pain shoots up my arm, and I see both blood and whitish shards of bone spilling onto the golden grass as Chavez cackles above me. My spear rolls from my useless hand, and Chavez picks it up and tosses it far away from us. I weakly try to get up to crawl away, but Chavez looms over me again, smashing his foot against my injured wrist. I see blurry stars in my vision as I screech out an inhuman sound, unable to move with the unbearable pain absorbing my entire being. Chavez makes sure to grind his shoe even harder into the wound, causing hot tears to begin to streak down my dirty cheeks as I scream even louder.
"You shouldn't have been such a bitch, Cordelia," Chavez muses calmly as he crouches over me, his dark eyes devoid of any human emotion I can recognize. I look into the empty voids of his eyes, searching desperately for anything in them, but I find nothing but determination. The sight makes me sicker than anything else I've seen in the arena.
He suddenly leaps on top of me completely, slamming one of his knees into my stomach to keep me pinned to the ground. The wind is instantly knocked out of me, and I choke desperately to try to pull in another breath. Chavez just chuckles quietly as he slides one of his blades back into the belt at his right hip, flipping the single knife remaining in his grasp between both of his hands as I struggle futilely against how he's pinned me to the ground.
"Let's have some fun, shall we?" Chavez coos, reaching out and brushing my hair from my face. I bristle at the unwarranted touch, angrier about that violation than I am about the way he's crushed my wrist. I gnash my jaws wildly, hoping to bite onto his hand, but Chavez deftly avoids my snapping teeth, shaking his head and laughing at me once again.
I kick my legs around on the ground weakly, but they can do little to hurt him with the way he's pinned me down to the ground with his knee still digging into my stomach. I then try to swing my uninjured arm at his throat, hoping to choke him out. However, with one fluid movement, he grabs my wrist with his free hand and breaks it before throwing my arm against the ground above my head. I just cry pitifully now, because there is nothing more to do. My two broken wrists throb with pain, my useless arms stretched out and languishing above my head as I sniffle weakly. Still, I do not beg for him to kill me or for him to make my death quick. I know that Chavez won't make my torture swift, and pleading for him to go easy on me will just embarrass me further in my last moments. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me grovel.
I attempt to crawl into the recesses of my mind as my greatest punishment begins. Chavez's blades are torches burning with white-hot fire as they slice hundreds of small cuts across every expanse of my simmering, dirty skin. I keep my eyes closed, refusing to look at the handsome boy looming over me and his dark eyes that I imagine are full of mirth now that he gets to live out his dream of torturing me ruthlessly. I don't want to see the robin's egg blue sky, free of clouds, or the endless seas of golden grain around me either. I don't want to think about the arena, or about Chavez, or about my dying body. The Capitol has taken everything from me. The arena and Chavez himself are just extensions of their will after all, and I won't let them consume me as I die. I have fought too hard to beg and whimper and pray as I perish, with the Capitol and its disciples filling my vision. No. I will content myself with the little secrets of myself as I die, the little secrets that only I know, the little secrets that are fading with every drop of blood that leaks from my body and spills onto the grass beneath my thrashing frame.
The garage is musty and smells of rancid sweat and worn leather. My siblings dance around me as we spar with wooden spears, the weapons clunking against each other as we try to impress our father. He watches impassively, correcting our movements and sometimes handing out praise when he deems fit. The fighting is hard, and we're not even sure why we're doing it, but we enjoy it. Dylan laughs, and Rosemary smiles, and I feel my face heating with warmth and love as our homemade spears rap against one another and our father murmurs instructions. When it's done, we're all panting for breath, and my mother brings out a tray of ice cold lemonade for us to indulge in while we take a break from our preparations for the unknown.
At the baitshop, I watch as the everyday people of the District pass by, buying lures and gear and bait from my careful, welcoming hands. My tone is light and conversational as I scoop wriggling worms into styrofoam cups for fathers and sons who are going fishing in the bay. My laughter rings across the pier as an old woman tells me stories from before the Dark Days as I tie up her bundles of fishing line. The seagulls fly in whirling patterns above my head as I take my break, sitting on a scarred old bench with a sandwich in hand. I savor the taste of peanut butter and raspberry jam in my mouth as the breeze ruffles my hair and the summer sun warms my skin with its touch.
Under the docks, in the foaming moonlight, Beck's calloused yet gentle hand grips my chin and tilts my head back so he can look directly into my eyes. His are seafoam green, gleaming with simple, lovely desire. He does not lust hungrily after me, full of jealousy and spite and power. His eyes brim with simple love, pure love, the kind that makes you look into each other's eyes for long hours as the surf pounds the rocks beneath your feet. The salt in the air burns my lungs, but I savor its tang as our soft lips crush against one another and he presses me against one of the wooden legs upholding the pier. His hands on my body make me shiver, and as his fingers run through my hair, the only thing I can do is think about how I never want to let him go.
It's the day before my school's spring dance, and my mother and Rosemary tend to me eagerly, helping sew up the few little rips in my dress and add new strips of glimmering fabric to make it even more beautiful. Our laughter rings throughout our small yet humble cottage as my mother pulls the needle through the fluttery fabric. Rosemary tells me about a boy she likes at school, and my mother tells us stories about the men she dated before she met our father. Dylan and my father come in during one of them, with my dad scowling at the mention of my mom's other suitors and Dylan joining in on our laughter. Once the dress is all cleaned up, I put it on with my favorite pair of heels, and my family claps, even Dylan who usually hates talking about girly things like this. My mother crushes me in a tight hug, teary-eyed, saying she's so proud to see how grown up I am. My father tells me I'm the prettiest young woman he's ever seen, and that he'll always be proud of me.
On my bed in the Capitol, Mags slips through my half-open door and finds me sobbing in a heap, twisted among my silken sheets. She sits down on the foot of the bed wordlessly, her presence calming me until my tears have dried up and I'm able to breathe better. Once my tears have slowed, Mags closes the distance between us, launching herself over the bed until she's laying next to me, pulling me into her arms. She whispers in my ear that it's going to be alright, that she cried even harder and longer than this after she was Reaped for the Games. I giggle at that thought, the idea of a whimpering, tearful Mags Flanagan seeming so improbable compared to the fearsome woman she is now. My Mentor strokes my hair comfortingly and tells me that she's going to do whatever she can to get me out alive, no matter if she has to drag me out of the arena herself and kill all the other tributes with her bare hands.
I hear their laughter as Chavez's blades dig deeper and deeper into my skin, every last peal of joy as it rings through the halls of my family's home, down the sun drenched docks of Four, through the gleaming chambers of the Tribute Hotel. I don't feel the pain for much longer, it's all too much for my mortal body to handle anyway. Instead, I feel myself lifting and lifting, laughter in my ears as I rise. I know the sounds are probably my own pitiful cries, or Chavez's eager gasps as he cuts me open even more, but I choose to pretend it's laughter, all of it, every last sound. The blood trickles from every vein that has been sliced and exposed to the prairie sun, and I feel everyone I have ever loved grabbing onto my ragged flesh and pulling me up towards the sky.
I finally let my eyes open, and the shockingly blue sky is all I see, full of chiming laughter and warm embraces. The world around me rumbles with dark thunder and my body is slick with running blood, but I feel my own laughter in my throat almost bubbling out, the corners of my own mouth almost twitching into a joyous smile. I see my family in the blue, blue sky, all four of them calling out, reaching out, and I go with them, I lift and I lift, and I'm with them again, I'm with them again, and we laugh as the sky crashes to the ground and everything is just black, black laughter, black sky, black love, nothing to see but eyes and family and everything else that is forever gone like me, forever gone from the face of the earth like me and my family and the little secrets I hold dear and all our little laughter, swirling into the dark and gone once more, forever and ever.
Miriam Park, 13
District Ten Female
It doesn't take long for Lord to fall asleep once the sun sets over the arena. Back home it'd only be around nine at night, but he stayed up the whole second watch shift last night, so I understand why he's exhausted. It is the Hunger Games after all, anyways, so all that stress gets to you and makes you want to curl up and sleep forever, even if you've been staying in one place like us this whole time. We've been telling stories all day to distract ourselves and hopefully provide some minor entertainment to the Capitol, but it's still exhausting, especially when we both know it's not enough to save us for much longer.
The number keeps playing in my head as I pace slowly around the edges of the cabin, careful to keep my footsteps quiet as to not wake up Lord. He slumbers peacefully in the bed, arms splayed across the patchwork quilt, the only sound the soft exhales of his breath. My heart beats too fast to be so relaxed like him now. The number keeps ringing in my head, like the cannon from earlier. Four.
Four, the number other kids left in this godforsaken prairie, the number of cannons between me and saving my mother from cancer and seeing my father again. Four, the number of remaining tributes Lord and I agreed to split up at, the number that is only one more death away. Four, the number of days it's been since I started thinking about abandoning Lord and going off on my own. With every cannon that fires through the still golden grass, my desire to leave and my desire to stay both grow stronger. I know I need to go, if I want to survive. I should slash Lord's throat right now and steal away in the night while he's asleep and unguarded. There might be two or three other Careers left with me, depending on who died earlier today, but I have a rifle and they have flimsy little blades. I could kill them, if I need to, if I run into them.
My pacing quickens as my feet slide soundlessly across the dusty oak floorboards. My eyes trace the whorling patterns in the fraying rug as I try to keep my mind from thinking about what it wants to think about. I can't leave Lord like this. I can't kill him in his sleep, or abandon him entirely to fend for himself. I know I should be looking out for myself; I am, I really am. I'm not going to sacrifice myself for him or anything, I'm not that naive or foolish. I just...it feels wrong, to slice open his throat now and run away in the night. I don't want to do it. I don't want to think about how it's the only right thing to do.
We made a pact, I tell myself over and over as the floorboards creak quietly under my anxious paces. We made a pact until there are two others left, and then we split up. We made a pact, and I should stick to it, I should really stick to it because I'm a good person and Lord is my friend and he deserves better than that.
I almost want to laugh at my ridiculous thoughts, and I stop pacing as I shake my head at my stupidity. I'm a good person? I shot a boy to death at the threshold of this very cabin. I abandoned Jayce to die on the Bloodbath field to Snow knows what kind of torture from the Careers. I'm not a good person, I've never been; I wouldn't have made it this far into the Games if I were a good person. I've always been here to win, to prove to myself and to everyone else that I am a survivor, that just because I'm a little girl doesn't mean I can't fight like the devil and make it home to Ten. Why am I going to stop playing hard now? I've had a well earned break from everything in this cabin with Lord, cracking jokes and feasting on sponsor gifts. But that time is up now. The Games wait for me outside of these wooden walls, and even though it doesn't seem like it, they've been going on inside of here as well. They're not over, far from it, and I've come too far to give up this easily.
I turn slowly until I'm facing the bed where Lord sleeps. He trusts me too much, even though he plays it up as if he's cocky and confident and always on guard. He's taken off his armor breastplate and set it on the ground next to the bed, and his dagger lays on top of it. I could easily whisk up the blade and slice open his throat before he could even scream. He barely moves in his sleep, entranced in whatever dreams are playing in his head. He won't notice me, if I kill him. I should do it; I have to do it. I need to go home. I need to win.
I take a step closer to the bed, my breath hitching in my throat, my hands beginning to shake with small tremors of fear. I'm going to kill him. I have to. If I wait until there's only four of us left, we'll have to fight over the gun, and he'll win. He's taller and stronger and older. He'll wrestle me to the ground and shoot me between the eyes and I'll regret for every dying moment that I didn't do what I need to do now. I know Lord would do it, if he was in my position. He's told me everything about his life, every scaly detail of the way he's clawed his way for survival in the gutters of Twelve. He won't stop to think when it comes time for us to end each other. He's just slipped up now, falling asleep so soundly, trusting me a little too much, a little too long. The opening is here. I have to take it. I have to kill him, and I have to take the gun, and I have to go hunt down the other tributes until it's just me left, until it's just me left and I can go home to my parents and save all three of us from this dark little world.
It takes me five minutes to make the next several steps. Each one is agonizing but necessary. Before I know it, it feels like a blink of an eye really, I'm standing over Lord as he sleeps on the little rickety cot. The dagger is already in my hands, somehow, and it's clasped in both of my sweaty, shaking palms. I clutch it close to my chest, my breathing ragged as I try to will myself to hold it out and draw it across Lord's open throat. He's shifted in his sleep so that his head is turned towards me, his soft throat glistening in the silvery moonlight, inviting the blade in my hands to cut open his supple flesh.
I imagine Lord's eyes opening in that glimmering moonlight, his dark eyes locking onto mine as the blood leaks from his slashed throat onto the milky white sheets below. I imagine his mouth falling open a little at the sudden injury, at the cowardly betrayal. And I know suddenly that I can't do it. I can't cut his throat open in the night and steal away with all of our supplies. I can't kill him like I have to, like I should. A small sob works its way out of my throat, and I set the dagger back down on his breastplate and clutch my hand over my mouth. Oh no. Oh, oh no. I can't do it. I can't kill him. Why? I can't do it, I just can't.
My mind quickly flashes to action. It has to be only an hour or two until the anthem, and I've spent agonizingly long minutes creeping towards the bed and contemplating killing Lord. Now I know I can't do it, right, wrong, or indifferent. So if I can't kill him, I have to do the next best thing. I have to leave.
Abandoning him isn't as hard as killing him, and within a minute I've gathered up all of our supplies into our pack. Then I pick up the rifle from where it leans against the fireplace, the smooth mahogany wood feeling slick under my fingertips. It feels too right in my grasp, but I decide not to feel bad about that. It should feel good in my grasp; it's my signature weapon now. It has to feel good in my grasp, if I want to go home. I slide the five extra bullets into the pocket of my shorts alongside the one already inside of the rifle before I turn to the door. The floorboards are silent underfoot, and Lord does not stir.
I give him one last glance, the moonlight gleaming across his hair as he shifts in his sleep. He does not awaken, however. My eyes fall on the armored breastplate and the dagger I've left sitting at the foot of the bed. I know I should take the dagger at least, but I can't bring myself to. The breastplate is too heavy and too big to be of any use to me, and the dagger...it feels wrong to hold it again, after I almost killed him again with it. My brain stumbles over some flimsy logic, like wanting him to be able to injure one of the Careers if he comes across them, but I know it's not the truth. I want Lord to have something left, when he wakes up and finds me gone. I feel disgusted at my kindness, but I can't make myself go pick up the knife. Thus, I turn on my heel and slip out of the cabin door and into the inky black night beyond.
Fear tears at every part of my brain as I quickly begin dashing through the grass, crashing in a random direction through the night. I'm on my own now. There's no going back. I've left behind Lord in that cabin, and I'm going on my own. I'm going to be alone now until I'm dead or until I get to go home. My grasp on the rifle tightens at the thought, and a desperate fluttery feeling in my chest urges me to turn back and run inside where Lord must still be asleep. He won't even know I was gone, and I'll be able to lean the rifle back against the fireplace and pretend I never left. I can crack a joke that I just wanted to organize our supplies into the pack, and he'll smile, and we'll have another day of sunny prairie grass and long-winded stories to make the time pass by.
I keep running, never looking back at the log cabin that looms in the darkness behind me. No. I can't go back. I refuse to let myself be that weak. I wasn't able to kill him, and I wasn't able to take away his only weapon. If I'm so soft and childish to be unable to do those things, at least I should be able to run away and live on my own. Guilt nags at my brain, but I brush it away. I can't feel bad for doing what must be done. I have the rifle now, and all of our supplies, and the cover of night to find a better place to hide. I will get far away from that cabin, far away from Lord, and I'll never see him again, and it'll be good because that means I won't have to see him die, it means I'll get to go home and never have to see the shameful betrayal in his dark, pleading eyes.
I run until my legs burn and then some, until I'm sure I'm too far from the cabin to even see it on the horizon when the sun comes up. Then I let myself collapse, the rifle and my pack falling to the ground on either side of me as I flatten myself on the grass. It's not much longer here than by the cabin, probably going up to around my ankles, and it pokes at my face as I gasp in heavy gulps of air. I let the scratchy golden grass brush against my face as I shudder, bringing in air until I can finally calm my breathing and lay on the ground without feeling like a fish out of water.
I let the emotions slowly ebb their way out of me, drawing in deeper and longer breaths each time to push away the crowding thoughts burgeoning in my mind. I made my choice, and I got away safely. Lord is back at the cabin, and he still has the dagger and his armor. It's enough to give him somewhat of a chance in a fight, although I know it's nowhere near enough to help him defeat one of the Careers, especially Chavez or Tyberios. He's there, and I'm here, and that's how it is now. There's nothing I can do to change that. The Games must go on, the odds must continue to tilt. I'm a little thirteen year old all alone in a sea of grass, but I have a gun with a handful of bullets in my hands, and I'm not going to go down without a fight. I hope Lord isn't too upset when he realizes I'm gone. I hope he dies sooner than later so I never have to see his cocky grin ever again in my life.
Once my rampant heart has finally stilled and my breathing has returned to normal, I push myself up on my forearms to look around. I don't expect to see much besides dark grass and the starry night sky, but something on the horizon instantly sticks out. I see a flicker of an orange flame, standing out brashly against the midnight blue that coats everything else. A fire. It's a single wavering flame, however, and it does not seem to spread to the area around it. That must mean it's not a Gamemaker fire. It must be a campfire of another tribute. The thought sends cold dread into my veins. Someone else is nearby.
Despite the terror consuming me, I shrug my pack over my shoulders and tuck the rifle under my arm before beginning to crawl in the fire's direction. There's only five of us left, and if I don't engage with whoever this other tribute is, I'm sure the Gamemakers will make me do it anyway, and I'll lose any element of surprise. Anyways, maybe if I'm able to take them out, I'll become more popular in the Capitol. And then maybe, when Lord wakes up, he'll realize someone else died, and he'll think that's why I left, not because I was too cowardly to kill him or leave him when we were both awake.
The grass scratches my arms as I crawl through the grass, moving slowly and keeping as low to the ground as I can. I know the anthem must be coming soon, it's deep into night now. The fire gradually gets closer and closer, and as the breeze shifts in my direction, I can smell woodsmoke and the scent of roasting meat. My mouth waters at the aroma, and my stomach grumbles quietly for whatever this tribute is cooking over their fire. I begin to move even slower as I approach the fire and the tribute crouched over it, who is only a shadow from this distance. If they see me, and I lose my advantage, I'm screwed. I'm not a good enough shot with the rifle to get them from this distance. I need to get closer before I can fire.
The next several minutes are agonizing as I drag myself across the dusty ground. The grass itches at every part of my skin that is bare of fabric, and my mouth becomes dry from my rampant nerves. I ache to laugh off my troubles or even drum my fingers across the barrel of the rifle to relieve my anxiety, but I need to remain as soundless as possible. It's excrutiating, the utter silence. Still, I do my best to remain quiet, and it works. Within a matter of agonizing minutes, I'm close enough to the tribute and their fire that I can begin to make out details. When I do, my heart begins to slam against my ribcage with even more fervor.
There's no mistaking that the tribute crouching in front of the fire is one of the Career boys, due to his tall height and rippling muscles which seem to shine in the flickering firelight. He has a double-headed axe at his side, buried in the ground, which makes me think it's probably Tyberios, the boy from Two, since I saw him at axes a lot during training. The thought of the grunting, brutishly handsome Career sends a shiver down my spine, and I curse myself inwardly. Why did I think this was a good idea? I'm twenty feet from a muscular Career and his campsite with nothing but a gun I can barely aim? Stupid, Miriam, so fucking stupid. However, I'm here now, and I force myself to keep watching even as my hands begin to shake harder, clamped tightly around my sleek rifle.
Tyberios slowly turns a wooden spit over the fire, and I see two rabbits are strung along the length of wood. Their flesh bubbles and darkens as the flames lick at it, and my stomach grumbles insistently again. My eyes widen when Tyberios suddenly turns at the sound, surveying the field around him suspiciously. Holy fuck. No fucking way. I am not fucking dying because of a growling stomach. No way in hell. That might be one of the most embarrassing ways to die ever, in the history of the entire fucking Hunger Games.
Tyberios seems unsatisfied when his initial glance around turns up empty, and I watch as he stands and rips his double-bladed axe from the ground. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, fuck, fuck, there's blood on the blade. Of course there's blood on the blade, he's a goddamn Career, but the sight still makes my stomach curdle, although this time it thankfully remains silent. He's a killer, but I'm one too, I remind myself anxiously. He's brought an axe to a gunfight, and he doesn't even know it. I try to steel my nerves as Tyberios begins to pace around his crackling fire, tossing his axe from hand to hand.
"I know it's Ten or Twelve, one of you," Tyberios chuckles, and I stiffen suddenly, involuntarily gasping in a little breath. Tyberios hears, and a pleased smile breaks out on his face as he turns in my direction, the fire painting his face with haunting shadows. "Only tributes like you would be cowardly enough to creep up on me like this."
There is silence as Tyberios quietly strides around the fire until he's on the side closest to me. My hands are shaking like hell now; I don't even know if I'll be able to keep the rifle still. I bite my lip and force myself to try to calm down, but it's hopeless; my heart continues to race as Tyberios stares out into the darkness in my direction, probably trying to guess where I'm hidden.
"Come out and play, you dirty little Outlier," Tyberios growls, taking a step closer.
For some reason, the movement triggers my fight or flight response. I spring to my feet, and before I know what I'm doing, I'm levelling the rifle and shooting it right at him. Tyberios barely has time to shout before the bullet whizzes over his shoulder and slams into one of the logs of his fire, making the entire structure collapse in a shower of sparks. I can tell the Two boy is terrified, but he rushes me with his axe lofted in the air as I hurriedly try to reload my weapon, cursing my lack of good aim.
"Nice try, but not nice enough," Tyberios chuckles as he nears me. His voice is wavering, and I know his fear of the gun is stunting his true confidence. If I were him, I'd be terrified; he's a Career, he can't run away from a fight with a little girl. Still, battling someone with a gun is not an easy task. There's only so much an axe can do against a gun.
I push that from my mind as I fiddle with the rifle. With my shaking hands, I'm finally able to jam the bullet into the gun. He's feet from me now, and I know he recognizes my face now that we're close together. He hefts his axe into the air, either to throw it or slash at me, I don't know. I don't really care. I stagger out of the way, barely avoiding having his axe bury itself in my skull. It swishes through empty air, and before Tyberios can right himself, only steps away from me, I lift the gun and fire straight at him.
No matter how bad my aim is, it's not hard to shoot someone at point blank range. It's Zircon all over again. I stagger backwards from the recoil as the bullet slams into Tyberios's chest. The Two boy's eyes can only widen, his mouth mumbling wordless things as he stumbles to the ground. He attempts to throw his axe at me, but it sinks into the ground at my feet, and I hear a pained whine from the Career boy. He instinctively reaches up to the ragged bullet hole in his chest, pressing his hands against the wound. Even in the dark, I can make out the blood blooming from the hole in his chest. His eyes, shining in the moonlight, meet mine, and they're filled with fear.
Red fills my vision, hatred too, as I reload the gun again and fire at him. My eyesight swims and I can't make out anything except Tyberios writhing on the ground as I fire into him again. My limbs crackle with energy and dominance as the Career boy dies under the barrel of my gun. A cannon fires at some point, but I don't think, I just keep reloading, firing into Tyberios's body even after he's dead, even after there are no more bullets left to fire and I'm just clicking an empty weapon over his bloodied corpse. He has to die. He has to suffer. He has to feel the pain, all the pain, so I can go home and so he cannot.
The electricity that races over my skin is the thing that finally makes me back away. I realize I've been shooting an empty weapon at the Two boy's dead corpse for the past several minutes, screaming curses at his still body. I blink away my confusion and terror, backpedaling until the electric pulses stop crackling over my skin. A couple tears begin to slip silently down my cheeks once I realize what's happened. I've just killed my second person, and all my bullets must be gone. I've wasted every single one on him, there's so many bullet holes in his body, I must have used them all up. I have nothing left, and there's still other Careers left in this arena and Snow knows what else, and I have nothing left to protect me. This gun is just a stick of wood at this point. And oh my lord. I killed...I killed another person. Another Career, but another person. Dead, because of me, because of my finger twitching on the trigger.
It's all too much to handle; leaving behind Lord, wasting the bullets, murdering Tyberios in cold blood. I collapse in a heap in the golden grass, clutching the empty, useless rifle to my chest as I draw in a shaky breath. I watch as the hovercraft materializes in the starry night sky above me, the claw descending to scoop up Tyberios's rumpled corpse. I didn't even get to look into his eyes or hear what he had to say as he died. I didn't process any of it. I was just a machine, firing bullets into his body even after he was dead, defiling his corpse in the name of anger and terror. The thought makes me sick to my stomach, and bile works its way out of my stomach, splattering on the ground beneath me. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
My brain spins as I drag myself through the grass, not sure where I'm going. Finally, I reach the collapsed fire that Tyberios made. My conscious self is too flustered to know what's going on, but my subconscious knows to make the best of what is left of this fire. I use the butt of the rifle to nudge the logs back together, and then I pull out the spit with the rabbit meat on it. It's mostly singed, but I'm able to use a dagger I find lying with Tyberios's supplies to carve off the burned portions and get to the edible flesh below. My brain is blank of cognizant thoughts as I chew on sinewy rabbit flesh, my eyes wide and unseeing as tears threaten to spill over. The only thing I feel is the roasted taste of rabbit flesh against the tongue that feels all too heavy in my quivering mouth.
Suddenly, the anthem begins to play through the arena, and I drop the roasted hunk of flesh in my hands to the ground. I don't go to retrieve it, watching as Tyberios's face is the first to dance across the sky. A strange cocktail of guilt, relief, and indifference swirls in my gut as his face shimmers proudly in the sky for long moments before fading for good. He's followed by the girl from Four, Cordelia, which surprises me. How is she already dead too? Lord and I had assumed the first cannon was the boy from Six. Two of the Careers gone in one day. Only four of us left, three Outliers and the devilish Chavez. I shiver at the memory of the vicious Career, hoping against all odds that he's severely injured already.
My hands shake as I pick up the hunk of rabbit meat from the ground, gnawing on it and refusing to let myself think. Still, everything leaks back into my brain, and I have to stifle a scream at the memory of shooting bullet after bullet into Tyberios's corpse. I don't even know if he screamed or begged or remained silent as a stone. I just remember the...the pure power I felt. I felt...strong. Invincible. I felt like the entire world as I shot bullets into the helpless Career's body until he was riddled with them, until he was dead and I was still alive, still angry, still winning. A fresh wave of tears rolls down my cheeks, and I attempt to staunch them by rubbing my eyes vigorously. No, no, no. They will not get to see me cry, not after all of this.
I look back up at the sky to see that the emblem of the Capitol has not faded. Confusion eats at me until suddenly a familiar melodious voice rings throughout the arena.
"Good evening, tributes," the voice of Nuntius Calpor, the Games announcer, rings through the arena. "I have an announcement to make that will interest all of you."
I know what he is going to say before the words flood the cool night air. "Tomorrow, at noon, there will be a Feast at the Cornucopia. There will be something there that all of you desire desperately. As a reminder, this Feast is mandatory. Goodnight, tributes, and may the odds be ever in your favor."
Without another thought, I swiftly begin to gather the supplies that I think I'll need with me for the final fight, pushing away the emotions threatening to tear me apart. There's no time for them now.
I don't have much besides food and water that will be of use to me, and I only save my water bottles for the trek to the center of the arena. Then I sift through Tyberios's supplies. I find more food and water, alongside some other useless things, including a tin of some strange pills called Zorion. I shrug, throwing them into the flames, unwilling to mess around with whatever strange medicine Tyberios had stockpiled. I find a long dagger among the supplies to go with the one I used to carve the rabbit meat. I clutch it tightly in my hands once I'm done sorting through the other useless things. My only weapon, I guess.
As I turn to leave, I look at the rifle I've left leaning against the other supplies I've left behind. I know it's pointless to carry it along with me now, but some of Nuntius's words rings in my head. There will be something there that all of you desire desperately. There's no way...but maybe there is a way. Maybe there is a way that they'll give me another bullet at the Feast. Unlikely, but I'd be stupid to waste the chance. Thus, I sling the rifle over my shoulder before I turn to go, taking a deep breath before I forge off into the night. Dread is heavy in my lungs, but I ignore it, quickening my pace as I trek towards the center of the arena. There isn't time for dread or worry or tears or guilt. There's only time for survival now. I let everything lift off of my bones as I run towards my fate, the grass whispering around me as I steel myself for the end I know is near.
A/N: Wow that was... a very difficult chapter to write. The Top 6 are all some of my favorite characters I've ever written, and having to kill two of them today was one of the most difficult things I've ever written. I'm sorry if the writing is chaotic or incoherent at times; I was really in these character's mindsets, and my absolute panic while writing them may have been conveyed in the POVs a bit too vividly. Next chapter is the finale. Only four left. It's gonna be a doozy.
6TH - CORDELIA NILE, 4F - Killed by Chavez
Cordelia was a character I seriously adored. I'm usually not a fan of tributes who are Reaped from Career Districts, but Cordelia had such a complex and entertaining story being a rebel's daughter, being secretly trained, and all of that jazz. She was also just overall a fun person, and it was so fun exploring her relationships with her family, Mags, and the other Careers, and CARMEN! The whole poisoning as Cordelia's plot was stellar, and one of my favorite moments of the story, but I knew once that was over, she would struggle to fight her way home, so that's why she fell here. She will be gravelly missed as one of my favorites. Thanks for her Misty, I loved her dearly.
5TH - TYBERIOS PALATIUM, 2M - Killed by Miriam
This was probably the hardest death I've written so far. I formed an incredibly strong attachment to Tyberios throughout the entirety of this story. At first I didn't think much of him, but as time went on, he became such a complex and interesting character that I became enthralled with him. Writing his POVs was always a pleasure, and I even had him as my Victor at one point due to how much I adored writing him. However, I decided he wouldn't be the best Victor for my series, and thus it was best for him to fall here instead of making it to the finale where I may have been tempted to make him win instead. I avoided writing this chapter for a long time primarily because of having to kill him, and I also couldn't bear to write his death from his perspective because I probably would've sobbed too much to finish it. Thank you for this amazing guy, Nemris. He was phenomenal and one of my all-time favorites, and I hope I did him justice.
Kill Count:
Chavez Belasco: 5 (Baron, Jayce, Calico, Libby, Cordelia)
Tyberios Palatium: 3 (Bernie, Carmen, Omri)
Trinity Vegas: 2 (Rufus, Gaia)
Zircon O'Dile: 2 (Soya, Millard)
Cordelia Nile: 2 (Ardin, Trinity)
Miriam Park: 2 (Zircon, Tyberios)
Carmen Ionique-Astron: 2 (Ardin, Trinity)
Ardin Varnell: 1 (Sage)
Fuji LaMac: 1 (Ivy)
Omri Plower: 1 (Fuji)
Arena Events: 1 (Luke)
Damn. This chapter was a roller coaster ride. Let me know what you guys think. I don't really have a lot to say; I hope you enjoyed this, and I hope you're all ready for the finale. Who's gonna win, Chavez, Fender, Miriam, or Lord? Let me know in the reviews. I love all of you dearly for reading, thank you so much. I cannot believe our journey is almost over. It feels surreal after all these years, but I'm also incredibly excited to show you all the ending of this story I've been planning for a very long time. Thanks again, loyal readers. You're all spectacular.
Until Next Time,
Tracee