Navarro Lune, 12
District 8 Male
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and it will be glorious.
He has a new person to add to his hit list. Hell, he'll kill her in the morning if he can.
There is still a bit of her blood on one of his knuckles. He wouldn't wash it off even if he could.
Navarro has been confined to his bedroom until morning comes. As far as he can tell, the Capitolites are afraid he'll stab one of his mentors or something. He wishes that they knew he doesn't just attack people because he can. He's no psychopath; he only attacks when he has a good reason to.
Like, take Ainsley Platte for example. She may have blamed him for everything, but she should have never mouthed to him like she did. He absolutely had a reason to attack her. No one tries to break down Navarro Lune and gets away with it. Sure, Navarro threw the first punch, but still Ainsley fought back.
It was…almost exhilarating. Navarro just can't wait for the morning, when he can kill whoever he wants and no one will try to stop him. The Games have no rules; he can do anything and won't be punished. The exhilaration will never have to end; the adrenaline never has ebb. He can just kill and kill and kill and nothing can ever stop him.
He'll be on top of the world. A beacon to high to tear down. God, it's going to be glorious.
Maybe once he does this, and drags in so much money, his mother will pay attention to him. How could she ever ignore him after everything he could do? After the lives he could end, the blood he could shed, the games he could win? She would have to pay attention to him.
Navarro fidgets with the hem of his shirt and stands up. This is going to be the longest night of his life—there are less than twelve hours until the Games start, and every minute before then feels like torture.
But every second that the clock ticks is one second less until they begin. Until the gong rings and everyone bursts off of their pedestals and Navarro can kill until the cows come home.
He wonders if he can set a record for the quickest Games ever.
He'll admit; he's never paid much attention to the Games. The bloodshed is the biggest (and only) draw, so he watches the fights when the recaps come out and not much else. He doesn't care for the tributes; they're faceless, mindless drones who exist to die. They're so far beneath him that he doesn't even notice them. But when he watched Arthur Singlewave bash the head of Warren Oto in…now that's good cinema. Much better than the stuff his mother watches.
Navarro stalks over to the bookshelf and starts reading the spines. Unsurprisingly, each book is either about the Capitol or the Games. Eventually he picks up one that boasts a summary of every Games to date—despite the fact that it says Hestia Olympia is the most recent Victor.
As it turns out, the shortest Games ever recorded last four hours, thirty-seven minutes and twenty-eight seconds. From the moment the gong rang to the last cannon firing.
Surely Navarro can best that. Only twenty-three people to kill in a few hours. If there are others joining in the fun—which there absolutely will be—it can absolutely be achieved, can't it? It might take some effort, but he has never half-assed anything.
Navarro snaps the book shut and throws it at the wall. It thuds to the ground, but he doesn't bother to pick it up. Really, he wants to go see Wonder. He misses having someone to control, someone who was afraid of him. Travis had always filled that role for him. Occasionally he'd take someone else with him, but Travis was just so much fun.
Wonder could be like that. Of course, until Navarro inevitably kills him. He wouldn't mind having a terrified lackey to follow him around and do his biding tomorrow.
But he had to go scare Wonder off. However, he does have to admit that it was quite fun to watch Wonder panic—it isn't something Travis or any of his other slaves would do, which just doubles the fun. If he could figure out how to trigger it…
He'll simply have to find some way to force Wonder to stay with him. He won't have a gun to hold up to his head, which is sincerely unfortunate. But there are other ways of making someone stay. Navarro knows that better than anyone.
He flops down on the bed and contemplates home. Perhaps his mother is lonely in her mansion, with no one but the late-payers in their cells to keep her company. He wonders what she'll do with Travis if he doesn't come home.
He sits up suddenly and shakes his head. He will come home. There is no doubt about it—Navarro will come home. No matter how he does it, how many people he kills, how much blood he sheds, he will come home.
After all, he is a Lune, and Lunes don't lose. They come out on top, no matter what.
Navarro will certainly be no different.
Calista Abbey, 18
District 1 Female
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and it will be necessary.
It's an awful, necessary evil. Perhaps it scares her. Perhaps it doesn't. She isn't quite sure anymore.
Divinity is of little help—she always seems preoccupied by something or another, and occasionally outright refuses to discuss strategies with Calista. Thus, the responsibility falls to Neapolitan alone, which no one is very happy with. However, Calista would rather share a mentor with Shad than have none at all.
Speaking of Shad, he ran off to his room before he could even eat dinner. Calista would like to think he's mad that her interview went better than his, but even she has to admit that Shad is more attractive than she is.
"Neapolitan?" Calista says as she pushes food around her plate. "Can I ask you something?"
Neapolitan looks up from his food. "…yes?"
Calista looks down and heaves a sigh. "I don't normally like asking for help…" She casts a pointed glare at Divinity before she continues. "…but can you give me some tips? You know, for, like, peace of mind?"
Neapolitan swallows and says, "Of course. I'm always happy to help out a tribute."
Calista relaxes her shoulders. It feels good to know that someone is backing her. The thought makes her toss another glare in Divinity's direction.
Still, tomorrow nags at her. The morning will come, and it will come all too fast. Before she knows it, the sun will be rising and she will be boarding a hovercraft. Before she knows it, the gong will be ringing in her ears and she will have to fight. She will have kill.
It remains an evil, but a necessary one.
She doesn't feel prepared. She always thought she was—if she wasn't, why would she ever have volunteered? Why would she have ever volunteered, even after coming in seventh place, if she didn't think she was prepared?
Because, for all she spouts about spite, about her father, about everything, Calista Abbey does not want to die. She has never, not even in her darkest hours, in the moments when she was at her lowest, wanted to die.
She doesn't want to die.
Which just means she'll have to try even harder to best her opponents, like she once did at the Academy. She was never supposed to be good enough, but everything is riding on that—Calista must be good enough.
Calista stands up suddenly and says, "Can we talk, like, now? While I'm thinking about it?"
She'll be thinking about it for the rest of her damn life, no matter how long it lasts. But Neapolitan doesn't need to know that.
"Getting cold feet, are you?" Neapolitan asks in a solemn voice as he follows her onto the balcony.
Calista doesn't reply. She thinks too highly of herself to ever admit it.
"I've seen it all before," Neapolitan says in a small voice. "Such confidence…such eventual loss. And…well, you know."
He rests his hands on the railing and looks down. The streets are filled with Capitolite partygoers, oblivious to their conversation. Oblivious to everything, really.
She does know. She does know what confidence could bring, and she'd never admit it. She'd never admit that she's afraid to die.
Still, she remains silent. She instead leans against the railing as well, looking down upon the people below her, the people celebrating what she's about to do. What she's about to kill.
"How do you it?" she suddenly blurts out.
Neapolitan looks at her, startled. "Do what?"
"How do you take a life?"
Neapolitan appears almost surprised by her question. After a few moments, he looks up and shrugs. "Some people just can't. Some people never come back from it. Some people do it easily, sometimes too easily." He levels his eyes with Calista's. "When the time comes, you'll know."
"What if I can't?" Calista asks, worry beginning to seep into her voice. "What if I can't take someone's life?"
Longs days in the Academy come rushing back to her in an endless array of memories. The voices of her teachers and trainers telling her to discount the lives of her opponents, to view them as nothing, nothing but sheep to be slaughtered. Their voices would drone on and on and on, reminding her that the bloodshed is nothing. The trail of corpses she will leave on the path that takes her to Victory is nothing. A trivial matter, they'd always say. Hardly even something to note, to worry about. As if they knew what it felt like. As if they had killed.
She never thought about the fact that there is no going back. She is far, far past the point of no return, and now she has to live with it—or die with it.
"If you can't, you can't," Neapolitan replies. He looks back to the seemingly endless sea of buildings and adds, "I don't think you have to worry about that, Calista. I've watched you fight. I could never figure out why you didn't place higher on the scoreboard."
Seventh place. It still bothers Calista, that she came in so low after everything she'd done. Everything she'd worked for, everything she'd ever fought for, only for it all to come crashing down around her. She will never forget that feeling—that feeling of falling, of falling with no way to stop herself. Of plummeting endlessly back to Panem, the body of her high horse falling beside her. Of being…nothing.
Well, she's here now, instead of Silvera Prowess. And she is not willing to throw it away to—to—to these ridiculous thoughts! She's tired, so tired, of never being good enough.
Calista Abbey is good enough, damnit! She's more than good enough. She's here, and that should be plenty.
"Sometimes…" she starts. "Sometimes we don't get what we want. I would think you'd know that by now."
"Do I ever," Neapolitan says quietly. "So, you wanted tips?"
Scoria Primer, 18
District 2 Female
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and it will be unavoidable. It's always unavoidable, no matter who it is. A faceless criminal. A masked soldier. A fellow tribute.
Favio.
Favio.
Scoria has kept him out of her mind for as long as she physically could. She doesn't need anything to distract her from her ultimate goal—revenge.
Yet, Favio haunts her. He always has. Really, he always will. He was her first (and last) love. The first person to ever make her feel something special. The first person to try, to stick by her side even when she yelled at him to leave her away. The first person to even bother.
He was her first (and never last) kill. The first life she ended. The first time she ever truly felt like she lost.
She'll never make the same mistake again.
Maybe she won't even live to consider it. Either way, whether she lives or dies, she just wants revenge. She wins, she returns to District 2 and puts an end to her father's tyranny. She dies, she spends all of eternity with Favio. She can feel alive even in death.
Scoria slowly gets to her feet and pushes in her chair. Hestia and Will have been arguing with each other for the past twenty minutes, their escort has gone out partying and Wonder has already disappeared into the bathroom. It's not like anything she does will matter to them anyways—sure, Hestia has been all over her, the cold Career girl with, seemingly, everything going for her—but what difference does it make? Wonder will probably be dead by sundown tomorrow, and Scoria will already have another kill under her belt.
She heads out onto the balcony. The sun barely peeks over the horizon in the distance, leaving only a miniscule sliver or light bathing the Capitol. She tiredly leans on the railing, looking out over the Capitol, wishing all of this was over already.
That was something she could never understand about her peers; somehow, they relished in bloodshed. Some found a sick sort of beauty in it. Others just loved the sight of the spilt crimson of their opponents.
It was their favorite part of the Games. They would watch to see the fighting, the gruesome death, the grisly remains. Scoria was always more interested in the strategy, the mistakes.
She used to watch the old Games. Any Games where there were Careers, she had watched at one point or another. She knew what it looked like to lose. She knew what they always did to lose—
They got cocky. They underestimated their opponents. They were too trusting. They weren't trusting enough. They took too long. They weren't interesting enough. They got boring. They weren't strong enough. They were too strong. They weren't pretty enough. They were too crazy. They weren't crazy enough.
There was no winning with the Capitol. Scoria had come to that conclusion long ago. After all, one can only watch so many fantastically skilled Careers fall before they start to notice a pattern, and Scoria noticed it long before now.
She looks back into the apartment and finds that Will and Hestia have disappeared. With one last glance to the Capitol, she returns inside and heads toward the T.V.
She grabs the remote and turns it on, quietly perching on the edge of the couch. She runs her hand through her hair, trying to pull the gel out of it as she scrolls through the seemingly-endless catalogue of movies on the T.V.
At last she finds what she's looking for. Every single Games in history has been recorded, and they all lie here, right at her fingertips. Back home, she only had access to the now-obsolete DVDs on them, which would scratch and become unwatchable.
After a few minutes, she decides to watch Will's Games. She's only seen them once, and what little she remembers isn't good enough for her.
Maybe it will take her mind of everything. She can stop thinking about her own mistakes if she nitpicks someone else's.
The lineup from the One-Hundredth, Thirty-Third Games was fairly normal; two prized, beautiful killers from District 1. A pair of fishermen from District 4, skilled with their tridents and nets. A volunteer from District 7, a girl who claimed to be getting money for a sick sibling. The two from District 11 were distant cousins, they said.
And then was Will. No one back home likes Will—he stole victory from their golden girl, Alana van Stelen. Scoria doesn't particularly care for Alana van Stelen—so perfect, everyone would always say. All Scoria could think was If she was so perfect, why didn't she win?
But Will was their sacrificial lamb. He existed to die.
The Bloodbath is uneventful, at least to Scoria. The girl from District 1, Shine Hartley, comes dangerously close to losing her head to the volunteer from 7. Instead, the girl from 7 who was there for a noble cause ends up with a knife in between her eyes.
The cousins from 11 die within minutes of each other on Day 3, which happens to be the day the Career Pack fractures. Tensions had been high leading up to that, which left Shine and her partner dead on the ground, and the fishermen from 4 retreating into the distance. Will attempts to run away from with them, but Alana grips his wrist tightly and keeps him in place.
Scoria picks up the remote and starts to fast forward. She stops at the Final Eight, when the boy from 6 accidentally starts a fire. The arena, which was almost entirely wood, goes up in seconds. He dies to it easily and smoke inhalation claims the boy from 4 and the girl from 9.
Alana and Will are forced to abandon the Cornucopia and all of the supplies inside. They leave with nothing but a few weapons and a bag of food, which Alana claims almost immediately. When Will protests, she twirls a knife through her fingers and says, "Remember, Slade. Who here is going to be the Victor? You?"
"No," Will says in a quiet, noncommittal voice.
"That's right," Alana says triumphantly, and the pair go on their way.
Scoria fast forwards some more, stopping only at the beginning of the finale, a four-way fight between Will, Alana, the girl from 4 and the girl from 3.
All four are chased onto the edge of a cliff by the unabated flames. Gidget Grace, the girl from 3, is unceremoniously pushed off into the roaring fire below. Alana stands victorious on the edge of the cliff, hands on her hips, knives in both palms.
"Come on, 4. Show me what you're made of," she taunts.
She sounds mighty confident for someone standing on a cliffside, Scoria thinks, shaking her head. It always comes back to cockiness.
The girl in question, named Finley Jackson, rushes Alana. They grapple on the edge for a few minutes before Will finally pulls Finley off and slits her throat. He tiredly tosses her sputtering body aside and makes a beeline for Alana.
"Nice going, jackass," Alana says as Finley's cannon fires. She looks at him for a long moment.
At the same time, they lift knives and lob them at each other. Will's knife slams in Alana's chest with enough force to knock her over, while hers digs into Will's shoulder.
"What the fuck, Slade?" Alana shouts, trying in vain to regain her footing. "You're supposed to—to—to die! To me! I'm supposed to be the Victor!"
Will stumbles forward, holding onto his shoulder. "That's the funny thing about the Games. They never go how you expect them to."
And then he shoves her off of the cliff.
"Turn that shit off!" Will suddenly yells from the doorway to his bedroom. "What the fuck, Scoria? Have you no—no decency?" His face is pale and one of his eyes is twitching.
Scoria quietly presses the power button the remote. "I didn't know you could hear it."
"It's just…just common courtesy, Scoria. Who raised you?" Will says, his shoulders relaxing.
Scoria doesn't answer. "It was impressive, at the very least."
"What? That I stabbed her? That's nothing, Scoria," Will replies. "God, if you think that's impressive, you're going to be slaughtered in the morning."
Scoria glares at him and jumps to her feet. "I'm going to go home, Slade. Mark. My. Words."
She will be winning. She will find a way to do everything right, to be interesting, and strong, and pretty, and sane, and everything that one has to do to win. She will do it all, and she will exact her revenge, no matter what Will or anyone else says.
Because when the unforgiving metal of a knife meets the warmth of human flesh, Scoria will be the one holding the handle.
Sterne Colvin, 14
District 5 Male
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and it may very well be his.
He can't get that stupid notebook page out of his head. His world is slowly falling to pieces around him, yet the only thing he can think about is his stupid name on that stupid page in that stupid notebook. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
Sterne will not lie—he can't lie, not about this. He can't stop himself from thinking about it:
He is going to die.
It was something he always knew, at least somewhat. He has always known that it was on the distant horizon, something just cowering in the background of his life, always just beyond reach. He had had so many brushes with it, so many careful pass-bys, but he had never even noticed. Never even taken notice of his awful mortality.
He's circling. Just going around and around and around and it never ends. It will never end.
It does end, he realizes. It does end. It ends when he dies, which could be so, so soon. Tomorrow morning. Less than twelve hours. A cold knife entering his heart, and then—black. Death. Whatever is beyond the curtain. There was once a belief that was a good place and a bad place when you die. Heaven and hell. Maybe that's what waiting for him. Or maybe it's just eternal black, no sense of anything, no consciousness at all.
"Sterne?" a voice says behind him, halting his mindless pacing in its tracks. "Are you alright?"
He has half a mind to snap at Ave, demand how she could ever think he was alright when he is on the cusp of ultimate destruction. He goes so far to whirl around, glare daggers at her, and open his mouth.
However, instead, he bursts into tears.
"I'm going to die!" he cries, balling his hands into fists, tears carefully making their descent down his cheeks. "I'm going to die, and you're asking me if—if—if I'm alright!"
Ave doesn't say anything for a long moment. At long last, she puts a hand on Sterne's shoulder and says, "You're going to be okay, Sterne."
"I'm sure that's what you tell to everyone," Sterne says through his tears. "And look where they ended up—in a grave, underground, dead. I don't want to be dead, Ave! There's so much I want to do, too much I want to do, to waste it all by dying in the Hunger Games!"
Sterne doesn't know what he wants to do. All he knows is that this far, far too soon for anyone to die. He hasn't had his first love, his first broken heart, his first job, his first home, his first anything, really. He hasn't had anything but a plethora of scrapes and broken bones, and that's no way to spend your life.
Ave purses her lips and hands Sterne a tissue. "Sterne, I know that you're struggling right now…" she pauses for a moment, as if uncertain of what to say or how to say it. "But you need to…get it together, you know? If you really don't want to die, then you need to act like it."
Sterne wipes away his tears and blows his nose. He doesn't meet Ave's eyes. "I don't know how to do that. I don't know how to do anything."
He has done his best to act nonchalant about all of this. No one needs to know that he is falling apart, and he doesn't even know why. He's never done anything like this—anything as high stakes as the Games. He has never had so much to lose. Well, he's not sure he's ever had anything to lose.
"I'm scared."
"I know," Ave says.
"I don't want to lose anything. I don't want to lose my allies, or my limbs, or my—life," Sterne continues, eyes trained on some unseen point in the distance.
Ave opens her mouth to reply, but before she can, the elevator doors open and Liesel stumbles out. Ave takes one look at her and says in her most-disapproving tone, "Liesel Leenheer, have you been drinking?"
"No!" Liesel answers quickly, standing up straighter. "No, I swear I haven't. I was…just with Tam."
"Mm-hmm, Tam the drunk." Ave crosses her arms and fixes Liesel with the look of a disappointed mother who caught her child drawing on the walls.
"You say that like it's a bad thing," Liesel says moodily, dropping onto the couch and throwing Ave a glare for good measure.
"It is a bad thing, Liesel. I'm sure Tam is a lovely person, but she's not the kind of person you want to consort with in the Games—"
"Maybe I don't care!" Liesel yells. "Maybe I don't care if Tam is a bad ally or not! Maybe it doesn't matter! Maybe I just want to feel alive in the last few days I spend in Panem!"
Ave seems momentarily taken-aback but powers on anyway. "Have you no drive to live, Liesel?"
"I've lived plenty," Liesel says coldly. With that, she sweeps away, stalking toward her bedroom with her head held high and her shoulders back.
She makes it to the doorway before Sterne stops her and calls to her, "How have you lived? What have you done?"
Liesel exhales angrily and whips around. "Look, kid, I'm not a virgin, I've had several lovely girlfriends, I've been cheated on, I've been drunk, I've been high. I've done the lot of it, so I figure I may as well die now."
"That doesn't really sound like living to me," Sterne says quietly.
He sees a vein pop in Liesel's neck. "Listen here, you little bitch, I've lived more than I need to. I've done so much more than you ever will, and I—I—I—" Liesel goes silent for a second. "I'm not afraid to die. I just don't want to die alone, got it?"
And then she's gone, the door to her room slammed in Sterne's face. Inside, something hits the ground, making Sterne flinch in surprise.
He glances at Ave, and then at her notebook on the table.
That's when Sterne realizes it:
He's not afraid of dying.
He's afraid of dying too soon.
Ashe Illyrian, 14
District 11 Female
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and it will be one of her allies.
Undoubtedly. Absolutely, unequivocally undoubtedly. Someone will die. Whether it be Eris, Ainsley, Lyndie, Lana or herself, someone will die.
Someone always has to die—and in order for Ashe to make it home, all of them have to. Twenty-three heads must roll. Twenty-three lives must be lost. Twenty-three innocent lives, the lives of those just trying to do the same thing…
Ashe shakes her head. She can't be thinking like this, not when the Games start in less than twelve hours. She can't think of the other tributes as human, as people to regarded as equal. If she does, she'll never be able to end their lives.
Or, at least, that's what she assumes. If someone burst into the bathroom right now and demanded she go outside and stab Quinn to death, she could never do it. But the Games change things; whether it be good or bad, the Games cause change.
She'd always been told that no one is ever the same after the Games: even a quick look at Brice and Meadow proves that well enough. A glance at Macy Barker's leg, at Arthur Singlewave's hand, at the endless Caps that therapists make off of their district's Victors.
She's heard that people leave a piece of themselves in that arena, next to their first kill. The first person that they spilt the blood of. The first grave they dug. The first family they caused to grieve.
Ashe reaches out and violently turns the water hotter. The sound of the water hitting the tiles are supposed to drown out her thoughts—but Ashe has never been good at shutting up her brain. Her thoughts circle around and around and around and never seem to come to a point. There's always been too much going on in her head, too many voices yelling and thinking and believing. There has always been so much happening for her to have peace.
And peace certainly will not happen with the Games so close. With, most likely, her death so close.
Ashe has thought of death. She has thought of it more than the average fourteen-year-old likely should. In the late hours of the night, when the stars twinkle outside her window and Stevie and Davis are fast asleep beside her, her mind wanders. It wanders to the deepest corners of her conscious and keeps her awake all night.
What happens when we die? She used to wonder as she started at the worn ceiling, wondering why her brain could never just be quiet. Does dying hurt? Will I ever know? Or will I just be dead?
She is, after all, just a kid. She doesn't want to die. There is so much she wants to do—she wants to change the world, to make someone's life better, to do something with her little time she exists in Panem.
She had always been told she was too smart, too smart for her own good, everyone would say.
"It will come back to bite you, one day," they'd always say. People on the street. Her teachers. Her parents, sometimes.
Intelligence us valued lowly in the Districts; intelligence leads to thought. Thought leads to discontent. Discontent leads to rebellion. Rebellion leads to the death of the innocent. Intelligence was only valued if it could be exploited.
Well, Ashe thought as she turned off the shower. Here I am! The world always told me I was so smart. Does none of that matter to you?
It doesn't matter, and she knows it. Oh, does she know it.
Ashe dresses quickly. She's so tired of being cooped up in this building. She's tired of feeling trapped.
The hems of her pajama pants are too long. They leave her tripping over them as she exits the bathroom. They stand as nothing but a reminder that she doesn't matter; one day, she will be nothing but the sound of a cannon and a face in the sky.
It scares her. It really does. The idea that she will be nothing, nothing but a fleeting memory for the people she once knew to grab onto until it eventually slips through their outstretched fingers. That she will be forgotten.
Her room is dark despite the bright Capitol parties that are pouring in through the window. Without bothering to turn on any lights, she crosses to the dresser and removes the notebook from the top of it.
It's not her token; it's far too large and far too dangerous for her to be allowed to take it into the arena. Besides, it's almost full anyway. She wouldn't want to ruin all of her thoughts, carefully laid out in a vomit of words.
She doesn't pick up the pencil. No, Ashe wants to keep this notebook pure. Whether she wins or loses, whether she dies or lives, she wants to notebook to never have a sign of the Games on it. No blood. No suffering. No slow descent into insanity. Every word it in belongs to an Ashe that lives in District 11; an Ashe that doesn't have to worry about tomorrow. An Ashe that's biggest problem is if Lucas has a crush on her or not.
She quietly pages through it, her eyes drifting over the pages as if reading the words of a ghost. She can put on a smile for her allies all she wants, but Ashe knows she isn't the same, and never will be. Whether her life lasts two weeks or twenty years.
Ashe isn't the same. She hasn't even ended a life, hasn't even entered the arena, but something has changed. Something has shifted that she knows she can never fix. It doesn't matter what happens tomorrow. Ashe has already let the Games change her, and there is no going back.
I met a girl named Kitty today…
There's a new stall at the farmers' market…
I cooked my first meal…
There's a new boy in my class…
Julia got engaged to the mayor's son…
I ran into a rabbit just now, by the creek…
Every note has no idea of what is coming. Every note is so meaningless, so inconsequential that Ashe can't even imagine writing them down. Every note is from an old Ashe; the Ashe she wishes she could still be. The Ashe she wants to fight for, to be again.
Ashe quietly shuts the notebook and drops it behind the dresser. If she comes back, she can retrieve it and take it home. If she doesn't…well, it's a treat for whoever occupies this year next year.
She moves instead to the window and peers down toward the street. Droves of tipsy Capitolites parade past the Tribute Center, celebrating the Games and all it entails. They hold lights and streamers and glowsticks, all done up in their ridiculous feathery outfits and updos as they party their way toward the morning.
She heaves a sigh and returns to the dresser. She is nothing but a betting number to them, and she can't imagine anyone is putting their Caps on her victory. There is nothing to note about her; nothing that makes you think "Victor" when you look at her.
But those people down there are celebrating her imminent demise.
And Ashe hates them for it.
Darwin Abner, 15
District 3 Male
Heads will roll come tomorrow morning.
Heads will roll, and he isn't prepared.
Darwin may as well be one of them; he's vulnerable, he's inexperienced, he's previously concussed and generally stupid. He isn't prepared for any of this.
This is a situation that Darwin cannot talk himself out of. Words don't cut like knives do—it doesn't matter if he can pick apart the self-esteem of his opponent if they're holding an axe to his chest.
He's so unprepared it's almost sad.
Of course, Darwin never thought it would be him. However, that's what everyone says about anything—whether it be winning a random contest or being drawn at the Reaping, everyone always says they never thought it would be them. That they thought it would be Cathy, who works at the grocers, or Frank, the mayor's son, or Jane or Alexander or Ethan or Jonathan.
Not him. Not Darwin. Never. Never him.
Except for the tiny fact that it was him; it was his name that was picked out of the bowl, and now, he'll die for it.
He shakes his head, hoping to clear these thoughts, and pushes open the door ahead of him. The wind on the roof whips wildly around him, blowing his hair into his eyes and batting his clothes around. It doesn't really bother him, though. He just quietly walks to the edge and looks out.
The Capitol is much nicer than District 3, he notes. District 3 is larger, with just as many tall buildings, but it's grittier, older, more dilapidated. There just isn't enough money for people to renovate. There's barely enough money for people to survive.
He wonders what it would be like, to live such a frivolous life. More Caps in the bank than you could ever count, expensive food and furnishings and clothing…it sounds like an excellent life to live. At least there would always be food on the table and clothing to wear. At least you'd be surrounded by the beauty and unbelievability of the Capitol.
Darwin has only begun to marvel at its endless magnificence when he notices that he isn't alone. Behind him, seated in the dark of the rooftop garden, sits seemingly another tribute. It's a larger tribute, which makes Darwin fear that it's a Career. He doesn't need to give someone like Shad or Scoria a reason to target him tomorrow.
"Um, hello?" he says after a moment, taking a step away from the railing.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd ever notice me," they say, getting to their feet.
After a moment, Darwin recognizes him as Larch Tyre, from District 6. He swallows hard and says, "What are you doing up here?"
"I could ask you the same thing."
Darwin sighs. "I came for the view. When I stand up here…it almost feels like the Games can't touch me."
Larch is quiet for a moment. "I don't feel the same way."
Darwin returns the railing, turning his back to Larch. "Did you come for the garden?"
"Yes." Larch suddenly appears beside Darwin, eyes trained on some unseen point in the distance. "The greenery is…comforting."
Darwin shifts his position so he stands a few inches further from Larch. "There isn't a lot of greenery in District 6, is there?"
"No," Larch answers. "There isn't in 3, either."
Darwin purses his lips and looks down. "I know we just met, and we're probably going to stab each other in the morning but…do you really think you've got a chance? Or were you just saying that for the cameras?"
"I think I have a chance," Larch says tartly. "I'm strong, I'm…not unintelligent, I'm conventionally attractive."
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"The Capitolites think with their dicks, not their brains," Larch says, his voice surprisingly serious.
Darwin cracks a smile and looks down. "So…do you think you could win?"
"I'm…not entirely sure," Larch admits. "All I know is that I don't want to follow my family into the dark."
"Your whole family is dead, right?" Darwin asks.
"Yes."
"How did it happen?" Darwin asks, his curiosity getting the better of him. "You said your brother died to a machine in a factory, but what about your parents? Oh, wait, did you have any other siblings? Did they all die at once? Was it sickness or was it sudden or—"
"They simply died," Larch says harshly. "That's all there is to it, and if you're going to harass me about it, I'm going to go back inside."
Darwin looks down. "My apologies. Sometimes I…kinda forget where I am."
"Yes. Clearly."
"Um," Darwin says. "Can I ask you a question?"
Larch sighs. "Yes."
"Would you have any interest in joining my alliance? I'm sure Mercury and Sterne wouldn't care, and I can just ask them if they do…"
Darwin trails off, a realization hitting him. He won't get the chance to ask Mercury and Sterne if they're okay with allying with Larch or not. For all he knows, Sterne and Mercury will be dead by noon. Hell, for all he knows, Mercury, Sterne, Larch and himself could all be dead by noon. There's just no telling.
There's just no telling, and Darwin hates it.
Larch doesn't answer right away. Eventually, he says, "I…thank you for the offer, but I'm going it alone."
"Oh," Darwin says in a small voice. "Well, at least you didn't punch me like the guy from 10 did, right?"
"I still can."
"Please don't," Darwin says. "I would like to, at the very least, be able to process full sentences by tomorrow."
Larch emits a small laugh. He opens his mouth to say something, but is suddenly interrupted by the door bursting open.
Three Peacekeepers rush onto the roof and approach them.
"Darwin Abner, Larch Tyre, you are required to be inside your apartments immediately," one of them barks, prodding Darwin with his gun.
"What?" Darwin splutters, trying to ignore the gun barrel pressed against his arm. "Why?"
"Your orders are to be inside, and stay there until you are escorted to the hovercraft. Now."
Darwin and Larch exchange a look of confusion as the Peacekeepers shove them into the stairwell. Larch disappears into the elevator almost immediately, leaving Darwin to simply take the stairs.
As he walks, he wonders if anything he said to Larch will ever matter. If it comes down to it tomorrow, will Larch have the willpower to push the knife into his heart?
Hell, if it comes down to it, could Darwin ever push it into Larch's? Could he ever kill someone he now views as human, just like him?
In all likelihood, he couldn't.
His footsteps quickly turn into the only sound to be heard in the stairwell. He isn't quite sure where the three Peacekeepers went, or what happened, or anything, really. All he knows is that something bad must have happened.
As he approaches District 3's floor, he hears Thalia talking inside. He slows his steps and comes to a stop just outside of the entrance, hoping that maybe Thalia knows something he doesn't.
"There's no way they can do this," Thalia says, presumably talking to Rocket.
After a moment of silence, Thalia continues, "It's practically ludicrous! Why, if these Games go off without anyone more hitches, I'll…eat a hat!"
Darwin imagines Thalia throwing her hands up in frustration in the silence that indicates Rocket is replying.
"They can't seriously be planning to go on with the Games without a—Lana, what in Panem are you doing out of bed?"
"I—I, uh…"
"Come on, you need to sleep if you can."
The sounds of footsteps accompany Thalia's words. After a few moments of silence, Darwin hears a door open, and then Thalia says, "Where is Darwin? He isn't in his room!"
Darwin swallows and steps into the apartment. "I'm right here, Thalia. I was just on the roof with—" He pauses. "No-one, I guess."
Thalia sighs in frustration. "Well, at least you're here. Now, please go to bed. It's nearly one a.m."
"Okay," Darwin says as he quietly crosses the apartment.
Lana's closed door catches him as he passes. The name on it is spelt Lanna.
It's a subtle reminder that tributes don't matter. After all, tributes are either Victors or corpses.
A/N: I'm actually very happy with how this chapter turned out. I probably could have done Navarro's POV better but nothing felt quite right with him, but other than that I'm pleased.
1. Which of these tributes are the most prepared for the Games?
2. Least prepared?
3. Which one of these tributes do you think is most likely to win?
4. Finally, what (or who) are they planning to do the Games without?
ALLIANCES:
We're Still Extremely Volatile This Year: Shad (D1M), Calista (D1F), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M), Ottilie (D4F)
Flower Power: Lana (D3F), Eris (D7F), Lyndie (D8F), Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)
Sad Lesbians: Jayce (D6F), Ishtar (D12F)
Disaster Lesbians: Liesel (D5F), Tam (D10F)
5'6 Gang: Darwin (D3M), Sterne (D5M), Mercury (D7M)
For Peace of Mind: Everett (D9M), Geo (D12M)
-Amanda
