.
hell or high water
"Eleven," Nessim says, letting out a long whistle. I hear him rustling through the food stores, long finished watching the sky, though my own eyes keep trained on the stars. "No kidding."
"Not bad for Day One."
"Not bad at all," Nessim agrees. "Figure we can get more by morning?"
He can, maybe. At least they'll let him hunt, once Arminia and Carrack are back. Even with that gash along his chest, he earned the right by getting three Bloodbath kills.
As for me? They keep telling me how goddamn lucky I am even to still be with them.
As if they needed to tell me. I see it in their faces, in the tone of their voices. When Nessim elected me for first watch, the sentiment dripped from his tongue like the shit he spits daily: serve us, bitch.
If only he fucking knew what I could do to him if I were back in Four, if he were just a District citizen there. Maybe then he'd treat me with the respect I deserve.
But he doesn't. Of course, he doesn't, because the first thing Sloane told me when I got on that train was if you let slip to anyone that you aren't from Four, they will kill all of us, and that's only the beginning. And me, not being the massive fucking idiot she seems to think I am for volunteering, decided keeping my mouth shut was more important than trying to forcibly take the reins of an alliance that we all know is already doomed to dissipate.
At the very least, I'm still in one piece, which is more than about half this tribute pool can say.
Atlas drifts off first, his soft snoring only a slight annoyance amidst the near-silence of the desert. Every few minutes there's the howling of some distant predator, a sharp humming of insects, but no more cannons. In time, Roma drifts off, too.
I know better than to think Nessim will sleep. He's had his eyes on me since the night we met him on the chariots, when I bitched him out for manhandling control of the alliance and he laughed in my fucking face. "Now why the fuck would I ever bow to a rogue?" he'd said. "Trust me, honey, you're lucky Carrack even vouched for you in the first place."
"I don't need him to vouch—"
"You clearly don't realize how thin the ice is you're standing on," he'd said. "You'd better at least be competent in training, or I have no use for a bitch like you."
All fair comments, if you strip them down to their objective bases. It's not that it's unjust, although sometimes it feels like it. If I were him, I'd make the same decisions. But I resent my newfound inferiority. I'm not used to not being the leader. Having someone like him step up, leaving me not just secondary, but last in terms of say and standing, feels sickeningly foreign.
It's not the end of the world, I remind myself, staring into the night. It means nothing. He will still die, and so will they.
That's what I tell myself, at least, as the darkness thickens. Roma turns over in her sleeping bag. The longer I listen, the clearer it is that Nessim is listening, too.
He never needed to trust me. But he needs to let down his guard long enough for me to get through.
So far, I'm being watched too closely to make a move.
Two cannons fire overnight.
The first runs through me like a shock, just a few minutes before I pass the watch over to Atlas. I watch the sky, but of course, there are no faces, yet.
It just feels like it grounds me. So many of us in this space, all watching the same sky.
The second comes what I estimate to be an hour into his shift. I'm grateful for it, because it rouses me from my dozing, which I have no right to be doing. Nessim has already all but proven he's keeping an eye out for me. I have to know what the others are thinking, too. Or at least ensure that they aren't getting ahead of me.
But I see nothing all night. Just the stars and the sand and the dimming daylight as it crawls up the canyon walls. When Nessim wakes us for breakfast— at least, those of us who weren't out all night wetting their blades— I pretend to come to groggily.
There's about a fifty percent chance he buys it, which is about as good as it gets.
Breakfast is dry. My mouth tastes sandy, and not just from lying sideways along the sand all night. There's static in my eyes that I blink away while Nessim announces the plan for the day. "Me and Atlas are up first. Roma and Julius will go tonight. I need blood. We need kills. At least two before the day's over."
When they're gone, tension I hadn't even realized was there leeches out of my shoulders. I help Roma organize the supplies inside the horn, something we put off yesterday in lieu of removing bodies and clearing guts from the area. While we stack, I offer an olive branch. "Was Nessim always like this?"
"No," she says. "But you knew that."
"I'm trying to give him a chance. Instead of just hating him for hating me."
"He doesn't hate you," Roma says. "He just thinks you're shit because you don't actually—" She catches herself. "Well, you volunteered, and don't seem to have any experience with fighting."
"I told you both. I had a good reason for doing it. Trust me on that."
"That doesn't mean you're any good."
"I'm still here, aren't I?"
"And who fought you in the Bloodbath?"
Six was, except Carrack, snake that he is, beat me to the kill. Three might have, but Nessim needed to send a spear her way rather than risk me actually having a chance to prove myself. That's what got Nessim injured in the first place, his self-centered decision-making. I can't even pretend to be upset about that.
"That's all it is," she says, stacking sheaths of arrows along the edge of the horn, which is already warming in the arena's stifling head. "Nothing personal. Just— there's six of us, you know? We can't all be the leader."
But he shouldn't be, and she has to know that. District loyalty trumps common sense for some, it appears. That's all there is to it, though. She's genuine enough, even if her rationale is stunted.
A cannon shocks us from our stasis. Ever so slightly, the mood at camp shifts— Armenia and Carrack, who have been mostly lazy this morning after their adventurous night, are on guard again, as if remembering what's at stake.
"Ten left," Carrack says, proving he knows how to count.
"Not bad," Roma repeats. It's eerie, her energy. Like she's not all there. I tried to pick her apart as best I could in the Capitol, but to be honest, I'm not exactly the type to go about reading people beyond how honest their intentions are, and even if I were, I have a feeling she'd be tough to crack. What I do know is that those Twos put just as much stock in loyalty as I do. Which means, as I've known from the start, the way to break Nessim is through her.
It does make me wonder what he gets from her. Protection? A sliver of trust? Carrack, obviously, does not share that with me. But I can definitely understand why that would be appealing, if not annoying for me to have to worry about.
Because the truth is, and always has been, this: this Career pack, legitimate as it may or may not be, will always tear itself down from the inside. Betrayal is imminent. If I am to survive, I have to be the first to strike.
By the time Nessim and Atlas return from scouring the nearby canyons, I'm thoroughly restless. I need to move. Hunt. Do something, anything. Even talking to that fucker is better than nothing. "Who'd you get?"
Nessim eyes me sideways while he cleans his blade and redresses his wounds. It's Atlas who finally speaks up. "Eight girl. I think."
"Good work."
He won't look at me. His problem, not mine. I turn my attention to my own weapon, the sword I've held close at my side since I pulled it for myself from the Bloodbath. Nessim had found Arminia and Roma weapons. Carrack and Atlas had supplied each other. I'd had to take care of my own means. Maybe it's better, I have to remind myself, that they continue to belittle and underestimate me. But honestly, I'm too tired of the lack of respect to really believe that.
"Only ten left," Roma says, proving that she, too, is capable of simple mathematics. "Look, I want to hunt as much as anyone, but you think maybe we should slow this down before the Gamemakers—"
"No," I say sharply.
She freezes, turning to me.
"No," I repeat. "We haven't been out yet. Everyone else has."
"Because everyone else got Bloodbath kills," Nessim says.
I would have, I want to snap, but you and my fucking snake of a District partner teamed up to deny me kills. Instead, I face him. "You're right. I didn't get any kills. But Roma did—"
"Then she'll go. Roma and me."
"Not a chance."
"Says who?"
"You think we're letting a District pair out on their own together?"
"You think you have any say—"
"Look," I say, putting my hands up. I'll defend myself to my own damn grave, but I know better than to stoke any more flames than I have to in this alliance. "Ask Atlas. Ask Carrack. Ask if they really want the two of you out alone."
I actually have no idea whether they'll agree with me. In all honesty, I'm not used to being in this position. People don't question me, don't second-guess me the way this group has. And while I can understand why— I'd imagine the Twos, at least, are well-used to being put down and snapped at by people far stronger than them— it might have made me reconsider my choice to volunteer.
Might have. As if I wouldn't still be as stubborn and hurt and frustrated in the moment if I knew what these Games would already be like. But I don't regret it, not really. Dei wanted my name drawn— this is what she gets for it.
Nessim exhales, frustrated. He turns to Carrack. "You don't trust us?"
"Would you let me and Julius out together?" he asks.
It's a fair question. Maybe its answer depends too heavily on the fact that he does not trust me in the slightest, but regardless, it's effective. "You want to go with her?"
"Julius?"
"No. Roma."
"Look, I'm fucking tired," Carrack says.
"Arminia?"
"Just let Julius go," she says. "If you're worried about Gamemakers, you both will just come back if you get a kill. We'll take a break and regroup once everyone's back. But I need a break, Carrack needs a break, and you're going to get a fucking infection if you're not careful—"
"Okay, okay," Nessim says. "For fuck's sake. Julius, you can go with Roma. I really don't even think there's anyone around anymore. But suit yourselves."
We load up our backpacks. I fold in an extra sweatshirt, some basic first aid materials, and the night vision goggles that Nessim offers both of us. Underneath is an extra pair of socks that will do nothing for the desert heat but does a fantastic job of masking the clanging of food cans at the bottom of my backpack.
"That way first," I suggest, motioning to the large dune to our backs. I know for a fact none of the other groups went in that direction, and if I want to survey the arena, that appears to be our best bet.
She walks by my side, her footsteps silent in the sand. We keep our water bottles close by, forcing ourselves to wait until we've reached the dune to take our first sips.
I'm not sure if it's that or the view that's more of a relief when we get there. Behind us, of course, is the glistening Cornucopia, miniscule at a distance; our allies, even more insignificant. Ahead of us, the sand slopes until it gives way to rocky canyons that slice through the arena. Any number of hazards could be at the base of them, even though neither pair who have been out commented on any mutts. Perhaps there won't be any. Panem knows we've already done a good enough job at picking each other off.
Six of us. Four others. Although, even calling that group us feels incorrect. I have never been in that alliance. From the moment I announced my volunteering, I was different.
It doesn't matter. But Carrack's first ambivalence, then outright disrespect, hurt me most. I expected no less from the meatheads in Two. Carrack's from Four, should have been on my side, but sold his soul to Two for the opportunity to get away from me. That's what makes me angriest.
They don't fear me like they should. He never has. But he will.
"Let's go down," I say.
"Why?"
"Why not?" I say. "If someone's hiding out, don't you think they'd rather be down there, not out in the open?"
"No shit," she says. "We don't need to go down there, though. We don't need to hunt."
"You don't want to kill someone? In the fucking Games?"
"Fourteen are already dead, Julius."
"So, what? You came out here to just get a break from the rest of them? As a formality?"
"Of course not," she snaps. "I just don't want to put us in a bad spot—"
"Are you really that scared? Fuck's sake, you're from Two, Roma. Start acting like it."
There it is— that hesitation. She looks at me, as if realizing how outmatched she is.
"Fine," she says, finally caving.
"We're going down there. The boys already told us there are almost no water sources up above. Which means, if you were another tribute—"
"You don't have to spell it out for me."
I glare at her. She shrinks.
"You'd go there. There's cover, there's protection, there's a water source." Nessim already told us all of this, of course. Even if I didn't resent him, it feels good to have a bit of fucking power. "Come on."
We move down into the canyon. This side wraps around towards the north and eventually curls to where Carrack returned from yesterday, but I know they haven't been over this far. That outer wall is impossible to scale. If whoever's left isn't out on the dunes somewhere, they're down below. They have to be.
Sand gives way to hard rock. Even under our boots, the footing is slick. I slip, and Roma grabs for me instinctively. When I resteady myself, I find myself reeling again. What does she want from me?
The same, most likely. But I'm leading us down the slope, my heart rate quickening. I look around us, but there's no one in the immediate vicinity.
My sword has been by my side since we left. The motion will be simple.
I stumble again, letting my foot loosen against the rock. "Shit—"
Roma reaches for me again. My head spins. As I straighten, my eyes drift down into the canyon.
"Stop," I say quickly.
She does, watching downslope.
"Down there."
"I can't see anything."
"Look. In the fucking trees."
She does. Right before my blade cuts through her stomach, her eyes find mine. Still confused. Still a step behind.
She groans before she knows why she does it. Her body bows. She pulls her sword, but I've already tugged the blade out, moved away so the only place she can lash back is the air between us. She looks down at the blood quickly seeping through her top.
"Julius—"
She lunges. I block her swing with my shield. As I step back, I lose my footing on the rocks, sinking to one knee.
"Roma!"
My head jerks sideways, just as a spear cuts through my ribs.
It knocks the wind out of me. Gasping for breath, I try to push myself to my feet.
Nessim lunges on top of me, knocking me onto my shoulder. I feel my skin tear along the rocks and push back. He's not so much bigger than me, but he's got the physical advantage. I fumble for my sword, but it's caught under my shoulder.
Weight presses into my collarbone. Then comes searing, splitting pain, squelching wetness, heat like a slap across the face.
Nessim shoves me away. I'm heaving breaths, pressing my hands to my neck. When I find his face, his expression is murderous.
"You fucking whore," he spits. "I knew you weren't worth shit."
I try to crawl to my feet, but he gets to me first. Not to hit me again, though. He pins my hands together and drags me backwards towards the edge. I thrash, panicking. We're too high up. He can't— he won't—
I throw my elbow back, knocking him in the jaw. He traps my leg and jerks me sideways.
I hear the bone snap a second before I'm blinded by white-hot agony
His face is above me, clouded by my dizziness. When I try to push back, I find I have no strength left. My body feels limp.
He shoves me backwards, releasing my hands.
For a moment I almost catch myself on the rocks. Then I'm slipping, falling, watching his body shrink.
The second before impact, I see him turn away.
I know better than to move.
In this dream world, this hazy in-between, I can tolerate the pain, suffocating as it is. Like missing a place, it's dull, chronic.
If I move, I'll break.
I'm turned towards the canyon wall, can't even watch the sky. When the anthem sounds, my head nearly splits.
Unconsciously, tears squeeze from my eyes. My chest trembles. When I close my eyes, it takes only a second for the music to fade.
There's blood on my hands. It came coursing down from my shoulder and dried along my palms. With no movement to split it, it's left a film in the creases and between my knuckles.
Some fortune that is.
Something sharp presses into the back of my shoulder. I shift thoughtlessly and my back screams again from the pain. I take a deep breath, and hesitantly try again. An inch at a time. Another. I'd ignore the nausea if I could, but I don't want to see how much blood I'd vomit if I had to. In my eyes, it's best not to know the extent of my internal injuries.
As far as external ones go, those are far more obvious. Open wounds along my collarbone and ribs, both legs broken in at least one place. That left arm is likely useless. The only reason my shoulder's stopped bleeding is from the dirt caked into it, effectively staunching what might have been a fatal wound.
I can move my head now, at the very least. As long I go slowly. As long as I control my breathing. Each breath is agony, sure, but the fact I still can means I'm not dead yet, and that has to be worth something.
That's more than at least one more person, since I've been down here, can say. I didn't hear her cannon, but I saw her faintly in the sky. The girl from Five. One more obstacle between me and survival, stripped away.
How long have I been down here? Two days? Three? Time blurs together when I can't stay conscious much longer than to take careful sips from the water bottle that thankfully broke free from my pack when I fell. If it were still stuck behind me, I'd probably be dead now. Dead or on my way out. I've never had a difficult time ignoring hunger pangs, but dehydration would undoubtedly kill me.
The only other small comfort there is to be had down here is the fact that this far down into the ravine, my body is shaded from that stifling sun. Even under the Cornucopia, the sun baked the metal so hot it was a wonder all those supplies didn't broil.
I shift again, hoping to release the pack. No chance. The pain along my right side is so sharp that when I bite down on my tongue, I draw blood. Or maybe that's coming from my throat. Really, it's none of my business where it's coming from.
Morning fades to afternoon. In the distance, a cannon blasts. It takes a moment to register, then another to put together how many I know are left.
Ten were gone when Roma and I left. If Roma's dead, and Five's dead, and whoever this cannon was, that leaves seven at most. And that's assuming there were no deaths while I was fading in and out of consciousness, which is a bold assumption to make.
I have no doubt Nessim and Carrack are still alive. Because if the world were fair, they'd have been blown up on their platforms, and that clearly didn't happen. And if they're alive, then they know I am, too. If I were Nessim, I'd be watching the sky every night, expecting my face among the fallen.
He knows I'm here. They all must. But they haven't come down to finish me off, which means they probably know it's not worth it. The arena will kill me before they ever have to.
I exhale, sinking painfully back against my backpack. I almost can't remember what the dunes above looked like. I've spent days taking in the inside of this ravine.
I've been down here so long, it seems, that it almost feels more like home than Four ever did.
I know now that no one else is down here. If there was water in the crevices, it's long since dried up. Maybe there's some other reason to be out of the sun, but if I'd known how barren it was here I never would have pushed Roma to come down here with me, regardless of whether I'd been planning to kill her or not.
Roma. She must have died while I was gone. There are no medical supplies in that Cornucopia strong enough to stitch her back together; I know exactly where I gouged her. I just wish it had been cleaner. I'm a fucking idiot for how it played out, but how was I supposed to know Nessim would trail us? He wasn't behind us until we were on the other side of that first dune. By the time we were moving down into that ravine, I'd figured we were too far away to worry about anyone straying behind.
He's more proactive than I gave him credit for. Not to say that I wasn't trying to make the right decision by backstabbing Roma. But I'd only been planning my betrayal from day one. Being District partners, he and Roma must have had plans to protect each other dating back long before they ever arrived in the Capitol.
That's where I went wrong, even if I couldn't control that. Maybe if Carrack had trusted me, even given me the time of day on that train, I could have gotten off on the right foot. But if Sloane wasn't berating me for volunteering seemingly on a whim, Carrack was making snide comments about how I supposedly ruined his partnership. As if I stripped him away from his destined District partner or something. I don't need to be a citizen of Four to know how they run those Reapings, and those volunteers were not set in stone until they came to that stage. Volunteering, as organized as it's become, has always been up to chance. Despite my rationale for it, I did nothing wrong.
Obviously if I'd known this is where I'd end up, I wouldn't have done it. But in that moment, when my eyes had fallen on Deianira's pathetic attempt at a poker face and my emotions had shifted from shock to rage in the span of two seconds, instinct had taken over. I had no time to think about why she'd done it. All I knew is if she wanted to fuck me over, I'd fuck her over right back.
Besides, it isn't my fault no one thought to check if I was actually eligible until we were hundreds of miles away. I can't take full responsibility for the collective shitshow that was our Reaping, as much as I'd almost like to.
As boring as I must be, there's only so much I can do when my body is so broken. When the anthem sounds, I'll try shifting again. If I can get this bag off of my back, I can try to eat. If I eat, maybe I'll have more energy to try to get myself out of this.
For now, exhaustion overpowers me. My eyes slip shut.
There are no deaths today. I watch the sky, yearning for a face to appear, but the Capitol seal vanishes in seconds and the world goes quiet.
Even though I have no right to do it, I find myself inwardly ridiculing Nessim. Imagine being so fucking bad at throwing someone off a cliff that you couldn't even kill them properly. If I could move, I'd pat myself on the back. Yeah. That'll show him.
Sloane must feel like a fucking idiot to have told me to bide my time and listen to that piece of shit. I'd much rather have been that pack leader and staved off betrayals from the beginning than blown every chance I had to get ahead. Even slitting someone's throat that first night on watch would have gone better than what actually happened.
All I wanted was to make a name for myself in this arena. All I've done, on the other hand, is be absolutely forgettable. If I'm to be remembered, it will be as the girl who was pushed down a ravine. A side effect of another, more remarkable tribute. Remembered for something other than my own actions.
Amidst my own stupidity and the frustration of everything since I've gotten here, that stings worse. No, glory isn't why I volunteered. But this has to be worth something.
I can't die as a nobody. I can't.
If I'd gone quickly, been stabbed in the back during the Bloodbath, Deianira would still remember me for who I was in Four— an authoritative Peacekeeper, a serious leader, a loyal partner. If she's watching, and she most certainly is, then if I go now her last memory will be of me, broken and pathetic as a result of her own meddling.
I clench my hands. The caked blood cracks again. I spare a few drops of my precious water just to rub the gore from my hands.
I'm better than that. Better than what anyone here thinks of me.
But I'm running out of time to prove it.
With nowhere else to take me, my brain returns to Deianira.
If Roma's dead, and she should be, they've likely held interviews already. If asked, would Dei agree to an interview? Would she have had anything good to say?
What she did to me isn't nearly as pathetic as the fact I'm still thinking about her, and I'm likely going to die doing it. If my broken insides don't kill me, the infections I'm almost certainly developing will. And that's only if I don't get mauled by some mutt the Gamemakers will probably send in soon to finally finish me off.
I wouldn't find me worth watching, if I were at home. But the fact they haven't pushed me out of this ravine yet means something at least moderately interesting must be happening aboveground. Not to mention, the first few days of these Games went far more quickly than normal. Perhaps I'm playing my own role in slowing things down.
Still, there's only so much time I have left. I need this pack off my back, now.
I move in shifts. A few inches, then I rest. A few more. It gets easier as I learn to trust my body. My back isn't broken, by some miracle. As sore as I am, moving won't kill me.
The worst part comes when my bag slides under my arm. The bone there is almost definitely out the other side of the skin. When the fabric slides against it, my screams split the canyon walls.
Shaking, straining, sweat slicking down my forehead, I push the bag further until, at least, it's out from underneath me. As I gasp for breath, staring up unfocused into the sky, a cannon bursts.
How many is that? Seven left now? Six? It's pathetic, really, how long I've lasted doing absolutely fuck all. It's nowhere near the conquest I was intending when we launched.
I give myself two minutes to calm my heart rate, then try to tug open my bag. But the zipper won't budge. Not from this angle. I'll have to sit up.
It's been days since I've tried. I had almost no leverage with that bag under me, no grip on the ground to use, and my arms are nearly useless. I dig my elbows into the rock.
Up, I plead with myself. Get up.
I can't. I can't. My elbows push against the rock helplessly. My eyes burn until tears split my vision. Sobs wrack my body.
I can't do this. I can't do this.
With a gasp, I fall back against the rock. I'm dizzy from exertion. I find myself pleading with the sky, but not towards any deity. Towards my mentors. My sponsors. I must have someone.
But nothing comes.
I've been down in this ravine for days, with no sponsor gift. Despondency takes over me. I really am going to die here. This fucking arena is my final resting place.
And then the fury takes over, burning my tears away. Sloane has had every fucking opportunity to give me water, food, anything to show she's still looking out for me. And what did she send me? Nothing. Fuck all. Even if she and Maverick are pooling their resources into that snake Carrack, if she actually gave a shit, she could have sent me something small, even as a formality
She doesn't care if I live or die. She and fucking Deianira don't give a shit about my life anymore.
For fuck's sake, Dei didn't even come in to say goodbye.
Survival is now no longer for my own sake. It is for vengeance; it rises out of retribution. I push myself back to my elbows, my lips splitting as I force myself upwards. The pain is nothing compared to the rushing in my ears, the pressure in my head so loud it's almost deafening.
Fuck Sloane. Fuck Maverick. Fuck Carrack and Nessim and everyone in that fucking alliance who thought I was fucking worthless.
And if they haven't killed you for rigging that fucking Reaping— fuck you too, Dei. You deserve all of this and more.
I gasp for air at the top, my shoulders slouching forward. The simple fact that they can come forward tells me all I need to know.
I'm seated. I'm upright.
Then I vomit, sick from the effort and exertion, over my right side. I choke, spitting blood and bile onto the rocks.
But I don't lie back down. If I do, I know I won't be able to get back up.
I tug the pack towards me. The zipper gives. I take slow bites from the jerky I've left at the top, knowing better than to try to pull open a can right now. I'm so exhausted my arms are shaking, but I'm upright. Slowly, I push myself back until I'm leaning against the rock wall. My lungs pierce with every breath, but the pain reminds me of one thing:
I'm alive.
I'm not out of this yet.
Right before the anthem, a second cannon fires.
It's Atlas and Arminia in the sky. The Ones, gone for good.
Carrack must still be out there. Nessim, too. I know I was unconscious for a good chunk of the second and third days, but I can't have missed that many cannons.
Something doesn't sit right with me, though, and I struggle through my discomfort until I realize that the Ones must have died from whatever inevitable Career split our alliance had. Carrack undoubtedly sided with Nessim. The Ones, naturally, stayed loyal to each other.
Technically, I survived the split. But at what cost? I've accomplished next to nothing in this arena. Gutting Roma was the only significant thing I've done besides simply not dying.
Some frustration focuses me, but I have to be careful. My being alive means I haven't fucked up enough yet to die, and I'd like to keep things that way. I need a plan.
Unfortunately, most plans are reliant on me having four functional limbs, and as of this moment, I've got about half of one doing what it's supposed to do.
It's fine. I'll figure something out. There has to be a way to survive this. If Nessim and Carrack are left, and whatever outliers, I just have to be dependent on them killing each other, first. I've already proven I can outlast the majority of these tributes. If I've made it this far, why can't I outlast a few more?
I shift against the wall. I still can't put any weight on either of my legs. I know exactly where to go to come out of this ravine, but even if it were flat I doubt I'd even have the strength to crawl it. In reality, there's portions that I need to climb. And I simply can't do that with one half-functional arm.
As the night extends, my true situation sets in. Try as I might, I can't force myself to heal. I can't force myself to climb out of this ravine.
Which means my only chance is if the Gamemakers decide to drive the others to me.
I'm dozing off right as the rain begins to fall.
It's soft on my cheeks, light against my nose. Water slicks against my skin and dampens my stuffy clothing.
It's a relief, really. The last time I saw water, I was home. Or the closest thing to it, I guess. At least in Four, I had a squadron of Peacekeepers. In the Capitol orphanage, there were only stragglers. In the Tribute Center, we were simply brought together by fate and circumstance.
Here, it's just me. As barren as it is, this ravine has been my home for the past week. I can't help but feel connected to it.
Above, there's a rumbling of thunder. The sky flashes. Water pools at my feet, then rises to my wrists.
When it reaches my ribs, I finally realize what's happening.
I wish I could say I didn't panic. My chest thickens, though, like it's my lungs filling with water and not just the bottom of the ravine. I force myself to think.
Maybe they're not being driven to me. Maybe I'm being driven to them.
That then begs the question of whether I can swim. I can float, surely. Do I have the strength, though, to keep my head afloat?
Whether or not I think I can, I have to.
The water rises slowly, giving me plenty of time to painstakingly pack my bag and hitch it along my back. I take deep breaths, or as deep as they can be. Survive. Survive.
As the hours pass, I rise.
Past the bottom of the ravine, past the rocks I leaned against. Quickly exhausted, I cling to the wall. I lift past where Nessim dragged me to the edge of the rocks. I lift past where I killed Roma.
I can think of nothing but the agony in my limbs, first from shattered bones, then from burning fatigue. It takes every ounce of willpower to keep my head above water. Whenever I start to sink, I remember that Sloane is watching me from the comfort of her mentor suite. That Carrack and Nessim, the bastards, are still alive out there.
That Deianira is the reason I'm here, and she cannot be the reason that I die.
As the sun rises, I heave myself up to the top of the canyon. The water has stopped rising and now rushes behind me, nearly sweeping my legs away. Panting, I lay against the rock surface.
In between my gasps for breath, there's another cannon.
We have to be at the end. If we're not at the end, we're close. Is there any chance that Carrack or Nessim have already finished each other off?
Genuinely, I don't know how I'm going to kill again. It took everything in me just to make it here. My sword is still with me, but how am I going to brandish it?
In between the sheets of now heavy rain, a form appears in the distance, stepping closer as every second passes.
It's not courage that grips me. It's fear, because I recognize that posture, know that if given the chance, Nessim will slaughter me. And I will hardly be able to lift a finger to stop him.
Before I can even begin to manifest that he doesn't see me, he calls my name.
I try to push myself up, but I'm far too weak. At the slightest exertion, I collapse back against the rock.
He's on me in seconds. "Not a fucking chance," Nessim says, and plunges his spear through the center of my back.
My body feels like it splits open. I can't waste energy screaming, can't give him the satisfaction, but I'm so worn down that it happens anyways. When he tugs his weapon out, my body is wrapped around it so tightly that it jerks me sideways against the edge of the water.
Momentum carries me onto my back. I lie and plead that my pack staunches some of the bleeding, but I know better than to be so optimistic.
When has that ever helped me? I forced myself to drag myself out of that ravine, only to be forced to watch as Carrack and Nessim kill each other for the chance to be victorious. Because of course it's Carrack who remains, destined to duel against the leader who took him in, who let him slink around even though he knew Carrack was only trying to use him.
My vision bends. I tilt my head, watching the boys move closer as the floodwaters rage at either end of the plateau.
If the sun is rising, it's blotted out by the gray of the storm, suffocating the sky.
Their figures blur. Even as the water drives them closer, I can't discern the words they're tossing back and forth like knives or narrow spears. Rain presses into my eyes and I cough, spitting blood into the puddles near my chest.
Carrack screams, his voice closer to me than I'm prepared to register. Black presses against the edges of my vision. Carrack lashes out as he buckles, driving his sword against Nessim's abdomen.
Instinctively, Nessim pulls away. His foot digs against the broken bone on the outside of my arm. As agony darkens my vision, Nessim loses his footing.
Amidst the roaring of the water, I almost miss the splash of his body as he's ripped away.
Carrack sinks to the ground. I close my eyes.
One cannon fires. I don't even have the energy to wish it was my own before the arena goes dark.
There's a humming in my ears.
My eyelids are impossibly heavy, weighed down from fatigue that feels far too potent to be natural. I'm too afraid to move my limbs, expecting agony at the slightest shifting.
"Julius. Hey, Julius."
But if I hear my name, I must be somewhere else, as impossible as that is.
I don't open my eyes. I stay still, even as she calls my name softly, until her voice fades and, again, exhaustion overcomes me.
The second time I come to, I can't feign unconsciousness.
A needle presses into my wrist. I try to tug away only to realize I can't. Shackles hold me rigid; I can only watch as my blood is drawn, almost forcibly.
"Hey," a nurse says. "You're awake."
I don't say anything. My eyes burn. I watch the ceiling until he leaves me alone.
As the sharpness fades, I realize I prefer the pain to being this numb.
The third time I wake up, they force me to eat.
Not that I don't want to. I simply don't trust my body to function the way it used to. But miraculously, my shattered legs are salvaged. My arm bears no signs that it was ever broken. When I sit up, there's no pain along my spine. Only the soreness that comes with underuse.
The fact I am in one piece— no, better yet, entirely physically healed— means I've won. So why do I feel no pride in it?
I take small bites of toast and applesauce, finding that even the smallest amounts are a chore to get down. Every time I swallow, I expect to taste blood.
"How is your pain?" another nurse asks, when he takes away my discarded dishes.
I shrug. Externally, I feel heavy but pain-free. It's my mind that prods at me, desperate to find some feeling in this emptiness.
Who am I, when everything else is stripped from me? When there's no one around me, no arena or District keeping me in its context, no role to fill outside of someone simply being cared for?
I am no conqueror. I am no champion. I simply died the slowest.
The only thing I can cling to that makes my time in that arena feel a hair less meaningless is Roma. Roma is dead because of me. As terrible as that sounds, it must be worth something. It means I did something to try to earn that victory.
I know the Capitol can't be happy that I was their Victor. Maybe it's the doctors, gossiping about it in low tones while I'm dozing, that tip me off. Or maybe it's Sloane, who comes into my room and immediately tells me, "The Capitol isn't happy you're their Victor."
"Tough shit," I tell her.
"Genuinely," she tells me, "I don't understand how you managed to get zero fucking kills during your entire stint in the arena."
Apparently she truly is as brain-dead as she looks. "Zero kills? I got Roma."
"No. Nessim did."
"Sloane."
"You gutted her. He slit her throat to finish her off."
I can only stare at her, my vision swirling. My mouth feels as dry as it did in that arena, only there's no sand to dust my tongue. Only disbelief.
"Your interview is tomorrow," she says, as she steps out of the room. "I'd suggest getting used to moving around if you want to have any chance of at least looking like a winner."
Zepherin Zaryanova's teeth are even brighter than the stage lights.
I find myself fixated on them while I mindlessly answer questions about my grit, my tenacity, and any other synonym they want to use to spin my victory into something inspirational. Truly, I'd be surprised if I were even fooling Zepherin.
"So what's next for you?" Zepherin says finally, after nearly a half-hour of exhausting questions to which I offer only the most superficial of responses. "Back to Four, a new home in Victor's Village… any initial plans for your return?"
"To be honest, I haven't thought too much about it," I tell them. "There's been so much to adjust to since coming out of that arena, and I've been so busy enjoying the celebrations here. I suspect I'll just have to take it day by day."
When Zepherin stands, pulling my hand over my head in a triumphant bow, my lips stretch so wide I fear they'll tear. No doubt my grin looks fiendish. But I maintain it until the cameras stop, and the stage goes dark.
For the entirety of the train ride back to Four, my stomach is in stitches.
Comparing my headspace on the trip on this same train towards the Capitol just weeks ago is just asking to start reeling. So I watch the windows as the country rushes by: a landscape coated in pale gold, a blur of an extended in-between. How fitting for the trip between one former home to another to feel so volatile. There's nothing I can do, though, but watch it fade away.
My homecoming celebration is decidedly subdued, and I don't care in the slightest.
Of course, they wanted Carrack. He gave them a show. He gave them something, and that doesn't even take into account the fact that he's the one between the both of us who is actually from here.
It may not be public knowledge in the Capitol or the other Districts, but I get the sense a majority of the people passing me along the District streets know by now that I was never from Four. I came from the Capitol, an orphan tossed aside by the city for years until I was recruited to police the Districts. Well, recruited to train. I earned my way into the force, earned my way into Four alongside Deianira. But nobody cares about her role in this.
There was a time that might have pissed me off. But frankly, I've had enough of Deianira to last me a lifetime.
I ultimately tell her as much when, four days after my return, she knocks on my door.
I don't let her in. "What do you want?"
"To talk."
"What makes you think I want anything to do with you?"
"Look, I just want to explain—"
"Don't," I say sharply. "Don't."
Those first few days in the Capitol, I would have given anything to pick Deianira's brain. I stayed up at night rationalizing her choice. Of course, she never expected me to go into the Games; rigging that Reaping, however the fuck she managed it, was only ever intended to send a message. What that message was is still up for debate. She'd always seemed content as my second-in-command, but how honest was that contentment? Or did it even have anything at all to do with our Peacekeeper hierarchy? She knew I had never understood her draw to me, the fact she'd claim she loved me when she had no reason to. Perhaps, in some twisted way, she was trying to help me. I found I could lie awake for hours making up concepts of her desiring power, caring for me, or some combination of the two, and it would never feel like I covered any ground.
Ultimately, it doesn't matter. My volunteering turned whatever idea she had on its head. Now, if I'm proud of winning for any reason, it's because, in however small a way I did it, I fucked her over.
There was a time I would have cared about learning the truth. Now, I only want her gone.
"I don't care, Deianira," I tell her. "Whatever you did, it was fucking stupid. You are lucky to even be alive. Do you understand?"
"Jules—"
I nearly see red. "Don't call me that. You don't have the right anymore."
Slack-jawed, Deianira watches me from where she stands, dirtying my welcome mat.
"I don't care why you rigged it. I do not care how. What I do care about is that you get the fuck off my porch, and never fucking talk to me again."
Her face falls. "I'm sorry, Julius."
"I don't care," I maintain. "Goodbye, Deianira."
She knows better than to argue any further. She watches me a second longer, then turns and steps quickly from my doorstep.
Over the next few weeks, I feel decidedly directionless.
Life as a Victor is far more depressing than it's made out to be, especially when there's nobody to care for you. I have no family here, no friends. As for my fellow Victors, I'd rather be down in that ravine again than attempt to make nice with Sloane.
If I had earned my victory, truly earned it, perhaps I'd feel more pride in my newly luxurious surroundings. This is how I always imagined I should have lived growing up. Now that I have the space and the amenities to exist comfortably, it feels wrong, somehow.
I feel like a prisoner in my own home. In the heights of my arrogance, I dreamed of conquering the arena, then the Capitol. I couldn't even accomplish the first.
I'm only alive because of Capitol intervention. Turning on them now seems even stupider than turning on the Twos. It's the Capitol that brought me out of that ravine, brought me to a finale I should never have survived. It's the Capitol that gave me this house. Not that it really counts as a home.
The closest thing to home for a long time was Deianira. Then it was the arena, as irrational as that may have been. Now both are gone. If I had the chance, I'd escape back to the Capitol, live out my Victorship in superficial splendor, frequenting high-end clubs and celebrities' birthday parties. But, at the President's request, I am to remain a citizen of Four. Remain, as if I ever truly was one.
Damage control, Sloane had called it. Whose damage that is still remains to be seen.
It takes me two months to decide I'm done suffocating myself. To lift my head above the water.
The barracks in the Peacekeeper quarters still reek of mildew. There's hardly enough space to stretch my arms. But it's familiar. I settle back into my role more naturally than I could have ever imagined.
Nobody questions my reappearance. The only question I'm asked is whether I'd like to see when the cadet finishes cropping my hair.
I examine my reflection, grimly pleased at the sharpness in my gaze. I look, at long last, like I'm in the right place.
When I ask about Deianira, more as a formality than anything, nobody seems to know where she's gone. Either she was killed or reassigned. The latter is far more likely, but I find that neither option makes me feel any different. She's gone from my life, and as bittersweet as it feels, I'm better off for it.
Because I'm not truly alone without her. Home isn't just a place, but the people, too. As insignificant as it seems at first, compared to my arrogant notions of leading a group of trained killers to accomplish my own victory, my squadron becomes my family.
It's not perfect, being back where I began, but I live for the responsibility, the power. Every year, I'll be able to return to the Capitol for a few short weeks during the Games. In between those visits, I still have people like me— former Capitolites lost in the Districts, with nowhere to call home but each other.
During the day we train and patrol the District. In the evenings, we play cards, share stories, drink until we can't walk straight. On our few days off, I head out into the hills or the trees beyond the District, existing outside of anyone's control.
On a stormy Saturday, I find myself at the docks. Seawater laps against the wood, and I only hesitate a moment before I dive under the waves.
The water rushes around my ears. I break the ocean's surface, my eyes seeking the sky as drops like skipping stones rain from above.
In the water, I feel weightless. Under the sky, my soul is suspended.
If I belong anywhere, it is here, in this time, in this place.