A/N: Here it is. The long awaited finale. After almost 5 years, we're finally here, and I'm honored that so many of you are still reading and are still interested in this story. Let's see how these Games finally end, with the biggest chapter yet clocking in at just about 22k words! Psychotic, I hope they're all worth it. Have fun with the last Games chapter of this story ever, and I hope it's exciting enough to make up for how long it has taken to reach this moment.
Lord Parthenia, 16
District Twelve Male
I stare out at the golden grass swaying in the early morning breeze, gleaming under the swollen moon's silvery light. The log walls of the cabin keep the wild prairie from encroaching on where I sit, but I no longer feel safe here like I have for so many longs days before. My heart thuds hard in my chest even though I'm all alone here, even though there is nothing in sight but grass and moon and starry night skies. It's really going to be over today. It really is, and I'm all alone, with nothing but a breastplate and a dagger to defend myself.
My mind catches on all the ways this could go wrong, each horrifying scenario sticking to my brain like bristly burs. Maybe I won't make it to the Cornucopia in time. Maybe Chavez is waiting for me yards away in the grass, knives glistening in the moonlight. Maybe I'll find Fender, and he'll be stronger than I ever thought possible. Maybe even Miriam will kill me, with the gun that was once ours and is now just hers. She's left me, after all, and taken almost everything with her. I doubt she'll hesitate to pull the trigger at me, when the time comes.
There's so many ways I could die today, and even though I know I should get moving, even though I know I should be preparing myself for the final fight, my body cannot move. I cannot tear my eyes away from the swaying sea of grass before me. It's almost hypnotic, shining in the darkness of the arena, so calm and so continuous. It has swayed before I came to this place, and it will sway once my blood stains the Cornucopia field twelve hours from now. It is permanent here. I guess I will be permanent here as well, in a way, once I'm dead. My soul will forever haunt this godforsaken ocean of grass. The thought doesn't disgust me as much as I think it should; there are worse places to die, after all. There's a strange beauty to the simplicity of this place.
My eyes flicker back towards the crest of the sky where the faces of the two Careers and the Capitol's emblem were blazing only a short while ago. I almost expect the Capitol's seal to still be there, for Nuntius's voice to come through the arena again and say it's all a trick. Of course it has to be a trick. There's no way this is almost over now. The Games have felt like a lifetime, and the fact that they end tomorrow...my mind scrabbles for purchase on the idea. I feel like I've never been anywhere else but this little log cabin in this endless sea of grass. The Capitol is a distant memory; Twelve seems like a figment of my own imagination, a whisper of a place that no longer seems very real. The only thing that seems real to me is the grass, swaying back and forth forever in front of my sullen eyes.
Gradually, I am able to pull myself back into the reality of the situation. The gleaming grass quickly loses its luster as my mind shakes off its shocked stupor. It's once more an ugly place, this prairie, and I feel my nose wrinkling at it as the other things begin to flood back. Of course this is the worst place to die on earth. Any place would be the worst place to die on earth, in a situation like this. I've come so far, and I'm staring at grass in the moonlight and thinking as if my death is a given? No, I won't let that happen. I've fought too hard all my life to die now, on a bed of scratchy grass or on a clod of dried-up mud. I will not let my blood stain this place scarlet-red. I haven't gone through this much of my godawful life to die now, to die here. I can't let it happen.
I force myself to action, retreating from the cloudy cabin window and searching the cabin for anything else to help me. I turn up empty; Miriam took every single thing except for my breastplate and my dagger. I feel briefly thankful towards her for leaving me something to defend myself with before it fades into a storm of conflicting emotions. I don't know how to feel about Miriam and what she did. I think she is the variable that scares me most about this day. I know Chavez and Fender won't hesitate to kill me when they see me. With Miriam, I have no clue what the dynamic is between us now. I know I need to assume she's going to try to shoot me down with her gun whenever she has the chance, but the thought of her killing me seems abstract and far away. It's hard to picture.
I make myself picture it. I make myself see it as a realistic probability, not an abstract possibility. There's a very real chance she might try to kill me. I imagine her little arms lifting the slender rifle up to her face so she can aim the barrel at me. I imagine the bullet ripping through the skin of my chest, my throat, my stomach, my skull. I imagine hearing my own cannon as I collapse to the ground before I go to wherever we go once this is all over with. I imagine Miriam smirking over my dead body, pleased that I am gone, pleased that she finally gets to go home. I make myself imagine all of it, because I cannot hesitate when I see her next. If we can work together again, I'd be open to it, but more likely than not, we're done for. If she has the gun, she has no need for me, and I need to recognize that. She has shown me mercy by not killing me while I slept, by leaving me armor and weaponry to defend myself with. I'm not sure she'll show me mercy again.
After surveying the rest of the room to make sure that I haven't missed anything, I walk over to the bed. I sit down, retying my shoes tightly to make sure they won't slip off during the pivotal fight ahead of me. Then, I pick up the armored breastplate from where it sits on the ground. I haven't worn it in several days; we have barely left the cabin since then, and I've always felt comfortable enough around Miriam to leave it off, since it's uncomfortable to wear. I curse myself again as I slide the thing over my head. I trusted her way, way too much. I should've been able to tell she was going to desert like this. I should've been smarter, taken the first guard shift, and did what she had done to me. I should've killed her yesterday morning, when I had the chance. I didn't, though, and now I have to live with the consequences of that decision.
The breastplate feels heavy on my shoulders, and a little looser than it did when it got sponsored to me on one of the first days of the Games. Even an ample stream of sponsor gifts can't keep you from losing a little bit of weight in the arena. Then I pick up the dagger from where I've left it sitting on my pillow. After I woke up to Miriam missing, a little bit before the second cannon of the day fired, I clutched it my hands, half-expecting someone to barge in and kill me right away. It felt wrong, to be alone. It still feels wrong, but I don't let the uncomfortable feeling weigh on me for too long. I'm meant to be alone. I have been, for so many years since Mom and Mama died. If I could handle it then, at age twelve, then I can handle being alone now, when I'm older and stronger. I won't let myself be terrified by this moment. I've seen scary things already, both in the Seam and in this arena. I can survive this. I can make it through this and continue surviving like I'm meant to do.
The repetition of my strength and confidence seems feeble against the reality of what waits for me outside, but I don't let it stall me for too long. I know I'm most likely going to die today, but I have to try. I've made plenty of mistakes in my life, but I've always tried. No matter what, I've always tried to be the best I could be, to do the best I could. Maybe that seems like a lie, with what I've been through, with what I've done, but it's the truth. I've tried at everything in my life, and I won't stop now. I won't let this arena and its horrors swallow me whole without a good old fight back. They're going to have to take me kicking and screaming if they want me to leave this place. If they're going to kill me, I'm going to make it hard. I'm going to make it the hardest thing they've ever done in their lives.
I take a steadying breath before slipping out of the cabin door and into the cool prairie night. My safe haven for the past eleven days begins to disappear from view as I forge through the gleaming sea of grass around me. The wind murmurs quietly in my ears, the breastplate feels heavy on my shoulders, and the hilt of my dagger is slicked with my own nervous sweat. My muscles want to shake, but I do my best to keep them still. I won't show everyone watching how intimidated I really am.
I take another deep breath, looking back one more time. The cabin looms in the darkness behind me, the logs a deeper shade of black than the grass and the sky framing it. I mutter a silent farewell to it before turning back to the prairie in front of me. The cabin has done me well, providing me a place to hide, a place to laugh, a place to live as freely as I could manage in a place like this. Now it's time to fight for my own freedom, to fight for my own life. I hope I have enough in me to do it. I'm not ready to give up on this shitty little life of mine quite yet.
Chavez Belasco, 18
District Four Male
My eyes flicker open to the faintest feeling of sunlight basking its way across my face. I yawn quietly as my eyes flutter open, turning over from where I've been sleeping on my side so that my back is on the ground. The warm sun feels comforting against my skin, and for a short moment, it's easy to forget where I really am. When the realization comes back that I'm in the middle of an endless prairie in the final hours of a death match, no fear or shock works its way into my veins. Instead, I feel a small smile lifting the corners of my mouth as I soak in more of the sunrise's warmth. I'm finally here. Today, these Games will end, and I will get to emerge Victorious with trophies of blood and gore slathered on my skin. Today, I will do what I was meant to do, do the only thing I am worthy of. Today, I will win the 22nd Annual Hunger Games. I won't expect anything less.
After a couple of moments of drinking up the golden beams of sunlight, I push myself up into a sitting position. The grass sways in the dawn breeze around me, rustling quietly. If I were standing, it would go up to my chest, but sitting down, it reaches above my head, disguising me from sight. While I feel the sunlight on my skin, I can see that the sun hasn't completely risen over the horizon yet. There's still several hours until the Feast begins, and there's no rush to get there first. If anything, I'd like to get there last, to have the chance to scope out my competition and cook up the best plan of attack. I know that the Outliers must be scrambling towards the Cornucopia already, in fear of whatever the Gamemakers might send at us, but the same fears do not afflict me. They wouldn't dare touch me, with how far I've gotten, with the fact that I'm the only Career left alive. They need me for these Games to play out beautifully now. I'm going to let myself have a nice, leisurely morning. I'll soak up the sun, snack on my rations, stretch my muscles, and prep for noon. I have to make sure I'm in the best shape possible to butcher three little Outliers beyond recognition in matter of hours, after all.
Melodious twinkling can be heard in the air above me, and I grin as I tilt my head backwards to spot the parachute drifting lazily through the crystal-blue sky. It lands softly on the grass next to me, and I reach over to grab it and unscrew the lid of the container. Inside is a steamy meal of fish and white rice, bland to the taste but the perfect fuel for a fight. I slowly eat my meal, using my fingers to neatly shovel bits of it into my mouth. The rice tastes faintly of lime, and the fish is lightly breaded. It's a nice meal, and I savor it the best I can. I'm sure it won't be my last breakfast ever, but relishing in good, warm food in a place like this isn't a crime. It's nice to have fleeting reminders of home in an arena like this.
I ignore the folded note taped to the top of the lid, instead turning my thoughts elsewhere. I don't need to see what little words of encouragement Oisin can give me. He's scared of me, like they all are. I know he's terrified by the thought of me coming home. Even Waverley walked on eggshells around me at the Capitol, and she's a bloodthirsty Career just like me who slaughtered her way to Victory. None of them are really rooting for me, I would guess, even though they're still doing their job of Mentoring me. That doesn't bother me, after all; I'm going to be the best Victor District Four has ever had, and I don't need their words to compel me to Victory. I can motivate myself, so there's no need to read whatever cheesy words that old man can throw at me.
Once I finish my meal, I begin going through the pattern of stretches we did every afternoon during training. My muscles feel comfortably sore, and it's a strange pleasure to reach down to my toes and then stretch out my quads. Even a body like mine gets battered after eleven days in the arena, and it's relieving to soothe some of those aches and pains. I've been doing this stretching routine every morning since I got into the Games, and it's helped keep my muscles loose and my mind relaxed. Despite the fact that I harbor no love for my Mentor, recollections of Oisin's rhythmic counting fills my head as I stretch. The droning voice he used during our drills has been stamped into my memory after years of hearing it every evening as the gulls whirled overhead.
The thought of the after-school training program at the Victor's Village makes me smile a little bit. I think of running races on the beach and beating everyone else by many paces, of flinging knives into the targets lining the walls of one of the unused houses. That Victor's Village was the place where I flourished, the place where I was able to shape myself into the thing I was meant to become. I had no need for instruction, really, once I was thirteen or fourteen. I just needed my own discipline and my own time, and occassionally a sparring session with Almieda to put my best friend in his place. Almieda always tried, but everyone in that Victor's Village always knew it would be me coming here. Letting Almieda race me to the stage was really just a formality. All the training, all the drills, all the deliberations, it was all a formality. Everyone always knew I would be here, that I would make it this far, that I'd be inches from winning and still in perfect shape. It wasn't a question then, and it isn't a question now; I'm going to be winning, and I'm going to be going back to that Victor's Village where I learned all that I know.
Despite myself, I imagine returning to the Village once I've won as I lower myself to the ground to do some sitting stretches. It was always a place of sore muscles and dripping sweat to me. It was never a place to play or enjoy things at. However, even I was enthralled by the beauty of the villas there, and I grew up in one of the biggest mansions in Abaco. Their carved sandstone walls and ornate glass windows were things only the Capitol could afford. I was never allowed into any of the Victor's houses, but even the unused ones were lavishly furnished, dripping in velvet and porcelain and gold leaf.
Almieda and I would sometimes sneak up the beach and watch the wild parties Waverley would throw at the Village, especially when we were older. We would disguise ourselves, sneak in a way only we knew, and join the carousing. I even seduced the son of a visiting Capitolite one of those nights, although I don't know his name. I'm not fond of names really, just the bodies and pleasure that come attached to them. I can still taste the tequila that was on his eager tongue, and I can still see how his violet eyes shone in the moonlight as we fucked on the beach. The Village was a place of wild highs and extravagant wealth, a place befitting someone like me, the place that I should be if I was going to be anywhere at all. A place of blood and sweat, as well as elegance and wildness; a place embodying everything I strive to be.
I think of one of those beautiful houses along the most exquisite stretch of beach in the District, with the title of Victor hanging triumphantly around my neck for all to see. I can't wait to be there, with the parties and the lovers and the adoration. I can't wait to be there, to raise more kids to fight in the Games, to revel in this glorious competition for the rest of my life. Perhaps the Games themselves are what I am made for, and I will miss them when I can no longer compete in them. However, when I am out of the arena, that does not mean I have to stop enjoying the Games entirely. There is still plenty I can do to stay close to the thing I was built to become. I can train tributes, visit the Capitol, play up the celebrity persona I'll surely have garnered. It will be heavenly, the things I will be allowed to do, the things I will be allowed to have, the things I will be allowed to be. It will be a dream come true, and I've nearly finished the contest that will grant me all these privileges I so desire.
I shake myself out of my thoughts quickly as I realize that the sky overhead has begun to darken. Drab charcoal-colored clouds have begun to drift from the horizon on all sides, rumbling with distant thunder. It feels strange to see clouds after so many days of clear, robin's egg blue skies. However, I know what those couds mean. I can guess what they will bring with them. I'm not foolish, I know the Gamemakers like to repeat their little tricks, and there's something we haven't seen since the Bloodbath. They need a good way to herd the tributes together, if there's any stragglers, and that will certainly be the most intelligent and dramatic way to do it in a prairie arena like this one. I wonder if anyone will get caught in them. I hope not; I want there to be more prey left for me to toy with at the Feast.
While I doubt the Gamemakers would blow me to the ground so easily just because I was taking my time eating and stretching, I don't want to take the risk. The clouds are already closer than I'd like, and they'll cover the sun soon, making it harder to tell when noon will strike. It's about time I get moving, anyways; I'm not crazily far from the Cornucopia, but it will still be an hours-long trek until I reach the center of the arena. I want to be able to camp out and observe the rest of my competition arriving.
I do not fear my competitors in the slightest. The boys from Six and Twelve are barely notable in my mind, and I'm sure they're all on their own. And then I do not fear the little girl with the gun either. There's no way the Gamemakers will let her show up to the Feast with the ability to slaughter us all with a simple gun. They'll want more drama than that, I know it. I am curious to see who took out Tyberios yesterday, who stole that fun final fight from me, but in the end, it does not truly matter. They are three little Outliers, and I am the Career of Careers. They are nothing but a momentary obstacle between myself and the title I've always deserved, from the moment I was born onto this earth.
I quickly strap both of my belts of throwing knives to my waist after hastily finishing my stretches. I pull out my favorite knife, one that's extremely light with a slender handle and a razor sharp blade. You never know what might happen at a finale, so it's best to be completely armed at all times. I drink my last two water bottles greedily before tossing them on the ground with the rest of my supplies that I'm leaving behind. I have no use for a backpack or jerky packets now. Within a matter of hours, these Games will be over, and my name will be sung throughout this prairie for all to hear. Until then, I must be diligent and focused, and I must do what I was born to do. I must become a Victor, no matter the cost. There is nothing I have ever wanted more in this life.
Fender Hopkins, 17
District Six Male
The first thing I feel when I wake up is the wind gusting harshly against my face. My brain is muddled by sleep and fragmented dreams that I have already forgotten, and it takes me several moments to register who I am, where I am, what I am doing, what day it is today. The realizations come thudding into my brain one by one like cars slamming into one another at a traffic stop gone wrong. Each one hurts, crumpling against the others as my brain tries to stir itself to life as quickly as it can manage. My name is Fender Hopkins. I am seventeen years old, from District Six. I have a family back in District Six, but I am not with them now. I am a far way from home. Too far away.
I am in an endless prairie, and the wind is blowing hard around me. It hurts my eyes, they are watering now, and I'm covering them with my hand. My skin burns a little, cold fires on my warm cheeks and bare arms. I am in the Hunger Games, the final four of the Hunger Games to be exact. Today is the day of the Feast. Today is the last day of the Games. And the wind is blowing so hard around me, it hurts to open my eyes at all. I don't know what that means, the tears rushing down my face from the biting wind, the howling sounds filling my ears, the crackling of the stalks of grass as they dance. I don't know what any of this means, but an urgent voice in the recesses of my mind tells me I need to figure it out, and quick.
I shake my head violently, trying desperately to dislodge my sleepiness from my brain. What is going on? My eyes drift down to my leg, and I see my bandaged leg, dried maroon blood soaked through the layers of thick white gauze. The events start flashing back in my head. Omri, Fuji, running, falling back, chainsaw, screaming, inhuman, keep cutting, blood, screaming again, begging, fighting, leg, sliced, dead chainsaw, dead Omri, almost dead me, Tyberios, leaving, crawling, crying, alone, waiting, anthem, Nuntius Calpor, Feast, noon, mandatory. As the words and images rush through my mind, it all suddenly clicks into place, and a strangled little gasp makes its way out of my throat. Shit, shit, shit, no I didn't, there's no way, I couldn't have been this stupid. I couldn't have been. It's all okay; they're just trying to scare us. There's no way that I'm late. I just can't be. That's not an option. There has to be another explanation.
My eyes stray over to where a silvery parachute is resting on the ground at my hip, feet from where my dead chainsaw rests. It hasn't been opened; it must be new, just for me. I thought Calla said she wasn't going to send me anything else. I wonder if she's gotten new funds to send me something to get the chainsaw running again, or just something to eat to give me strength for the day ahead. My mind prickles on the idea that these winds must be bad, but I choose to ignore those thoughts. There's a parachute here, and that's what's important. I can only focus on one thing right now, and I'll make it this parachute. There is no wind gusting around me; the sky is not dark gray and rumbling with angry thunder. There's just this little parachute, with a container that looks almost too small for anything useful, fitting neatly into the palm of my hand. My mind prickles again and my gut trembles nervously, but I unscrew the lid anyway to see what pitiful thing Calla has managed to send me.
There is a gleaming steel nail inside, absolutely useless to me. What am I going to do, take up carpentry in the middle of a grassland? It's not like I could use it as a weapon; the tip is barely sharp enough to puncture skin. I examine the useless thing for a moment before dropping it back into the silvery can. Then I pluck the little note from where its tucked into the lid of the container. Maybe this is the important thing, and not the nail. I've seen Mentors send useless gifts before to get their tribute's attention in Games past. Maybe Calla has something to tell me, to try to warn me in the cryptic way she has to.
My fingers are quivering as I open the slip, because of course my logical brain has already figured out what's going on, but the emotional part of myself refuses to acknowledge it yet. There's nothing wrong, it's not like the sky is so dark that I cannot see the sun, that I cannot tell what time it is, if it's night or dawn or past noon already. Read the note first, and then I'll start screaming if I have to. Read the note first, and if I'm going to die because I slept too long, I'm going to fucking die. There's nothing I can do if it's too late, so I'll read the note and buy myself a couple more moments of stalled peace before the world is ripped out from under my feet and I go tumbling into the abyss.
The slip flutters in the wind as I read the words in my head, the words that confirm every little thing I have feared since my brain put together the pieces of what is going on. Get the fuck up now and run as fast as you can. I can almost hear Calla's growling, disapproving voice as I read over the slip again, and then again, and then again, absolutely dumbfounded. No, it can't be true. It can't be.
More of Calla's words from days gone by fill my head as my shocked fingers let go of the slip, letting it be ripped away by the seething wind. I remember myself sitting in the train car with her and Medusa, the edges of District Six slipping by quickly outside the spotless windows. Libby had already fled to her bedroom to wallow in her misery, the absolute surety that she was going to die. We all believed it then. She was talking to herself on the Reaping stage after all, and I guess she was right to wallow a bit. She is dead now, like twenty other people. I'm still here, and the words Calla said to me resound in my head, the words she said to me with a look in her eyes that I know now meant that she had hope in me, her first hope in a long time. It's all about who can play their Games the best, Fender.
If this note is right, if my mind is right, if this isn't a dream and the whipping wind all around me is real...I have failed to play their Games the best by a long shot. There was only one rule today, one thing even the dumbest tribute would've known to do. You have to be at the Cornucopia for the Feast by noon, or you are going to die. And I was foolish enough to wait until early morning to make my trek, hoping some extra sleep would give time for my leg to heal better. I was still woozy and I couldn't even stand last night. I needed the sleep, I reasoned, if I was going to have a chance to fight the others on an unstable leg. I would be able to get up very early, if I went to bed right after the anthem, I reasoned. My brain would be too frenzied to let me rest for long.
I slept like a stone all night, and there was no panic in my bones. It was like my body was preparing for its final rest. I dreamed of things I can't remember, wild things. Maybe it was the side effects of the blood-restoration medicine, maybe it was the impending terror of the Feast, maybe it was just pure bad luck. Whatever the reason, it seems I have overslept and missed the party at the Cornucopia, the party that we all have to attend or else face the wrath of the Gamemakers. And oh, am I going to face the wrath of the Gamemakers now. I hope desperately that it's not too late, but the wind blowing around me tells me to give up that hope immediately. It's gusting so hard against me now that it feels like a whip flaying open every inch of barren skin.
My brain is still stuck in a stunned haze, and I know I need to get moving, but I can't manage to move my body. It's all over, isn't it? Why should I even try to run away? My leg can barely handle the strain of standing. I won't be able to make the run to the Cornucopia now, even if noon hasn't already passed. There's no way I'm going to be able to outrun whatever is heading my way, the thing that I know is heading my way but that I refuse to acknowledge. I won't give the tornado the satisfaction of turning around and seeing it, sucking up the entire prairie into is malevolent grasp. I know they're sending them out again, why wouldn't they? I won't give the Gamemakers the satisfaction of weeping and begging and falling my knees for mercy, when what they will do is destroy me all the same. Still, it doesn't matter if I stop and beg, or if I try and run. Either way, it's all over now, isn't it? There's no escaping this now, if what I think is right.
I turn slowly, as if I'm in a horror movie, about to face the killer that's been waiting behind me all along. It takes everything in my power not to fall to my knees when I see the world behind me. The golden prairie has been whipped into a frenzy, thousands of stalks of grass ripped from the ground and tossed through the stormy air as the tornado rages on. It is much too close, only a half mile away most likely and looming closer. The air has a metallic tang, smelling of chemicals and contrived chaos. The swirling tube of dark air would almost be pretty, with how it dances across the prairie, if it wasn't here to kill me.
I notice it's not the only one. I can see another tornado on each side of me out of the corner of my eye. They must be ringing the entire arena with artificial tornados, meant to destroy this useless arena and herd us to the center to the Feast. Usually, they try not to destroy things so they can place resorts in the arenas afterwards, but this place is just grass and dirt. They can afford to replant it. No one will notice some displaced grass, not when they remember the sight of so many tornados bearing down on the center of the Cornucopia. They can afford to tear this place to shreds, and tear me apart alongside it.
I know it's futile, but my instincts take over once I register how close the tornado really is, how short the rest of my life is really going to be. I don't even try to take the chainsaw with me, knowing I don't have have a chance lugging it along. I try to run, although it would be offensive to call the motions I make running. It's an odd shuffling hop, as I try to place the least amount of strain possible on my injured leg while moving quickly through the grass. It's a losing game; the only time I feel no pain is when I'm moving slowly, and my body won't let me slow down and stay in the tornado's range. Thus, I begin speeding up, but splitting pains arc up my shredded calf and through the rest of my leg. I don't have to look down to know that the scabbing has split, and that the bandages are slick with fresh blood. Tears cluster in the corners of my eyes, but I do not stop to brush them away, swinging my arms harder as if that will somehow get me to escape the tornado that is swirling ever-closer to me.
No matter how quickly I move, no matter how much I tear my half-healed calf to shreds, the wind beats harder against my back. The tears spill over, and I don't try to disguise my croaking gasps as I lumber across the grass. It's only up to my waist here. I have miles more to go until I reach the center of the arena, probably. Or maybe I'm closer than I think. I'm not sure. I already can see dark spots dancing on the fringes of my vision, sashaying where the other tornados bluster barely out of sight. My lungs burn, and my leg never stops throbbing with pain. I can feel the blood dripping down my leg now, the bandages so saturated that it's not holding it back any longer. My strides get shorter, my pace gets slower, but still I try to push ahead, even though I know that this is the end, that I will not make, that there is no escaping now. I won't go pitifully. If I'm going to have to die like this, I will at least try to keep moving for as long as I can.
I wonder briefly if this was always meant to be, if I would've even had a chance had I woken up at dawn. I have no idea about the state of the other three tributes, but with my shredded leg, I can assume that I might be in the worst shape of us all. These tornados are horrifying, and it must be costly to manipulate the weather like this. They would want someone to die in them, after all. Maybe that's what they did to me, so that their little weather toys will get a victim to play with. Maybe they drugged me while I slept, or released something through my tracker, or they are sending them at me too early. I still can't see the sun after all, the sky is so dark with storm clouds. Or maybe I'm just a foolish little mortal who decided to sleep so long that he brought his own death on himself. It doesn't really matter, if there was no escaping, if there was, if this isn't even happening at all. Possibilities, probabilities, none of them matter anymore, because the wind is whipping so hard around me that I can barely move, that I know it's too close now, it's too close and I can't run away, I could never run away even if I tried.
The next couple of minutes bleed away in blinding pain, heaving breaths, and gusting wind. It could be only a couple of seconds, really. Each step I take now is lanced with such unbearable pain that it takes everything in me to not collapse to the ground in a huddle. My leg shouldn't be supporting me at all, with the state it's in. I can't tell what is my leg, what is my face, what is blood, what are tears. I just feel it all rushing over me, just like the wind. Fragments of things come to my mind, little wisps of things from District Six, friends and family and all the rest of the things I've been, the things I've seen. None of it sticks, whisked away by the wind as quickly as it comes. My brain does not have time for reminiscing; my body does not have the energy for sentimental thoughts. My tears are ones of hard survival, not of soft sentimentality. I am crying because everything in my body is screaming to survive, to get away, but the pursuit is fruitless, and my eyes know nothing else to do but cry until all the tears in the world are streaking down my cheeks.
I don't know the exact moment the tornado picks me up. I only realize I'm in the air when I'm already a dozen feet off of the ground and my vision begins to spin rapidly. I can feel my eyes rolling into the back of my head as the wind buffets me on all sides and I am carried up, up, up, up, up, higher and higher, this way and that. I know my brain is shutting down, I know my body is bracing for the fall it must know is coming. It wants to shield me from the horrific thing, the fall from a hundred feet in the sky, all my bones snapping like toothpicks against the ground below. Instead of fighting the feeling, I let unconsciousness overtake me. The black crowding the edges of my vision floods everything once I invite it, and just as the tornado prepares to spit me out, I sink fully into the darkness. I have always been brave, but it is not brave to watch yourself die like this. It is more honorable to tuck myself away while I can, and not watch myself plummet to the death waiting for me below. It is better to hide my ego in the folds of my brain that is about to splatter against the ground below, to feel nothing at all when my body hits the ground with gravity's full force pressing down on it.
The last thing I hear before my mind slips away and I die is someone's laughter, snatched by the wind but chiming in my ears all the same. I do not know whose voice I hear, and it does not matter now, because my vision is all black. I am still alive for the moment, but not for long, and I imagine I am dying in wind-snatched laughter as everything goes slack and the tornado winds cease to roar around me. The world is rushing by in blurry colors outside, ground heaving up to meet me, but my eyes are closed and I do not see it all, and I know now that I will never see it again, none of it ever again.
Miriam Park, 13
District Ten Female
I'm trying desperately to keep my breathing as steady and quiet as possible when the cannon fires. It makes me jump a little bit, the sudden loud boom shaking me out of the state I've been conditioning myself into. The bravado I've been building up inside my mind flutters away on the wind, and I can feel my fears bared to the world for a moment on my frightened face. The cannon's blast seems to linger longer than the others from days gone by, reminding me of how close I am to winning now. Only two others left. It also reminds me of how close I am to potentially dying now. The thought of Chavez coming out of the grass behind me makes me feel even queasier, but I know I can't show it. I quickly cover up my expression of horror, repeating cold feelings of confidence and survival and selfishness in my head. Soon enough, the affirmations make my face fall slack and my heart slow back to a crawling pace. It isn't time to lose control yet, before the real fight has even begun.
I crouch in the grass close to the Cornucopia, barely hidden from view by the tall stalks as I peer at the golden Horn glimmering in the noonday light. Farther out in the arena, the sky is embroiled with dark storm clouds, and I can see far-off tornados whirling their way ever closer. Here, however, the sun is still visible, and it is warm against my skin. I already feel hot and sweaty, and I know it's more from the nerves than the weather. Still, I wish those faraway dark clouds would come and cover up the sun now, so that I wouldn't sweat all the water out of my body. I still have a full bottle of water left, but the thought of sipping water and crinkling plastic this close to the Cornucopia terrifies me too much. My body remembers this muddy clearing vividly, and every fiber wants to remain as utterly still as possible to avoid being seen.
I don't mind the strict grip of my survival instincts, however. Sure, it's terrifying to feel my pupils dilated and the blood rushing in my ears, but it reminds me that I'm still alive. It reminds me of what's to come, what will happen when the sun reaches its peak in the sky and this Feast truly begins. I would have to be stupid to not be scared right now, this close to the Horn, this close to Victory. Every bit of me thrums with energy, although I can't tell if it's power or fear. It's probably both, in reality. The rifle rests next to me, empty of bullets but signifying the influence I have wielded in this arena. And I am next to it, a little girl barely keeping herself from shaking, waiting for older boys to come out of the grass so that they can try to kill her. The dichotomy does not escape me, and something compels me to pull the rifle closer to me. Its barrel might be empty, but no one else knows that. The sleek wood of the gun feels like solidified power under my anxious fingertips, a physical manifestation of the thing that's been flitting in and out of my grasp since I got here.
Thoughts of the pure, unadulterated power I felt as I unloaded bullet after bullet into Tyberios's bloodied corpse come to mind, but I quickly push them down. I shove them back into the dark cavern in my mind where the pale bodies of Jayce, Zircon, and all the others rest, stacked in sloppy piles. I will have time to drag them each out into the sun once this is all done, to give them the send-off they deserve from the haunted recesses of my mind. This is not the time. I will not look shame-faced or stricken with grief with the Feast only a handful of minutes away. I won't let them all consume me now. They are dead. They lost, and I have not yet. It will do me no good to exhume their corpses now, before they have even gotten cold, before I have escaped becoming a corpse myself.
If I'm going to think about anyone, I should think about my fellow tributes, my last two opponents left alive. My mind drifts back to the cannon that fired only moments ago. I wonder who it was. Someone must've gotten trapped in the tornados; I doubt the Gamemakers would let a fight happen so soon before the Feast will begin. I hope the cannon was Chavez with all my might. That thought makes me chuckle softly to myself, the sound inaudible over the breeze rustling the prairie grass. I've been pretty lucky in these Games, but I don't think I'll be lucky enough to see Chavez taken out before the final fight.
That just leaves two people then, the boy from Six and Lord. I know very little about the boy from Six besides the fact that he seemed nice before the Games, and that he doesn't deserve to die here. None of us deserve to die here, however, and he seems like he might be my easiest opponent left, so I hope he's still left alive. I decide not to think about Lord at all, although my mind wonders if he got out of the house in time, if those tornados on the horizon collapsed it before he could even wake up. It doesn't matter if he dies now or later; it would be better if he's gone now, anyway. I'd rather face Chavez than have to see Lord again. I don't know what will happen between us, and that uncertainty terrifies me. At least with someone like Chavez, I can expect him to butcher me the moment he can. With Lord, I can't predict what he will do now. So, despite the way I have grown to like him over these days in the arena, I hope desperately that his body is trapped under the logs of that little prairie house. There's already enough to fear here without him complicating things.
I glance up at the sky again to see that the sun has almost reached the top of its climb through the sky. Noon can't be far off now, and I know the other two must be close to getting here if they're not waiting in the grass nearby already. I know what I need to do; I made a plan last night to run into the Horn before the table rose up and any of the other tributes appeared. It'll give me the best chances, especially if there's a bullet waiting for me from the Gamemakers when the Feast begins. I will only have to be worried about attackers from the front, and I might be able to even shoot someone while hiding in the shadows before they have time to defend themselves. If there's no bullets, I'll be able to find something better in the Cornucopia to defend myself with most likely. It's the best plan I've come up with, to go hide in the Horn. The only problem is how I get there without being cut down.
I fully expect that the other two tributes are most likely here too, and that everyone is just waiting for who will make the first move and break out of the grass first. I can just imagine Chavez lurking just out of sight across the clearing from me, flipping his knives in his fingers, waiting eagerly for me to become impatient. It's exactly what he would be waiting for, for me to play my cards first. Careers don't go hiding in Cornucopias and running in broad daylight before anyone else. They're smarter than that from their training. They have the skill to not take risks like that. I'm not sure I do. If Chavez or one of the other guys get to the Horn before me, I doubt I'll be able to get close enough to the table to grab my bag before one of them cuts me down. It's either let my fears overtake me and spoil my chances at winning, or take a risk that could pay off big for me later.
I know what I need to do; I've never been one to play it safe. I've got to run to that Horn now, while there's still a chance I'm the only one here. It's just hard to think straight with this adrenaline pumping heavy through my veins alongside cautious fear. My instincts want me to curl up in this grass and wait to die, but I'm not a terrified little girl. I won't cry until they find me, I won't try to run away. They made me grow up in this arena, so I'll grow up alright, and I'll show them all the wrath they've given me by fighting back like hell.
I take a deep breath and shrug the pack with my scant belongings in it off of my shoulder, letting it thud against the ground quietly. A rolled up windbreaker I haven't worn in several days rolls out of the backpack, and I decide to put it on despite the heat. The storm clouds will probably cover the sun soon, and if the tornados come by like they did in the Bloodbath, this'll help keep me warm. It also can't hurt to have an extra layer on to block attacks with, even if it's made of plasticky cloth. I put the windbreaker on hurriedly before I pull out the longer of the two daggers I pillaged from Tyberios's stockpile, gripping the handle tightly in my left hand. The serrated blade gleams in the sunlight, and I imagine the way its sharp teeth could bite into soft skin. Then I sling the leather strap of the rifle over my right shoulder, keeping it steady with my right hand. This is all I will need for what comes next, this knife and this gun, weapons in each hand. I hope that it's all I will need, that these things can get me home to my mother and my father, waiting for me and dying a little bit each day that I'm gone. I let myself take a few more deep breaths, counting to ten quietly in my head. When I reach the last number, I take one more deep breath before launching myself forward, tumbling out of the grass and onto the dried mud of the Cornucopia clearing.
The ground is soft and crumbly under my tennis shoes, but thankfully I don't slip and fall as I rush towards the Horn. My heart slams violently in my chest, and everything in my body feels hot and sharp with awareness and adrenaline. I let go of the rifle so I can swing my arms harder to propel myself forward, the barrel of the gun bumping against my ribcage as I sprint. Everything in my body screams to go faster, faster, faster as my eyes flicker around the clearing. I see no movement in the surrounding grass, but I can't depend on that now. Who knows what might happen next. Chavez could be toying with me, waiting for me to get close to the Horn before cutting me down. Lord and the Six boy could be working together and waiting to ambush me once I seem like I'm caught off guard. I need to move fast, I can't slow down, no slowing down, not until I'm at the back of the Horn and safe from prying eyes.
It only takes a half a minute to run across the wide muddy clearing and into the golden Cornucopia, and all the while I wait for a throwing knife to sink into my back. Thoughts of Jayce being cut down in the same exact way here eleven days ago crowd my mind, but I refuse to examine them, because I'm focused on running fast, on surviving. Still, thoughts of Chavez smirking as he threw another knife at me that I barely dodged crowd my head, alongside thoughts of Jayce wheezing with mud slick with blood under him. That won't happen to me, it can't. I won't let Chavez kill me like that too.
When I finally make it into the Cornucopia, I don't stop running until I almost slam into the cool back wall of the structure. My body is so focused on getting as far away from the openness of the clearing that I don't realize what I'm doing until it's almost too late. I barely miss smashing my head against the golden metal, falling sideways onto the hard packed dirt. I hit with my left shoulder, and thankfully my head doesn't hit the ground and my dagger doesn't fold back and stab me. I let go of the knife, setting it on the ground next to me as I try to catch my breath. My chest rises and falls rapidly, and my eyes feel opened wide, like someone has peeled back my eyelids to look inside, to study how terrified I am. I wait again for haughty laughter or the swish of a thrown knife, but I hear nothing but my own pounding pulse and the short gasps of my breath. It seems I've made it here safely after all.
After a few more moments of catching my breath, I force myself to sit up and look around. The Cornucopia is almost completely empty, with a few dented weapons and empty crates laying about. However, most of it has been picked clean, and I suddenly feel very exposed to the outside world. I huddle against the back wall of the structure, comforted by the cool metal against my back. It makes me feel safer, knowing attackers can really only come from the front now. My nerves are at an all time high, being in this place where all Outliers should be afraid, but I try to tamp them down. I survived the run here, and now I'm in a good position to succeed, at least the best I can be in my situation. There is nothing I can do now but wait for the table to rise up and for my competitors to come.
As I wait, I stuff my hands into the pockets of my windbreaker absentmindedly, fidgeting to distract myself from my thudding pulse. My brows instantly crease as my fingers find a small hole in the mesh pocket netting. I press two fingers through the ripped opening and probe around to feel the inside lining of my coat. There is no hole to the outside, so everything from my pocket that fell through is still inside of my jacket. I feel crumbs and dust gathering against my fingers as I run them across the swishy fabric, and then suddenly my heart stops as my fingers touch something harder. What the hell is that? There's no way it's what I think it is.
Just as I'm about to pull the thing through the hole in my pocket so I can examine it, I hear the sound of mechanical grinding and crumbling earth. I look up to see the dirt at the mouth of the Cornucopia falling away to expose a small, dark pit. It seems that noon has arrived. A short cement table rises out of gap in the ground with four goldenrod yellow packs waiting on it. They each bear a number, either a 4, a 6, a 10, or a 12. My bag is pretty small, while the ones for Lord and the Six boy are about medium sized, and Chavez's is larger than the rest by far. The thing in my pocket is quickly forgotten as my legs carry me forward to the table, my hands closing around the straps on the pack with the dark brown 10 stamped on the front. Things are getting real now, and this pack could be my salvation. I pray hurriedly that there is a bullet inside of it for me as I snatch it close to my chest.
Before I can retreat back to the shadows of the Cornucopia and inspect the contents of my bag, I hear hurried footsteps coming around the backside of the Horn. I try to open my bag even quicker as I stumble back into the darkness, and a little surprised gasp leaves my throat as I pluck the clear plastic case out of the mostly empty pack. Inside is a single brass bullet, just like the ones I used to kill Zircon and Tyberios. My heart thuds with relief as I throw the empty pack into the ground, snap open the plastic case, and pull out the bullet. Just as I'm jamming the bullet into the barrel of the rifle, the person I've heard running around the back of the Horn appears, his familiar eyes open wide in shock at seeing me there.
"Miriam," Lord breathes in surprise, and I don't take the time to respond. Instead, I snap the barrel shut and lift the rifle to my shoulder, aiming the sight right at his heaving chest.
Lord Parthenia, 16
District Twelve Male
Everything in my body goes rigid the moment Miriam points her rifle at me. I can scarcely think, not to mention move or speak. The tip of the barrel is a dozen yards away, but it seems to jab into my skin as if it's right in front of me. I brace myself for the bullet that will be coming any moment now. I'm not delusional, I know how far we are in the Games now. There's only one other person left besides us, and Miriam still has the gun with her, and it's pointed right at me. Obviously she has no use for me now. My brain fumbles around uselessly, trying to think of a way out of this, but there doesn't seem to be one. There is nothing I can offer her now, with the Games this close to finishing. I am no use to her anymore. I am only useful as a steaming corpse at her feet.
Suddenly, Miriam shifts the rifle down a little lower, scaring me with the movement. I can see she is aiming at my stomach now; she must've noticed the breastplate on my shoulders, covering my chest. I gasp in nervous gulps of air as the silence fills the world between us, with me glued to the spot in terror and Miriam calmly keeping the rifle leveled at my stomach. Her finger hovers over the polished brass trigger, and I wait for her to pull on it, but she doesn't. I'm not sure why; I would've expected to already be dead by now, when I saw her point the gun at me moments before.
The shot does not come, but Miriam's arms do not shake as she points the thing at me. She is steady, a little girl gripping a rifle with the calmest expression I've ever seen on her face. She seems serene, almost, or she's good at covering up her terror. Either way, she doesn't seem very scared of killing me now. It's hard to reconcile this cold-blooded version of her with the Miriam I knew from the cabin, even after all my time of telling myself it might come to this. It still doesn't seem real, how calm she is when she's about to kill me. I don't know what's stopping her from shooting me in the gut, unless there's something else going on I don't know about. My tongue frees itself enough to stutter out words when I realize Miriam isn't about to shoot me immediately, my brain jumping right to begging in order to save itself.
"M-m-miriam, p-please put the gu-gu-gun down," I croak out, the sentence taking effort, my eyes never leaving the sleek barrel of the gun pointed unwaveringly at my chest.
"Why should I?" she asks softly, the question sounding more genuine than I'd expected. "We made a deal, Lord."
"Till four," I whisper, my tongue freeing itself more now that she's giving me the chance to respond, to talk my way out of this. "I know, I know, till four, and there's only three left."
"So we're not an alliance anymore," Miriam says shortly, her dark eyes hard and unreadable. "So why shouldn't I kill you?"
"Why haven't you yet?" I blurt out before I can think. My eyes open wide at my brazen words, and Miriam's lips curl for a moment before she sets them firm again.
"I don't know," she responds with the same barren honesty she showed me in the cabin only a day ago, when we agreed to split up at four so this very situation wouldn't come to pass. It seems that plan didn't work out very well, in the end.
"Do you need my help?" I ask suddenly. It sounds ridiculous when it leaves my mouth, but I don't know what else to say, what other reason would keep her from killing me now.
Miriam's brows knit together at my question, and I see her flex her fingers around the barrel of the gun before responding. "Why would I need your help, Lord?"
The words come spilling out, foolish things but the only things I can think to say. "Because we both know Chavez is probably out there still, and he's so strong, and we've been good friends, and if it's just the two of us left with him, then we should fight him together so that one of us can go home." My hurried words linger in the air for long moments, and I continue breathing heavily as my eyes returning to staring at the gun. I wait for a bullet to slam into my gut instead of hearing a response from Miriam, but I am surprised again when she speaks.
"I don't need your help to do that, now that I have the gun," she whispers, but the faint waver in her voice betrays her uncertainty.
The only thing I can do now is lean into asking the ridiculous questions, the risky things that are my only way out of this. "I think you need my help, or you would've killed me already, Miriam. You need me to help kill him for some reason."
"You don't think I'm just hesitating to kill an old friend?" she snarls, seemingly enraged by my answer. "I can kill both of you so easily, I'd barely have to blink."
"Then why haven't you?" I ask again, my voice getting louder. "Why haven't you killed me?"
"Because...because..." she stutters out, grasping for words. Her eyes flit down to the empty pack at her feet that I saw her throw down just as I turned the corner and spotted her. There is a small plastic case on top of it too, empty now, and suddenly something clicks together in my mind. There's not much that would fit into a case that small, and there has to be a good reason for why she hasn't killed me yet.
"Are you out of bullets or something?" I cut her off before she can stutter out a weak response. Miriam's eyes open wide in shock at my question. She quickly slips her cool-faced mask back on, but I've seen the truth already. Confidence begins to drive me forward, making the words slip off my tongue easier and easier. It's all starting to make sense now.
"You ran out of bullets somehow, yesterday," I continue before she can reply to my question, answering it for her. "You ran out, probably killing the Two guy, and then one bullet came in that little plastic case in your pack." I point to the case on the ground. Miriam jumps at the movement but does not pull the trigger, her eyes wild at my words. I must be right, and she's struggling to reign in her emotions.
"No," she chuckles incredulously, although I know I must be right. "No, of course I have enough bullets. I'm...I wouldn't be stupid enough to waste all of them, I'm not..."
My voice is softer when I speak next. "You only have a bullet left and you can't kill me because then you won't have one left for Chavez. Is that right?"
Miriam stares at me for long moments, her dark eyes crackling as she glares at me. She seems to make up her mind, and her tone is slightly teasing when she replies. "And you had me convinced you didn't have a brain in that pretty head of yours, Gaylord."
Miriam and I stare at each other for long moments before we both break out in hysterical laughter. The strangeness of the situation and the rampant nerves over the Feast have mixed together to make us laugh like two mental patients, and neither of us can stop no matter what we do. I can barely breathe as I laugh harder than I have in a long time, tears dripping down my cheeks. Miriam is laughing just as hard, dropping her grip on the rifle as she desperately tries to wipe her tears away.
"I fucking hate you," Miriam chuckles once we've calmed down, our laughter subsiding when we remember where we really are. "You're insufferable."
"Insufferable but right," I murmur. "Well, so I'm right, yeah? You only have a bullet."
"You'd be dead if I had more," Miriam nods quietly. "You know that."
"I do, and there's no hurt feelings," I reply. "You've gotta play the Game however you gotta play the Game. So how'd you lose the others?"
"I wasted them all on Tyberios," she mutters, casting her eyes to the ground. I wait for her to elaborate, but she doesn't, and I take that as a sign that she doesn't want to talk about it any longer.
"The Career killer adding another victim to her ranks," I tease, trying to ease the tension even more. "Proud of you, sharpshooter."
"There's nothing more I'd like than for you to be proud of me," she snarks back, rolling her eyes.
"Of course there isn't," I smirk, taking a step closer to her. Miriam looks nervous as I approach, but I slip my dagger into the waistband of my shorts and put my hands up. "I'm not gonna hurt you, I'm not stupid. I know you can still shoot me whenever you please. I just wanna see what's in my pack."
Miriam nods soundlessly at that, so I quickly walk over to the cement table and pick up the pack with a dark brown 12 painted on the front. As I unzip it, I hope desperately for another bullet, but I know that's a foolish dream. They wouldn't give us both one, that would make things too easy. Instead, what I find inside makes more uncontrollable laughter pour out of my mouth.
"Whiskey," I chuckle as I pull the clear glass bottle out of the pack, the amber liquid sloshing around inside. This is the type of top shelf shit that the richest Capitolites drink. My cravings come out of the woodwork, and despite the place I'm in, I screw off the cap and bring the bottle to my lips. Not even the impending finish of a death match can stave off alcoholism for long, and it's obvious the Gamemakers want me to treat myself if they've put it here, the bastards. I'll drink before I die if that's what they want from me, if this is what they think my biggest desire truly is. I know I should be a little offended they didn't give me anything useful, but instead I bring the bottle to my lips. There's no point in wasting good whiskey now.
"You're fucking drinking it?" Miriam laughs as I take several swigs, reveling in how the liquid burns my throat. "I take back what I said about you having a brain earlier."
"I fight better when I'm drunk," I snort after I wipe whiskey from my stinging lips. Miriam knows it's true; she's heard my street brawling stories of beating up rowdy customers from the bar. "And if I'm going to have to die today, I might as well enjoy myself while I can."
"Be my guest, make yourself an easier opponent for me later," Miriam chuckles. The words sound hollow, reminding us of how we are stealing precious moments right now. It's crazy we're able to act all normal now, with a whiskey bottle in my hands and a light smile on her face. This will be over soon; whenever Chavez decides to show up, one of us is going to be dead, or we're going to have to kill each other. I know I should be more serious about this all, more worried, but instead I bring the glass jug of whiskey to my lips and drink again. I'll drink while I can, before the end of this comes.
Once I drink my fill, I wave the whiskey bottle towards Miriam. "Want some? Might as well try liquor once, before you die."
"I already don't know how to shoot this fucking thing well, I don't think alcohol will help that much," Miriam shoots back, rolling her eyes.
"Well, more for me then," I reply cheerfully before taking another swig. I look over at Miriam, watching her survey the field around us attentively, and I can't help but feel a little happy that we have this moment, that we get to be friends one more time before all of this comes to an end.
"I'm happy I met you," I tell her as I screw the cap back onto the bottle of whiskey, setting it down on the cement table where my bag once sat. "It's been nice."
I can see Miriam trying to disguise the pleasure on her face at my words, but she does a shitty job at it, her smile still shining through. "I'm happy about it, too."
With that, we let silence fall between us as we stand in the shadows underneath the Cornucopia's arching mouth, letting the moment linger as long as it can. No matter how long we try to keep the light atmosphere between us, it does not last. Reality comes crashing back, reminding us that we are waiting for a monster to come kill us, and that one of us will be dead in a matter of minutes. The smiles leave our faces, the truth of things working its way back into our veins. I do not look at Miriam with shining eyes or try to speak sentimental words with her again. Those moments are over now, lost forever. Our friendship is dead now, it has to be, and there is no time for soft words and stupid laughter. We have had our day in the sun, our last time to laugh with each other like the world isn't falling apart in front of our very eyes. We can no longer hide from that truth. There is only one thing left for us to do, and that is to survive.
I do not think I will see Miriam smile ever again, and the thought makes me strangely relieved as we wait for Chavez to come find us. Either way, this is almost over now. There is no more guessing what will happen next. Death waits on the horizon with the dark storm clouds, rumbling as it approaches steadily, shaking our bones with the ominous reminder of what comes for us next.
Miriam Park, 13
District Ten Female
As I look out at the still prairie grasses in front of me, I keep glancing back at where Lord stands. He's kind enough to not stand closely to me, for he knows we're both too on edge now to be all friendly. We stand on either side of the Cornucopia, watching the arena around us for any signs of our last opponent. I lean on the corner where the two sides of the Cornucopia's walls meet, and my companion does the same on the other side. Lord has nothing but the dagger he's had since the start of the Games in his hands. I don't know how he thinks that thing will help him much against someone like Chavez or something like my gun, but he doesn't have much choice anyways I guess. The breastplate covering his shoulders and chest makes his body look oddly disproportionate. The clunky thing would make me laugh usually, but I only feel a flicker at the back of my throat. No sound comes out. Now isn't a time for laughter. Things feel too still and serious now.
Even though I know Lord so well, and even though I have the upperhand by still having a loaded gun in my hands, I'm terrified of him still being here. Everything inside of me screams to either run away or attack him immediately. I am on complete survival mode at the moment, and my instincts don't understand why I'm letting him stand next to be nonchalantly. He should be dead already. He's still an unknown variable in this situation, and the way he figured out that I only had one bullet left stunned and scared me more than I'm willing to admit. I didn't know he had that type of smarts in him. I always liked making jokes about him being dumb, and I knew he wasn't an absolute idiot, but I didn't think he would be able to figure that out. I'm unnerved, to say the least, and I don't know what to do. I know I can't kill him now, since he's all right with what he said. I need to save my single bullet for Chavez, if I want any chance of making it out of here. It just feels wrong to do this. We should be fighting each other, but I can't, not yet.
A minute slips by as we stare out at the grass, and then another. I can see Lord beginning to fiddle with the handle of his dagger, getting distracted from observing the arena around us. I find my mind wanting to drift too, thinking about ways I could take out Lord without my gun. Chavez seems like a far away dream, or maybe the Six boy seems like a far away dream. I don't know why the two of us are so convinced it has to be the Career still left alive. I guess it just makes sense, in the end. I don't know why the Gamemakers would kill off their strongest competitor with a tornado, or why they would let someone wait so long to attack at the Feast unless they were a wildly popular Career like Chavez. It also just fits into what we saw before the Games, during training and everything. If there was going to be one person who was a lock for the final fight, it would be Chavez. It only makes sense that we'll see him again here.
"Where the fuck is he?" Lord growls after more empty, silent moments of staring out at the golden grass. "I don't understand why he hasn't shown up yet."
"I don't know," I mutter, glancing down at my feet. My dark brown tennis shoes have been dusted a lighter shade by the dried mud of the clearing. "He has to be here already."
"I just wish he would come out and kill us. I don't understand why he gets to waste all this time," Lord grunts, wiping the blade of his dagger against his shorts impatiently.
"He's special, I guess, more than us. He gets to come whenever he pleases," I say back, continuing to survey the prairie around us as diligently as I can.
"Special my ass, I don't care who he is," Lord groans, using his free hand to rub one of his eyes. "I might die of boredom before he shows up. I never thought I'd be so anxious to see a trained killer in my life, but here we are."
"He'll show up soon," I murmur, my chest feeling heavy and deep. "I guess we can't complain that we're getting a couple extra moments to live."
"I guess not," Lord sighs before turning over to the cement table and picking up his bottle of whiskey. He takes a short sip before setting it down. "As long as I get to enjoy my whiskey, I'm all good."
I know he's trying to lighten the mood a little bit, so that this waiting isn't so tense and awkward, but I choose not to reply. I don't have it in me to play our teasing games right now, and I can tell he's exhausted with them too. He just doesn't know what else to do besides try to banter, now that death isn't coming as swiftly as we had thought. I don't know what to make of this situation either. I get why he's so anxious to see Chavez. I guess I am too, in the end. It feels odd, to wish for a monster to find us quicker with death in his glittering hands, but I still wish for it. We are not living right now, as we wait for him to show himself. We are merely existing. They are not the same thing.
As we are waiting, my hand absentmindedly slips into the pocket of my plasticky windbreaker. Suddenly I remember the hole in the bottom of the pocket that led to the inside lining of the jacket. I move slowly so that Lord will not think that what I am doing is suspicious. I slide two fingers through the gap in the mesh netting of the pocket, widening the whole so I can search around the lining more freely. When my fingers find the little hard thing in the bottom of my pocket, I instantly realize what it is. Even though I can't see it with my own eyes, the pellet of cold brass is unmistakable against my probing fingers. There is another bullet, sitting in the pocket of my windbreaker. The realization makes my eyes widen in shock, but I try to keep the surprise from the rest of my face.
I think back to the days in the cabin, and how I would sometimes wear the windbreaker for warmth when the nights got chilly. Usually, while I slept, the quilt on the bed would be enough, but I would get cold while I was on watch and Lord was sleeping. So usually, I would put on my windbreaker while I was on guard, and it would help keep me warm for the night. I must've been keeping the bullets in the pocket of the jacket one night, instead of in my shorts pocket like I usually did. One of them must've slipped through the hole in the pocket, and I didn't notice it was gone. That's the only explanation that makes sense, but in the end it does not matter. I now have two bullets, the one in my gun and the one hidden in my pocket, and I am the only one who knows about them. I wonder if the Gamemakers even know I have a second one; I'm not sure they would have sent one in the Feast if they knew I hadn't used them all up.
My mind instantly leaps towards the idea of shooting Lord immediately, while he doesn't expect it. I have two bullets after all, and it would be much too easy to shoot him in the stomach or between the eyes at this close of range. It would be like shooting fish in a barrell, with how only a few paces separate us in the shade of the Horn's golden roof. Something holds me back, however. I know I'm not a great shot at farther distances. I missed my first shot at Tyberios yesterday by a lot. I've only ever killed someone at close range, and if I let Chavez get in close range, there's a chance I'll be dead before I get to fire. If I miss my first shot and I've already used up my other bullet on Lord, I'm done for. There's no way I can kill Chavez without the gun. My fingers itch to turn the rifle towards Lord and shoot him right now while I can, but my brain realizes I cannot. Worst case, if I only need one bullet on Chavez, I can quickly shoot Lord right after. But if I have to face one of them in hand to hand combat, I'd rather have to fight Lord than Chavez. Even though Lord is a lot taller and stronger than me, he's nowhere near as scary as Chavez when it comes to real fighting.
I use my fingers to pull the second bullet out of the lining of my jacket, and I transfer it into my other pocket carefully so that Lord does not notice. There are no holes in this pocket, and it'll be easier for me to access it here without the chance of it falling back through the hole in the mesh netting. Once the bullet is safely in my other pocket, I take a deep breath to steady myself. As I lean against the Cornucopia behind me, I feel things beginning to lighten a little. Hope flutters in my chest, disintegrating the hard chunk of fear that has been crystallizing there. Things could still go wrong, but I have two bullets now, and two opponents left. I have a real chance at this now.
"Miriam, fuck, watch out!" Lord suddenly shouts from beside me, his voice strained with panic. I quickly try to step into the Horn to avoid whatever is coming, but I'm not quick enough. I feel a throwing knife fly right past the left side of my face, the tip slicing off the rounded top of my ear as it goes by. I groan gutturally at the wound, feeling blood trickling down the side of my face, but there is no time to waste. It seems Chavez has shown up, and there is only one thing for me to do now.
I fling myself back out from the inside of the Cornucopia, the rifle on my shoulder and pointed out at the area where the throwing knife came from. Chavez is sprinting across the muddy clearing towards me in a curved path, having come from behind the structure. I guess he was listening to us and realized we weren't going to kill one another. Maybe he was just toying with us for fun. It doesn't matter now, because he throws another throwing knife at me. I barely dodge this one as well, as it sails inches above my head and slams against the cement table that rose up for the Feast. I take a deep breath as I try to keep my shaking arms steady while Chavez hurries to pull another knife from the belt at his waist. This is my one chance to take him out now, while he's unarmed, and I must act quickly. This is the biggest shot of my life.
When I pull the trigger, the entire world seems to slow down a little. I can see the brass bullet glinting in the sun as it whizzes from the barrel of the rifle and towards Chavez. I watch with wide open eyes and an eagerly gaping mouth as the bullet slams into the Career boy's gut, making him stumble and fall to his knees. I can't help but keep a small smile from fighting its way to my face as Chavez drops the throwing knife in his hands before he can throw it, groaning as he tries to pick himself up on his feet. He struggles to stand, his legs trembling underneath him. I must've gotten him good in the gut.
Before I'm able to turn to Lord to tell him what I've done, I suddenly feel a sharp pain in the back of my neck. I don't understand what's happening until I see the polished chrome tip of a dagger jut its way out of my throat, soaked in my own blood. I cannot make a sound, and I can barely make a thought as my vision immediately begins to swim. What is this? Why is everything white hot fire and dark stars? But...but I had another bullet...and I just shot Chavez...and...he didn't...how could he...when I was so close...when I gave...when I left him...the dagger...I left him...the dagger...that is in my throat...I am dying...I should have killed him...I am...Miriam Park...I...am...I...mom...please help...please...mom, dad...don't...Lord...why did you...do this to me...I am...I am...coming home...it's dark...dark...alone...not for long...please mom...please come...home...with...me.
Lord Parthenia, 16
District Twelve Male
I stare at the handle of my dagger for long moments as it sticks out of the back of Miriam's neck. She's holding herself up against the cold Cornucopia wall, choking on the steel embedded in her throat. I watch as she stumbles to her knees, the rifle rolling from her grasp as she falls slack against the ground. She trembles as she lays there, fighting against the death that must be pulling her away already. Her eyes flutter, and her body arches, and I make myself watch all of it, make myself watch all of what I have done.
It happens quicker than I thought it would. Within a minute, she stops twitching as dark blood pools on the dusty ground beneath her. I never knew blood could be so dark, that so much could come out of a little girl's slender throat. The knife is still in her neck, but the blood comes pouring out like it's an open wound, spilling like water from an overflowing jug. It covers everything, her olive skin, her tan t-shirt, the dusty dirt. The pool rapidly spreads as she twitches a couple more times, her fingers twisted in desperate claws against the hard earth. Her body gives one final heave, one last attempt to grip to life, and then everything falls still, her limbs slackening against the ground. Her cannon fires moments after she stops moving, a loud thunderclap in the stillness of the prairie around me. My brain knows what that means, but it can't be real, not really. She can't be dead. I can't have done what I've just done. Not to Miriam. Not to anybody.
My hands begin to shake uncontrollably as I realize what I've really done. I've killed my first person, and not just any person. I've killed the girl that has been by my side this entire time, the girl who has laughed with me and smiled with me, the girl who has cried with me and worried with me. I have seen every side of a person you can see in Miriam, at least all the sides you can see in a death match. And I...and I killed her, just like that. Without a word, without a sound, I just crept up behind her and slid the dagger in her neck when I saw her bullet had hit home in Chavez's gut.
It was the right thing to do, I know that. She had to die, if I want to go home, and I took her by surprise while she wasn't expecting it, while she couldn't put up a fight. She had taken out Chavez for me, and I took the upperhand before she could. I did the right thing strategically, to ensure that I have the best chance of surviving. That's what this all is about, surviving, and my instincts took over, made me do the thing my brain knew was right, the right thing to do in a moment like this, the right thing to do with my life on the line. It doesn't feel like the right thing now that she's slumped dead only feet away from me, my dagger lodged in her bloodied throat. None of this feels right, and I want to start screaming, but I won't make a fool of myself like that.
A monstrous feeling creeps over me, slipping into my mouth that's gaping open in horror at what I've done. The slimy thing slides down my throat and coils itself in my stomach, flexing its scaly hind against my tummy. It feels cold and slippery and all wrong, and I don't realize that I'm retching until I feel the bile searing its way up my throat. I fall to my knees as I spew vomit all over the ground, heaving up everything in my body as the realization continues to wash over me. I've killed Miriam. I've really killed Miriam. She's gone forever, because of me. Her mom dying of cancer, her father beaten down from the slaughterhouses...they lost a daughter because of me. They will never see her again, touch her again, hold her again. Her mother is going to die in her bed and her father is going to have nothing left, because I slid my dagger into the back of a little girl's neck without giving her a chance to fight back. She deserved at least the chance to fight back, didn't she? Didn't she?
As I huddle my arms and legs close to me in an almost fetal sitting position, my brain stops tripping on the thoughts of murdering Miriam and turns back to my current situation. I suddenly see everything else besides my bile on the ground and Miriam's bloody corpse. The Cornucopia, the wide clearing, the endless seas of grass, the roiling storms on the horizon. The District Four boy crouching in the dried mud a distance away, one hand on his bloody stomach as he tries to stand up. I feel dumbfounded by the sight, as I watch Chavez stumble to his feet. He staggers back to the ground, but the Career looks determined, like he'll stand back up if it's the last thing he does. My heart leaps into my throat at the sight. I thought he'd be dead from the wound, but he's still alive, incredibly alive. Miriam's bullet wasn't enough; I'm going to have to try to finish off the strongest tribute in these entire Games by hand.
I look around desperately for a weapon, knowing I need to attack Chavez before he gets his footing again. If he's stable and able to throw knives well, I'm done for. I'll never get close enough to finish him off. My eyes lock on my dagger, still buried in Miriam's neck, but my stomach heaves again at the thought of pulling it out. I can't touch it ever again. I can't touch Miriam like that. She doesn't deserve to be disturbed by me, now that she's in her final rest. That little dagger won't be of much use anyways against Chavez. I need something longer and tougher to finish him off with.
The Cornucopia is mostly picked clean of supplies, but after several moments of surveying the structure, I spot a dully gleaming machete wreathed in shadows. It's tucked near the back of the Horn, and I stumble over to it, gripping the smooth chrome handle tightly. The weapon looks usable, although it's shorter than the ones we used in training. I notice that a third of the blade has been snapped off, leaving a long, jagged edge. Whoever cleared the Cornucopia of supplies obviously left this behind because they thought it would be useless with a snapped blade. However, it's the best thing I'm going to find, and it's going to give me more reach than the dagger buried in Miriam's neck. It also helps me avoid having to touch her body, which is an added bonus.
Once I have the broken machete in my hands, I force myself to walk out of the Cornucopia without another thought. I have a new weapon, and now it's time to kill Chavez. There is no waiting or stopping now. Every moment I stall gives Chavez more time to find his footing, to push past the pain of his gunshot wound. I need to get to him before he's regained any semblance of strength, and thus I must attack now. I break out into a jog as I run across the dusty clearing towards where Chavez is still struggling to stand. He grunts when he notices me nearing, and he bears white teeth streaked with dark blood. He tries desperately to get to his feet, but I rush him before he can regain his balance. It's now or never, and I strike as quickly as I can, trying to jab my machete into his throat.
Chavez manages to roll out of the way, my weapon sailing through empty air. He seems to wince at the movement, but he doesn't stop for long. He continues to try to get to his feet as I stumble forwards from the momentum of my missed swing. As I regain my balance, I watch as Chavez pushes himself up to his feet again. Miraculously, he doesn't fall back down. He pulls out a throwing knife from the belt at his waist as he begins to stagger closer to me, chuckling throatily before spitting out a dark clot of blood and saliva onto the ground between us.
"I'm not going to be that easy to take care of, you little sewer rat," Chavez hisses, hatred heavy in every syllable. I don't respond, clenching my hands tighter around the handle of my machete as our last waltz begins. In the clearing, the two of us, both killers now, circle each other as the storm clouds continue to close in. Their rumbling thunder acts as the dark rhythm accompanying our dance of death.
Chavez Belasco, 18
District Four Male
I snarl at the boy from Twelve as we circle one another. Burning anger simmers in each of my nerves as I watch him step carefully around me. His eyes are bright and quick, and I curse him for the advantage he has in our fight. I keep one hand pressed against the bloom of blood on my tan t-shirt, trying to staunch the flow. I wish I had two hands free to fight him with, but I can't draw my hand away from the gunshot wound. The pressure helps keep the pain at bay, but it's still a hell of a bitch, making my senses feel fuzzy and muted. I haven't felt pain like this before, so sharp and strong it makes me dizzier than a night of drinking vodka sodas with Almieda and the girls.
However, I won't let a fucking scrap of metal in my gut stop me from winning these Games. There's just a little tramp from the Seam between me and Victory, and a bullet can't stop me from doing what I was made to do. He hasn't brought the gun with him, so either the little girl had no more bullets, or he's just too dumb to know how to work the thing. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't know what a trigger or a rifle even was. He might be relatively uninjured, but he's the dumbest little thing I've ever set my eyes on, with stringy attempts at muscles all over his body. He is a creature from the lowest District in Panem, and I am the brightest shining star the Capitol will ever see. Nothing can stop me, nothing. The very sky could fall on my head, and I would still murder this boy. It is destined to be that someone like me will defeat someone like him. That is just the natural order of things, for the strong to destroy the weak. I intend to complete nature's wishes with a flourish.
Blood might be gushing out of a hole in my stomach, but I still know how to fight, and this boy has obviously never touched a weapon before coming to the Capitol. His grip on the machete is all wrong, and he doesn't keep his eyes on my weapons, looking at other parts of me. I can sometimes feel him trying to look me in the eyes for whatever reason, and the thought makes me want to scoff. I wonder what he sees in them, if he sees anything at all but the consuming desire I have to tear him to shreds. I hope what he sees terrifies him. I hope what he sees makes him want to scream and cry so long and hard that he knows he will not win this fight, that he lost this fight the moment he was born in a place like Twelve. I do my best to make the expression on my face even scarier to intimidate him. I'm satisfied when I see his jaw tighten when I do so. I don't even need to waste words on this one. He doesn't deserve my taunts, when my face alone can terrify him so much.
I try to think of the best way to attack him as we continue to circle one another. It's pretty clear he has little intention of attacking me first. He's probably hoping I bleed out before we have to actually fight, which isn't that dumb on his part. If I were him, I'd want me to lose as much blood as possible before we started fighting. I ache to just sling a knife at his throat, but I know I might not be able to keep my balance if I throw the knife with the force it needs to go into his throat. If I fall and my knife doesn't hit something vital, I'm done for. I might not be able to stand up again before he's able to cut me open with his broken machete, and I won't let him get me that easily. I won't let a runt from the coal District kill me while I'm on my knees. Instead, I need to dodge the blows of his machete and try to fight him up close. If I can disarm him before he cuts me up too much, it should be pretty easy to gut him with one of my throwing knives. I'm best at throwing these knives like they're built to do, but I've also studied extensively on how to fight up close with these blades. As long as I can get that machete out of his grasp, I should be able to kill him pretty easily.
I know I need to act fast. I may be willing to fight through the excruciating wound in my gut, and I may be one of the best fighters this country has ever seen, but that does not mean I am invincible. I do not have an endless supply of blood. Pressing my hand against the gunshot wound doesn't do much; if I stall much longer, I'm going to lose too much blood, and I won't be able to fight back well. It's time to take this rat out. I can't give him the time to keep circling me until I'm too weak to defend myself, until he can do whatever he pleases with me. I have not come this far, done all of the tings in this world, put my glorious life on the line just to bleed out in the dust with a beast from the Seam guffawing above me.
The sky has been darkening overhead with the clouds closing in ever since the Feast table rose up. The storm has been getting closer all day, and now it's finally reached the Cornucopia. The tornados have not followed the storms, thankfully. The Gamemakers want us to duke it out without any intervention by the weather, it seems. Suddenly, my thoughts are proven wrong as rain begins to pour from the heavens after a particularly loud boom of a thunder, louder than any of the cannons I've heard in the arena. The Twelve boy jumps at the sound, and I just curse the Gamemakers silently as the dried mud of the clearing quickly turns slick again. They really want to even up this fight and cast doubt on us now. I could barely stand up on the dry ground, and now it's even harder to keep my balance on the slick mud with blood pumping out of me by the minute. I can't wait any longer, I have to strike now before the conditions get so bad that I'll have no chance against him.
We've been circling each other for so long now that the Twelve boy is almost lulled into a sort of a trance from the continuous movements. Thus, he seems surprised when I stumble towards him, my knife flashing through the air. The blow misses him like intended, since I didn't slash anywhere near close enough to reach his throat. I wanted to see how he would react, and I also wanted to test my balance. It's not great, but I'm able to stay on my feet, and that's enough for me. Twelve's eyes go wide like saucers when my knife cuts clearly through the air, and I chuckle at the terror on his face as I stumble nearer. This time, I slash a little closer, but I still miss on purpose, testing my balance again. Twelve doesn't try to fight back, just stepping away from me each time I move closer. He seems focused completely on just avoiding me. He's just so scared that he can barely think to fight back. It would be laughable, really, if his cautionary tactics weren't wasting the little time I have left before I bleed out entirely.
Knowing I need to disarm him before it's too late, I stop testing my balance and strike fast. Twelve is taken aback by my sudden attack, and he screams as my throwing knife slices along the knuckles of his hand gripping the broken machete. The weapon tumbles from his hand as he staggers backwards, clutching his wounded hand to his chest. I quickly kick the machete away from him so he can't grab it back up. His fingers are all still connected to his hand, but he probably won't be able to use that hand to do much. Twelve spews curse words as he continues to stumble away from me. I realize that he's running back towards the Horn, and I snarl at the sight. Can this fucking coward just die already? I feel hatred pumping through my veins as I stumble across the slick mud after my opponent, moving slower than him. I don't have much time left, and this mud isn't helping things either. I just wish the Gamemakers would've made this easy. They should have let me get my fingers on him. I would have torn him to shreds so beautifully they would've weeped. I guess that's not a way to get glory, however. Real pain, real suffering, that's the way to earn honor and respect. And boy, am I going to be earning heaps of that today.
I follow the Twelve boy through the muddy clearing, gritting my teeth with each step. Every footfall is another world of searing pain, but I won't let it stop me. Nothing has ever stopped me, and this will not be the first thing to keep Chavez Belasco from doing what he was meant to do. I will walk the entirety of the earth in this state if I have to, as long as I come out on top, as long as I win. Nothing matters but winning; nothing else ever has, and nothing else ever will. This is it, this is the moment I have fought for my entire life. Bullets, mud, rain, a rat from Twelve, they are inconsequential in my pursuit of glory. I will have it, no matter the cost. I can promise you that.
Lord Parthenia, 16
District Twelve Male
The blood dripping down my slashed fingers mixes with the cold rain as I sprint back towards the Horn. My brain is frenzied as I move, and I have no idea what I'm doing. I just know I need to escape; Chavez took my weapon, and he had a hundred knives lashed to his waist. He would have killed me, had I not run. There is nothing I can do against him with my bare hands; I don't know if there's anything I could do against him at all. There wasn't much else in the Cornucopia, and I can't keep waiting for him to bleed out. They want us to fight, and they will make it happen somehow. I have to find something to help me, some way to defeat him that doesn't involve just biding my time until he loses too much blood to stay alive.
I stumble back into the Cornucopia, breathing heavily as I look around for something to help me. I see nothing but splintered crates and shards of metal too small to help me much. A glance over my shoulder tells me that Chavez is shuffling towards me now, getting closer by the moment. I step farther in the Horn in case he decides to try to throw a knife at me, putting golden metal between myself and his blades. It buys me a couple more moments to figure out a plan to defend myself, but I don't know what kind of a plan that would be. There is nothing here to defend myself with besides splintered wood and broken metal. My pulse thuds faster and faster as I survey the Horn once more, but I find nothing to help me. Nothing, that is, except in the one corner of the structure that I've been avoiding.
Miriam's body looks so small and fragile, crumpled on the floor of the Cornucopia. Her face is against the bloody dirt, but seeing her familiar silky black hair and light olive skin is enough to make me want to cry for her. I can't die now, after killing her. I can't let Chavez win, when I sacrificed everything by murdering Miriam without giving her a chance to fight back. The only thing here that I can use to defend myself is the thing I least want to touch, the dagger buried up to the hilt in the back of her neck. My hands shake as I walk over to her, but I force myself to continue walking forward. Chavez will be here soon, and if I do not have anything to defend myself with, I will be screwed. I can't let my murder of Miriam go to waste by being to scared to take my weapon out of her neck. I killed her, and I have to face it. Taking the knife out of her corpse isn't going to offend her memory any more than murdering her already has.
When I reach Miriam's side, I crouch next to her and flip her from her side onto her stomach so that I can get the knife out more easily. Her cold skin and the gummy, half-dried blood feels horrifying against my fingertips, and I watch as the blood seeping from my slashed knuckles mixes obscenely with hers. I ignore all of it as I set her body down, moving to grab the handle of the dagger and draw it out of her body. However, just as I let go of her body, I spot a small flash of brass tumbling across her hip.
I lean over her corpse to spot the thing that has rolled out of her pocket, and my breath hitches in my throat at the sight. Another unused bullet rests in the folds of her windbreaker, having been stuffed in her pocket all along. My heart begins to beat incredibly quick as I pick the bullet up in my fingers, gulping in anxious breaths. There's no way...how did she have another bullet? It doesn't make sense. Why didn't she kill me, if she had this all along? Why did she...was she being loyal? Was she too close to me to kill me? And to return the favor, I stabbed her in the back of the neck before she could even fight back? The thoughts of how cold-blooded my betrayal was make my eyes mist with tears, but I push them away swiftly. I can't do this now. I can't mourn her, while I still have a life of my own to fight for.
The realization of what is in my bloody palm really smacks me in the face as I push aside the thoughts over if Miriam knew about the second bullet or not. I have...another bullet. And the rifle, it's still here, right next to Miriam's body. I can use this bullet, this gun, to finally win the Hunger Games. My heart rate speeds up to unimaginable speeds, as if it's beating my limbs back to life. My body has been frozen in shock at the discovery, but I quickly leap into action once the realization of what this is sinks into my bones. I snatch up Miriam's fallen rifle from beside her corpse, snapping open the barrel like she always did. I slide the bullet into the chamber before closing the barrel again, hoping with all my might that this will be enough to help me win.
Just as I snap the barrel of the rifle closed, I see Chavez shuffling into my line of vision, having reached the mouth of the Horn. His stomach and legs are drenched with blood, but he still looks hard-faced and determined. He laughs at me as I lift the rifle and point it at his chest.
"You dumb motherfucker, you think I'm going to believe that there's anything in that gun when you didn't use it before?" Chavez snickers maniacally, entirely amused with my actions. "You little fuckers from Twelve are really the most-"
I don't let him finish, pressing my finger against the trigger. Chavez gasps as the bullet slams into his gut, just above where the other bullet went. The Four boy seems to not be able to understand what's going on as he stumbles to the side for a moment before falling backwards onto the ground. He lays in the mud on his back as the rain beats down on him, blood leaking from the second gunshot wound in his stomach. I can see him starting to twitch and shiver like Miriam did when I slid the knife into her neck, but he is doing so more slowly, with more agony. This is going to take much longer than Miriam, and I'm done waiting around for things to end. I won't sit here sniffling until he bleeds out. I'm...I'm going to be the Victor they want me to be, out there, faraway in the Capitol. I will do what I must, and I will finish off Chavez while he's still alive.
I walk calmly over to Miriam's body, barely flinching now as I rip my dagger out of the nape of her neck. More blood oozes from the wound, but I don't let my eyes linger on it. A sudden calm has overtaken me now, and I don't let it be shaken. I am...well, I am winning now. Miriam is dead, so is the Six boy it seems, and Chavez is barely clinging to life only yards away. I am...I am going to be the Victor. The thought feels foreign in my mind as I stride over to Chavez so I can loom above the dying boy, so I can finish him off neatly. I am going to get to go home. I am going to survive.
I chuckle at the unbelievable thought as I near where Chavez is twitching madly in the slick mud. I am going home. I am going home. I am going home. I repeat the thought over and over as I crouch on the ground next to Chavez, glee lifting my lips into a cruel smile. The Four boy turns his head to look at me, gasping silently. His eyes shine with fear, when before they were dull and empty. He twitches again and lets out a low moan, and I can see him weakly reaching for the knives at his waist. He is too weak, however. Not even a teenage god like Chavez Belasco can weather two bullet wounds.
Chavez spits a thick glob of blood onto his chin before his voice warbles out, rough and thin, a dying voice with too much to say. "I was supposed to-"
I don't let him finish, sliding the dagger covered in Miriam's blood into his throat before he can say another word. Chavez's eyes go wide, and they stay like that as he twitches for several moments just like Miriam did. I feel faintly nauseous again, as he quivers and dies at my feet, but the feeling is far away from the place I am at now. I look into Chavez's dark eyes, shining with fear, the words he never said gleaming in them as he rasps his last breaths around the steel buried in his neck. He gives one last shudder and falls still, his eyes open frighteningly wide as the rain pours down on us harder than ever.
His cannon is louder than the thunder booming throughout the arena, and it has a finality to it too. It is the last cannon I will ever hear in this prairie. The thought makes my knees weak with relief, and I slump to the ground from my crouch, collapsing next to Chavez's corpse. The trumpets begin to trill victoriously as I try to catch my breath, every feeling that I have pushed away suddenly flooding back. My brain cannot process any of them, and all I can do is stare at the sky as the clouds begin to clear away. The rain dies off quickly as the sun peeks out from behind the fading storm, warm sunlight basking across my cold, wet skin. The trumpets are golden and sweet alongside the sunlight, and I feel tears gathering in my eyes as a broken sob escapes from my throat.
"Gaylord Parthenia, you are the Victor of the Twenty Second Annual Hunger Games!" I hear Nuntius Calpor sing into the arena. This can't be happening. I hit the side of my head with the palm of my hand, thinking that I must be dreaming, but no, this is real, all of this is real. It's much, much, much too real.
Another broken sob erupts from the back of my throat as the things come flooding back, Miriam's smile as I drank my Feast whiskey, and then the knife sliding into her neck like it was warm butter. Chavez snickering and calling me a sewer rat, and then the words he needed to say that I didn't let him have. Everyone else, Soya dying in this very clearing with my name on her lips, all the other little boys and girls whose blood pumped across the golden grass and dusty dirt. It all fills my head, and I think I start screaming, but I can't be sure because I don't really think I'm in my body any longer.
The only thing I can see are their dead open eyes and blinding white sunlight, and something silver swooping through the sky. It's all too much for me to handle, and I can feel my eyes rolling into the back of my head as I pass out. I barely make out a teal gloved hand reaching out towards me before the darkness swallows me. As I go unconscious, I wonder is if this is what dying feels like, or if it is much, much worse. Either way, I guess I will not know yet. I have survived, and my death is coming for me, but not yet. For now, I am free. I just hope the others aren't freer than I am. If all these dead kids are freer now than I have ever been, this will all have been worth nothing at all. I have to believe I did the right thing, or otherwise there is nothing at all left for me here, in the world waiting outside the golden grass and ever-blue sky. There is nothing at all but more pain. I hope desperately that is not true, as I sink into the darkness of my own mind. There has to be something better for me out there. There has to.
A/N: There we have it. The finale of the 22nd Hunger Games. That was a whirlwind, and I hope it was exciting and enjoyable. Five years, and these characters that I have loved and thought of for so many hours have reached the end of their journeys in the arena. I am sort of stunned that this is pretty much over now, and I don't know how to sum up this whole experience. I'll save it for the epilogue chapters, and get on to the eulogies.
4TH - FENDER HOPKINS, 6M - Killed by tornado
Fender was a tribute I held very dearly. He was actually my very first Victor for this story, when I got all of my submissions back in October 2016. He was that nice boy-next-door, and I thought it would be great to turn him into a villain and corrupt his character. However, his submitter went inactive and I also decided that Lord would be a better fit for my universe, so I ended up changing his arc entirely. He stayed pretty sweet and wholesome throughout, and he was always a pleasure to write. He was honestly my least favorite of these four to write, but he was still amazing like all of them, and it was tough writing his death. I loved working in his relationship with Omri and how he got involved in his feud with Fuji. His scene with Tyberios was also really awesome to write. In the end, he was someone who admirably maintained his humanity throughout the whole Games and got taken out by a dumb mistake. I will miss him for sure.
3RD - MIRIAM PARK, 10F - Killed by Lord
I'm not crying, you're crying. This was...absolutely the hardest thing I've ever written in my life. I will not pretend that Miriam wasn't my favorite character in this story, because she was. She just clicked with me from the first time I wrote her, and I couldn't explain why. She was just a beautiful, unique young woman, and I fell in love with writing her from the very beginning. I always knew she was going to be the story's protagonist, and that she was going to go far. For some reason, though, I could never picture her winning. She just seemed like the amazing hero who falls just short, and when I had the idea of Lord betraying her, I just couldn't pass it up. I will admit I did get teary-eyed writing her death however, and it's going to be difficult to accept that I'm never going to get to write her again. She was just a fantastic, promising young woman, and she had such a heart-wrenching backstory alongside a whip-smart personality. I mean, she was the best female tribute of 2017 in the SYOT Awards for good reason. She had so many great moments, from all her jokes to her amazing relationship with Jayce that is still one of my favorite alliances I've ever written. It was so fun to make her go from a little girl to a Career killer, and her relationship with Lord was my favorite thing to write in this story. Their banter was legendary. I was honored with the opportunity to write her, and I hope you are pleased with what I did with her, Dreamer, even if it didn't end in a Victory. She's going to be the one I think of when I think of this story, and I hope you know how much I have adored writing her all these years. This story wouldn't be the same without her, and I'm grateful that I got to write such a marvelous young lady.
2ND - CHAVEZ BELASCO, 4M - Killed by Lord
I had way too much fun writing Chavez. He was the most hateable person I've ever explored, and it was just so thrilling to dig into his character. I knew from the start that he was going to be universally hated; he was designed to be that way, after all. I just had so much fun getting to explore a tribute that is so irredeemably bad and evil and has no intentions of changing at all. I love non-traditional moral structures, so getting to write Chavez helped me explore my own ideas of morality. Writing someone so evil was just thrilling. Most tributes are subject to the whims of readers liking them or not which can affect their trajectory. I knew Chavez would be hated, and thus it was so fun to take him far and know how much it would enrage a lot of you lmao. I knew everyone expected him to drop every chapter, but it just made it better to keep him fighting and make him a little more despicable. It was a pleasure to plumb the depths of his psyche and see why he was the way he was; his POV in the previous chapter is among some of my favorite writing I've ever done, being able to show why someone would act the way he does. He also made the Career pack ten times more interesting, from his infamous rivalry with Ardin to his general arrogance and pompousness. I just can't really put into words why I enjoyed writing him so much; maybe it exposes how much of a cold-hearted psycho I am, that it was enjoyable to dig into his mindset. Whatever. You have to be a little crazy to write 350k+ words about child murder after all. Anyways, Celtic, thank you so much for Chavez, and I hope I did him justice. Everyone hated him, and I did too, and that made him such a valuable character and such a fun read. He was the villain this story needed, and I thank you for that.
1ST - GAYLORD PARTHENIA, 12M - VICTOR
I know a lot of you predicted this in your reviews, and it makes sense with his story. I feel his arc has been clear these last few chapters, but I wanted a satisfying story over a completely shocking ending. And let's be real. If you think back to the beginning of this story and told someone back in 2016 that Lord was going to be a well-developed Victor, I think they would've laughed in your face. Looking from the start, the other three were clear contenders, but Lord never was. He was certainly a more joke-y tribute at the start that I didn't have making it to the top half in the original writeup. However, something about him just...clicked with me. I can't explain it, but Lord just worked. I loved threading through his character and his backstory, gradually revealing more of his real personality and his real history. Lord just spoke to me, and by the time I got to the late Capitol chapters, something was compelling me to make him the Victor. I wasn't sure about it for a long time, but ultimately I realized he was the person I wanted to win most. He has just developed so much, from a mindless manwhore to the incredible mess he's going to be now. I love how his development hasn't been linear or clear cut. He's not a good person now, or a bad one, a neat or messy one. He's just a new Lord, with new layers of trauma and complexity, and that's so fascinating to me. I can't really describe how I feel about him, because I have such complex feelings about him as a person and a character, but I feel like he's going to be the perfect Victor for this series moving forward. His relationships with Soya and Miriam were absolutely phenomenal to write, and overall getting in his head was my favorite thing to do. Thank you, Plat, for giving me this guy and being so supportive along the way. I loved being able to turn him from someone you admitted wasn't a very serious tribute into an angsty, lovable antihero. It was fun to interpret him, make him grow, and just in general get inside his head and write my heart out about him. Your friendship and support all these years has meant so much to me, as you always help motivate me and encourage me to keep writing and do better. I'm happy that I'm able to give you the Victor you deserve from this story after all these years. It's been almost four years since I came up with this ending, and I'm happy you get to read it at last, after so long thinking it might not happen.
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)
Lord Parthenia: 2 (Miriam, Chavez)
Arena Events: 2 (Luke, Fender)
Ardin Varnell: 1 (Sage)
Fuji LaMac: 1 (Ivy)
Omri Plower: 1 (Fuji)
There we have it. The Games are officially done. Whew. That was a lot. Let me know what y'all thought. It was definitely a lengthy, heavy chapter, but this massive story deserved a massive finale. We're going to have two more epilogue chapters sometime in the next month, and then this story will be officially over, which is crazy to me. For so many years, I never thought this would be finished, but here we are, so close to the end. I say this every time, but it's truly an honor that y'all care about my work enough to read it, even when I write behemoths like this. You are all the reason I do this, and I am so appreciative of your support now and forever.
To end on a lighter note, I also have an announcement! Tomorrow I will be posting my next SYOT, called Withered Hope! It will be detailing the 24th Hunger Games in this same universe, and submissions will be open for a month. I'd love for y'all to come over and participate in that one too, because I can promise it's going to be just as much fun as this one. More details will be posted alongside the first prologue!
So there we have it. The Games are done, we have our Victor, and now just two chapters of wrap up to tie this story off. Thank you all again, I can't say it enough. Let me know what you thought in the reviews. Hopefully this was worth all these years of waiting.
Until Next Time,
Tracee