Shad Marcum, 18
District 1 Male
Shad desperately wants to say that he's had worse. And he has, he broke both of his arms when he was seven, but it was a different situation, lower stakes, less to lose. He wasn't in the Hunger Games, only able to be on his feet for a few minutes at a time. Broken arms didn't kill him when he was seven, but fucked up legs might kill him now.
And then there's that emotion. He's not entirely sure how to name it, but he wants to say it's called "fear".
Shad used to pride himself on being fearless. He was strong, fast, untouchable. But he's caught the looks that Bayou has been giving him, and the everyone dances around the subject of his legs like a taboo.
It's pity. It's fear. They're burying him and he's not even dead.
(That nagging voice tells him that he is, that he's a dead man walking, that it's only a matter of time. His conscience whispers in his head, telling him to give up, to just die already, since that's all he's good for anymore.)
It's painfully obvious that what it says is, at least, somewhat true. He isn't dead yet, but he will be soon. He can barely fight against an attacker when his legs are so fucked up, and sooner or later this whole mess will come back to bite him.
So. Yes. He knows that he's not getting out of here alive. He knows he should just hurry up and die so that the Careers can stop wasting time and resources on him, but there's a different voice in his head that refuses to.
He knows the name of this one. This one is spite.
So what if he's going to die in a few days? Who cares if the other Careers suffer because of him? What does it matter that they already lost Ottilie? He shouldn't juts have to die because he can't fight! He wants to live, and goddamnit, he's going to keep living for as long as he can.
"Shad? Ya good there?"
Shad's eyes snap open to glare at Bayou. "Yes."
Bayou raises a dubious eyebrow at him. "Alrigh'."
Shad doesn't miss the look of pity that Bayou casts him, and for a second, his blood boils. "Don't you dare pity me," he growls, struggling to sit up. "I'm not dead yet, hell, maybe you'll die before I do! Did you ever think of that, huh? Huh?"
"Jeez. I was just askin' if you were alrigh'..." Bayou trails off, getting up and moving toward Scoria.
"I'm fine," Shad says, more to himself than to Bayou.
But he's not. He's not fine because, damnit, he doesn't want to die. He doesn't want to die, but he's going to.
Calista and Scoria halt their conversation to look over at him.
"I'm fine!" he barks, voice louder and harsher. He fixes his allies with a deathly glare, fighting to move his legs with the least amount of pain possible. After a moment, he gives up and simply yanks them to the side, ignoring the stab of violent fire that races through them. With his back finally turned to them, he relaxes his shoulders but continues to glare at nothing.
"We need to do something," Scoria says, voice quiet enough that she must think Shad can't hear her. "I don't know how much longer I can sit here and listen to Shad pretend to be okay."
Shad barely bites back the snap that he is okay, thank you very much, tensing again as he crosses his arms.
"Then go hunt," Calista says. "I'm staying here."
"Why?"
"Look, I watched someone get crushed by a minecart yesterday," Calista snaps. "Give me a few hours to get over it."
Shad works his jaw as he imagines Scoria's unimpressed look.
"Whatever," she eventually says. He hears shoes scuffling on stone before she adds, "Bayou, are you coming?"
"A' course," Bayou answers dutifully, like the good little lackey he is.
Shad snorts, wondering if Bayou is physically capable of thinking for himself. The thought entertains him for a few minutes before Scoria and Bayou's departure snaps him back to reality. He watches them walk toward Tomorrowland, hoping that neither of them come back.
"Shad? You're sure that you're good?"
Shad doesn't even bother to glare at Calista. He just rolls his eyes and says, "No, I'm not fine, because I don't want to die, or lose the Games or-"
He reaches a hand up and slams his jaw shut, eyes wide with panic and confusion. "Fuck off, I'm not talking to you."
Suddenly Calista is kneeling in front of him, eyebrows slightly raised but eyes alight with that disgusting emotion again—pity. God, how he despises to be pitied.
"You know, Shad, I've seen some shit in my day. Hell, yesterday I watched my ally get smashed by a minecart," Calista says, eyes filled with a disgusting amount of pity, but there's something else there, too. Understanding, perhaps. "I know that stuff messes you up. And...well, injuries like this are death sentences, and-"
"Is this supposed to help me?" Shad snaps.
Calista affords him a scowl before she continues. "Let me finish before you get mad at me. Just because your wounds are a death sentence...it doesn't mean that you're dead."
Shad stares at her for a moment, torn between glaring daggers at her and, horribly, breaking down in tears. At last, the former wins out and he growls, "Yeah, thanks. I'll keep that in mind when I'm being attacked and can't run away."
"Listen, Shad. You have extensive training. You were this year's chosen volunteer-"
"-Which is more than you can say, yes," Shad interrupts, hoping that Calista will be content to compliment him for a while.
Of course, he never gets what he wants, for she answers, "I'm just trying to tell you to stop moping around. You're not dead yet, although it seems like you would happier if you were."
She gets her feet, disappearing from Shad's peripheral. He leaves it that. At least, he tries to, because a moment, words are suddenly tumbling out of his mouth without permission.
"I don't want to die."
Calista doesn't return, but he hears her answer come from somewhere behind him. "Well, the Hunger Games sure isn't a very good place to realize that."
A small part of him had hoped for sympathy. It is clear to him now that he won't get any.
Like a broken record, he simply repeats it. "I don't want to die."
"I heard you the first time."
"I don't want to die."
And then the unthinkable happens. A new phrase stumbles blindly out of Shad's mouth, and he is powerless to stop it. "I'm scared."
That seems to get Calista's attention. "What...did you just say?"
"I'm scared."
Calista's lower legs appear in Shad's vision. He doesn't bother looking up to see her face. After all, he knows what he would find there: pity, sadness, maybe a pinch of sympathy. He doesn't want to see any of that.
"What are you scared of?"
The question catches him slightly off guard. "I...I'm supposed be perfect, Calista. Perfect. I'm the chosen volunteer, the ultimate Career, unfeeling about killing, strong, attractive, cool-headed under fire! I mean, come on! What's wrong with me? This never happened in the Hunger Games I've watched! The Careers always just do their thing so emotionlessly and I thought it would be so easy! Why isn't it easy?"
It's with absolute horror that Shad realizes that he's crying. Crying. There are tears leaking out of his eyes and he can taste the salt in his mouth. He'll probably have a headache in half an hour, and his face will be red and there will tracks cutting down it and what the fuck has happened to him? He's crying. He's a Career, damnit, he's perfect! He's Shad fucking Marcum, he doesn't cry! He's better than everyone else, he's the best, he's the best, and if he isn't the best, what is he?
He suddenly rears forward and grabs Calista's shirt, pulling her down to his level. Nearly nose-to-nose, he says, "Please, tell me, Calista, is this supposed to happen? I don't know how to control this, this, this-feeling! I don't know what to call it, I don't know what to do, and I'm stuck embarrassing myself until I do! Please, just tell me what I'm supposed to do!"
Calista carefully extricates herself from Shad's grip. She kneels down in front of him, brushing off her shirt before she says, "There's no definitive answer, Shad. Everyone reacts to trauma differently, and with your...you know." She gestures vaguely to Shad's legs. "I would say you're a dead man walking, but you really aren't."
Shad looks down at his lap, realizing belatedly that his shoulders are shaking. He wipes off his tears with his sleeve, refusing to meet Calista's eyes. "I just need to know how to fix this."
When Calista speaks again, the pity radiates off of her in waves. "This isn't really something that can fixed. Not before...you know."
"Just say it," Shad growls. "Say that my legs are going to get me killed. I know it. You know it. Bayou and Scoria know it. Everyone watching knows it."
"Hm," Calista hums. "Not necessarily."
She walks away, disappearing to the other side of the Cornucopia. Shad watches her go, wondering if he'll live to see her corpse or not. It isn't as enticing as it once was.
Ashe Illyrian, 14
District 11 Female
Up close, the mountain is smaller than Ashe initially thought. She can see snow dusting its highest points, yet down here the air is comfortable. The peak isn't nearly high enough for snow to gather like that.
But it is off of the ground, and a good vantage point at that. So, Ashe supposes, it will have to do. They can't stay in Tomorrowland forever.
They start moving through the switchback railings, watching red toboggans come careening down from the mountain and then disappear into darkness. The darkness does not make Ashe very confident—dark means unknown, and in this arena, the unknown is one of the deadliest things in it.
Her train of thought is brought to a screeching halt when she realizes that Eris is tugging on her sleeve. "What?" she says, turning to look at her.
Eris doesn't say a word; instead, she points a shaky hand toward the right. Ashe follows her finger and—
"Move," Ashe says quietly, pushing Lana forward. "Move, now."
"What? What is it?" Lana exclaims, looking around with terror creeping into her voice. Her eyes land on it too—them. Two Careers, Scoria and Bayou if Ashe remembers correctly, are ambling down the path from the Cornucopia. Armed to the teeth, yet seemingly unaware of the four of them.
They stumble to the front of the line, nearly tripping over each other in their haste to the reach the toboggans. Ashe throws herself down in the front seat, frantically glancing over her should when—
"Scoria! There!"
"Shit," Ainsley growls from the seat behind her.
The toboggan begins to move forward. They pick a little bit of speed as they move down a slight slope, and Ashe breathes a sigh. They're going to make it.
Then the toboggan slams to a stop, nearly throwing her off of the front. "What the hell?" she cries. "Move!"
It seems to the listen, because just as a knife goes flying over her head, the toboggan hurtles into the darkness.
They start to climb up a steep slope. Ashe white-knuckles the safety bar in front of her, but it's far too dark for her to know that.
The toboggan clicks as it ascends, making it rather easy to hear the sounds of two pairs of heavy feet clanking on the tracks below them. Not out of woods, then, Ashe thinks, ducking deeper into her seat.
As they climb, it sounds as if wind begins to whirl around them, but there's no breeze on Ashe's face. She wishes there were, if only to ground her into the moment.
With little warning, they are thrown around a curve and into broad daylight. Behind her, someone—Lana, maybe?—screams as they swerve through ice-coated caves. The ride is not smooth; it feels as if all of the shaking will snap Ashe's spine as it rattles her around her seat.
They make another violent turn and careen past a white creature in a cave. It swings a clawed hand at them but misses by a mile. It does little to drain the tension from Ashe's body—if there's some kind of monster in this mountain, it could trap them more than the Careers have. They could have another Push-esque situation on their hands, and that is the last thing that they need.
"Ashe—the Careers—look!" Eris shouts from the seat behind her, pointing toward the ground.
They pull another harsh turn and Ashe catches a glimpse of Scoria and Bayou, now on the ground, following their journey around the mountain. That's a good thing. They have supplies, they can set up camp (and maybe be eaten alive by a giant bear-person, but that's beside the point).
"We need to get out of the car," Ainsley adds. "That straight section of track coming up—we need to jump when we get there!"
Ashe bites back of cry of "are you insane?" and decides to go along with it. It's not the most ridiculous thing she's done since her name came out of that bowl, and she doubts it will be the last.
The toboggan starts to slow, and in one swift movement, Ashe unbuckles her seatbelt and throws herself out of the car. A trio of thuds accompanies her landing.
The toboggan roars past her as she struggles to sit up. She's not entirely sure what she hit but something hurts. She glances to her right as Lana helps Eris to her feet. "So. What now?"
"We climb down," Ainsley says decisively, starting down the stairs that skirt the track.
Ashe raises her eyebrows as she stands up. "Down to where the Careers are? And then what?"
"We find a different place to set up camp," Ainsley says in a tone that suggests it was simple.
"What if the Careers get us?" Eris asks. "We can't take them in a fight."
Three pairs of eyes wander toward the wound on Eris's arm. It's problematic for more than one reason.
Another toboggan tears past them.
"I don't think we should climb down," Ashe says. "We should stay up here."
"With that big white thing?" Lana says. "I'm with Ainsley."
For a split second, Ashe feels hurt. And then reality comes crashing back in, and she remembers that this is the Hunger Games. This isn't an argument on the playground. This is life and death. Lana is doing what she thinks is safest, and she would rather face the Careers than a bear-man...then that's her decision. And her loss, potentially.
"Then it seems like we have a disagreement," Ashe says, crossing her arms. She casts a cursory at Eris.
"Why don't we just wait a while?" Eris suggests, seeming to take the hint. "The Careers have to leave eventually."
"They could come up here," Ainsley counters. "No, the better option is to get out of the mountain and away from the Careers."
"Then go. Get killed, for all I care," Ashe says. "I'm not leaving yet."
Ainsley's expression morphs and for a second Ashe thinks she's going to yell at her. But Ainsley just grabs Lana by the wrist and pulls her away.
"Ashe…" Eris says quietly as they watch the other half of their allies walk away. "Did you just...did you just break up our alliance?"
She did. Hell of a leader she is.
"Call it a conflict of interest," Ashe says instead, shrugging. Eris doesn't need to know how she feels about it. Eris doesn't need to know any of it. Eris doesn't need to know that Ashe didn't mean a word of it.
She starts down the stairs, carefully moving along the track as another toboggan careens past. This day is not going how she wanted it to. Well, this month isn't going how she wanted it to. But at this point, Ashe is done trying to deny and hide and compensate. She just broke up her alliance and only a part of her cares. The other parts says, "good riddance". Less people to care about when they inevitably end up dead.
She and Eris will be just fine on their own. At least, that's what Ashe tries to convince herself of. They just have to stay out of fights until the Careers have been shaved down. They'll have to play it safe, but they can do it. Ashe is...yes, Ashe is sure of it. Maybe.
Wind whirls past her face as another toboggan careens by.
"Where do we go?" Eris asks, trailing behind her. "'Cause I also don't want to get eaten by a yeti."
Ashe leans out into the sunlight. "Up."
Eris freezes. "U-up?" Her face suddenly appears much paler than it did before.
"I can see kind of entrance up there. A door, or something. Seems like a pretty good hiding spot to me." She shrugs. "And -"
"LANA! FUCK!"
Ashe and Eris make eye contact. Something unspoken passes between them, and they move in unison toward the edge of the cliff. I told you so, Ashe has half a mind to say as she peers over the edge and -
Hm. That's not what she was expecting. She thought that Lana had slipped and fallen off the mountain, but she and Ainsley are already on the ground.
Well, Ainsley is on the ground. Lana is standing on the edge of a fence, grappling with Scoria Primer as colorful, spinning teacups twirl behind her.
Ashe can tell from here; it's a losing battle. She looks to Ainsley, thinking of the knife on the girl's belt; she could bury it in Scoria's back, save Lana.
She locates Ainsley, trying to fend off Bayou with her knife. Suddenly the knife doesn't look so threatening when faced with a bulky Career like Bayou. But Ainsley knows what she's doing, she can fight, there might be a -
Ainsley turns and runs.
Ashe only tears her eyes away from Ainsley's retreating back when Lana is thrown to the ground. Her former ally, she supposes, flops onto her back and tries to get up, only to have Bayou appear behind her and lift her into the air. In one swift motion, he swings her backwards and lets go.
With a scream, Lana goes flying into the teacups, and with a horrible crunching of bones, blood and skin, intricate china crushes the girl from District 3. Lana screams as the glassware squelches through the gore, and Ashe averts her eyes.
Instead, she looks at Eris, waiting for a telltale cannon. At last it comes, and she draws back into the shadows.
"Is this my fault?" she says quietly, not expecting an answer, let alone to be heard.
"You tried to stop them," Eris says. "They made their decision. They got the payout of it. That's not your fault."
Ashe looks back at Eris. "That's true."
"Besides," Eris says, shrugging, sitting down a ledge. "Lana was going to die at some point, right?"
Ashe purses her lips. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it." She glances off of edge as another toboggan roars past. "Up it is, then?"
Eris doesn't look happy about it, but she gets up and follows Ashe to the edge.
Scoria Primer, 18
District 2 Female
The moment of killing someone where the final blow is dealt isn't the hardest; no, the most difficult part is the moments that follow. It barely takes more than a moment of thought to kill someone, to put a bullet in someone's head, to slit a throat wide open. Sometimes it takes no thought at all. It feels so inconsequential—well, it feels so inconsequential, until the moment after.
She remembers her first kill. How could she ever forget?
She remembers killing Favio. She remembers how it destroyed her for days—weeks—months—well, she supposes it never quite left her.
She remembers dealing the killing blow, watching him die, seeing the light leave his eyes. It burned. It was...
But the moments that follow. The moments that follow. Those minutes where you stare off into space, thinking of what you just did, thinking of who you just killed, wondering what you just did and how you'll ever live with it.
That was the justification. Her father's justification, "once you're desensitized to killing, you'll make a clean sweep of the arena", "your first kill can't be a tribute; the feeling will weigh you down and destroy your chances".
She can see it now, on Bayou's face. That slow descent into realization of what you just did. The feeling of falling, when it hits you. That you just killed someone. You just ended a life, made a corpse, dug a grave. You met a person and left behind a body.
She can't quite tell how Bayou feels about it. She knows he's simple, a lackey, really. His face is drawn, but by guilt or exhaustion or pain?
Scoria has half a mind to tell him to stop, for them to go after one of the other little girls. Two of them are still on the mountain. The last one ran away.
The thought makes her snort. Those little girls, who seemed so steadfast in their alliance and their friendship, split at the first sight of trouble. It seems fitting for a group of preteens.
In end, she doesn't say anything. She just follows Bayou down the path, away from the mountain, away from a corpse of his own making.
Away from what she's sure will bring back bad memories. They always do.
She knows Bayou has been through a lot of shit in the past few days, what with the hatchet-wielding ghost chopping Shad to bits and all.
But it's the Hunger Games. It's just what happens, and she can only hope that Bayou gets over it quickly.
(She certainly didn't.)
"Where do we go from here?" asks Bayou, lifting his head and turning his eyes on her.
"Well, we keep hunting," Scoria says, thinking that should have been obvious.
"Yeah…I s'pose we do." Bayou drops his head again.
Two sides of Scoria start a war inside of her head; does she ask Bayou what's wrong, play something up for the audience, or does she keep quiet and let him stew in his own misery?
"You're thinking about the girl from 3."
The side of Scoria that is still human wins out.
"'Course I am," Bayou answers.
Scoria tries to meet his eyes, but only realizes that he's still wearing the ear-headband. Something about it makes the situation seem all of the more ridiculous.
"How do you…er, feel about that?"
Bayou seems to consider his answer. "I don'…I don' know."
Scoria shrugs and figures that that is the end of the conversation.
"I just…I just didn' know it'd be like this," Bayou continues, looking down at his hands like they've done his great wrong.
In a way, Scoria muses, they have.
"I mean, everyone I know makes it sound so easy!" Bayou says. "It's just s'posed to be a fact a' life! Just somethin' everybody does…so I didn' think it'd feel like this."
"What did you think it would feel like?" Scoria asks. She doesn't know how Bayou is going to answer, and is genuinely curious, to her immense surprise.
"I just thought it'd be…different." Bayou shrugs. "Thought I'd feel… accomplished, or somethin'. Like it was a big achievement."
"Hm," Scoria hums in lieu of an answer.
"You don' really get how it feels, do ya?" Bayou says. "I mean, did that boy from 6 even count as a kill?"
Anger boils to the surface and within a second, Scoria has a knife to Bayou's throat. "Don't you ever say that again," she growls. "I've killed more people than your simple little brain could ever even begin to comprehend."
Bayou stares at the knife, seemingly trying to cobble together an answer. "You've…killed people before?"
"Yes, and?" Scoria snaps, blade still poised to break Bayou's skin.
(It would be so easy. She could splatter his blood, right here on the pavement, and save him the misery of being a murderer. Sometimes, that sounds like a Godsend.)
"Out…outside 'a the Games?"
"Yes." Scoria finally pulls the knife back and replaces it on her belt. "And if you ever mention it again, I won't hesitate to cut off your head."
Bayou looks like he believes her for he backs away with his hands up. "Wow. Okay. That…happ'ned."
He slowly lowers his hands, but Scoria doesn't miss the way one of them rests on the dagger in his pocket. He's scared of her.
Good. He should be. Scoria likes to be feared.
The silence that stretches between them feels heavier than before.
They continue walking in silence, past a carousel and stones stained in blood. Past the mangled corpse of a white robot, past the train cars that killed Ottilie. Past a key beneath a bench, surrounded by trash. Past the corner and there he is.
Laying on the edge of the path, trying to wrap bandages around his own back. Blood pools around him, partially dry, and Scoria knows he doesn't have long.
(She could do him the courtesy of putting him out of his misery. Surely he's in pain. It would pad her kill count, make her look so merciless…)
(Then why doesn't she?)
She doesn't remember his name. Doesn't remember his district. Doesn't particularly care. All that matters is that he'll be dead soon.
He'll be dead soon either way, so Scoria keeps walking.
"Scoria?" Bayou whispers, pointing at the bleeding boy as if Scoria wouldn't have noticed him.
It certainly doesn't seem like the tribute in question has noticed them, but blood loss will do that to you.
"Leave him be." Scoria shrugs and keeps walking.
(The image of her father cursing her through the T.V. is more than enough motivation to leave the boy to bleed out.)
It takes Bayou a moment to follow her; she imagines he's warring with himself. Should he go for the kill and make everything worse, or listen to his simple nature and follow her orders? Maybe he has an angel and a devil on his shoulder. But which one would be the angel, and which one would be the devil?
As she passes the bleeding tribute who somehow piqued her mercy, she remembers his name. Quinn. His last name doesn't matter, his district doesn't matter. In fact, none of that seems to matter, to her at least.
No, Scoria just keeps walking, and Quinn doesn't seem to notice.
Sterne Colvin, 14
District 5 Male
Sterne doesn't move for a very, very long time.
Even long after the Careers have passed and the sun has reached its peak in the sky, Sterne doesn't move. Even when his joints are burning and screaming at him to stretch, Sterne doesn't move.
No, he only moves when Quinn starts making noise.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he comes out of his hiding spot. He's been crouched in the brush off of the path for hours, ever since he first heard the Careers talking. It wasn't a comfortable hiding place, or even a good one, but it worked and he's still alive.
Small miracles, he thinks as he approaches Quinn warily.
The cut on his back looks nasty despite his attempts to bandage it: crusted over with dried blood, skin red and inflamed, a single tear of blood dribbling off of the side. It doesn't look good. Sterne doesn't know much about stab wounds, but he doesn't think Quinn's chance of surviving is very good.
Stones dig into his shoeless foot as he crosses the path. The sight of the girl from 4 in the sky last night made him think about it. About her.
He kneels down in front of Quinn, pushing the girl from 4 from his mind. "Quinn?" he says uncertainly.
Quinn has stopped trying to bandage his back. In fact, he's stopped doing anything. For a moment, Sterne isn't sure if he's even breathing.
And then Quinn cracks one of his eyes open and says, "Are you here to kill me?"
Sterne weighs his options for a moment. "No," he settles on. Even though there's a voice in the back of his head, whispering that he should do it. Just kill Quinn. It would be simple. It would even be merciful.
The knife in Sterne's back pocket is threatening to burn a hole through the fabric, but Sterne keeps his hands where they are. Quinn is going to die either way. It's better to not have his blood on Sterne's hands.
"I should've never come here," Quinn murmurs, eyes sliding closed again.
Sterne opens his mouth to question him when he remembers that Quinn volunteered. For money? Sterne seems to remember something about that, but he wasn't paying attention to the interviews by that point.
Money doesn't seem worth dying for, but Sterne doesn't know the whole story. He's interacted with Quinn before; there has to be more to it. No one is that stupid.
"They're gonna die because of me," continues Quinn.
"…who is?"
Quinn goes quiet for a long enough moment that Sterne thinks he's stopped breathing. "My mom. My brother. Gonna die, 'cause of me."
"Why's that?"
Quinn's eyes crack open and he sends a glare at Sterne. "Not gonna tell you. Not gonna matter."
"Ooohkay," Sterne says, getting to his feet. "I just thought you'd want someone to talk to in your final moments. Tell your story before you die or whatever."
Quinn struggles to sit up, pain evident in his eyes. "'m not gonna die!"
Sterne looks him up and down as Quinn drops back to the ground. "Whatever you say."
With a careless shrug, Sterne starts to walk down the path, taking care to go the opposite direction of the Careers. He doesn't need to witness more death than absolutely necessary to get out of here. He's already seen enough people become corpses to last him several lifetimes.
"They're gonna die 'cause I didn't get them money!" Quinn yells after him, voice weak. "They needed money and the Games were the only way to get that…"
Sterne pauses. "That's unfortunate."
He doesn't know where the tone came from, where the heartlessness in his voice resides in him. What part of him has changed.
(Of course, many parts of him have changed. That's a given.)
And he continues to surprise himself when he continues down the path, leaving Quinn alone. Alone to die.
He walks past the carousel and the blood and stops beside a bench. Beneath the bench, a pile of trash—empty plastic cups, crumpled napkins, wrappers that smell like cinnamon—is oddly situated. For one thing, the entire rest of the arena has been spotless. For another, the trash looks like it's stacked on top of something.
Sterne toes a cup away from the bench and reveals something shiny underneath it. Once he has it in his hand, he realizes it's a key. Which seems like a strange thing to hide beneath a conspicuous pile of trash, but Sterne pockets it anyway.
With a skyward glance, Sterne notices dark clouds starting to gather. He decides he should head for shelter.
A cannon fires as he walks away from the bench. He flinches at the sound, wondering if it belonged to Quinn. Wondering if, maybe, he should have stayed.
Sterne shakes his head, trying to clear it of regrets. He hates having regrets. That's why he always wanted to do everything. He wanted to die with no regrets.
The thought now makes him laugh.
He keeps to the edges of the path as he walks, keeping an eye out for movement. The last thing he needs right now is to get into a fight.
He passes the white-and-gold castle, instead opting for the downward-sloping pathway leading to an archway. The sign above said archway reads Welcome To Mickey's Toontown. Beneath the words is what Sterne assumes is a population sign, which is at 000000000. So long as the sign isn't lying, there's no one inside. That's certainly good news.
As Sterne passes beneath the sign, it flips to 000000001.
What greets him on the other side is a caricature of a town: cartoonish, over-sized buildings, a fountain flowing with plastic water and colorful, boxy cars. In the distance, carts whip around winding railroad tracks.
He wanders over to one of the vehicles; a bright blue convertible with a license plate that reads "ANIM8ED". With a cursory glance at his surroundings, Sterne slides inside.
The seats are hard and plastic. The steering wheel, made to look like wood but certainly plastic as well, is stationary and cold. No matter how hard he presses on the pedals (plastic too), the car doesn't go and the brake doesn't move.
He spends a few moments trying to make the car move; checking the ground for dropped keys, attempting to pull the hood up, and putting all of his weight onto the accelerator, only to realize that the car it literally nailed to the ground.
As Sterne ducks out of the overhand the car sat beneath, he notes that rain has started to dribble from the sky. Judging the steadily darkening clouds, it's going to get worse. He zeroes in on the first form of shelter he sees: a boat. A white boat, clearly made of the same plastic that everything else is. It appears to be two stories, with an indoor first level and an aboveground deck. As he approaches, he notices that the boat sits in a tiny lagoon, which has a sign with the face of a…duck, maybe? Whatever it is, it's white and has a yellow bill. The sign is adorned with the words "Donald Duck".
So, definitely a duck, then.
The doorway is short and round, making Sterne bend down in order to get inside.
"Inside" isn't much to sneeze it, but it's out of the rain and Sterne can appreciate that. An annoying, disembodied voice quacks on a loop, echoing through the low-ceilinged, almost empty space. A net on the far wall separates Sterne from a trio of framed photos: one of the same duck from the sign beside a man with a mustache, one of three ducks wearing large hats, and a third of a duck wearing a pink bow.
Sterne makes a face and moves to sit by the door. It's far from a comfortable place to sit: the ground is hard and the wall is cold, and the same disembodied quacking continues, adding the din of now-pouring rain outside.
But he sits. If there's one thing Sterne has learned over the past few days, it's to take what he can get. He's relatively safe here. As far as he knows, there is no one else in this section of the arena, he can see both entrances to the boat and to the area.
Eventually, the rain starts to lull him to sleep. But as soon as he closes his eyes, he finds that sleep is evading him. The key in his pocket remains a burning question in the back of his mind. What is it? Was it left there accidentally during arena construction? Is it a trick? A token, dropped by a tribute?
He shuts his eyes and he hears damning cannons, sees the dead eyes of Darwin as his talkative ally drifted into silence, smells blood poisoning his nostrils, remembers each brush with death. Remembers that Quinn Bayers died today, and he left him to do it all alone.
Afandina Hariri, 17
District 10 Male
Afandina doesn't know what a "Star Wars Launch Bay" is, but what he does know is that it is indoors and he can hear rain ping off of the roof. And with his plethora of injuries, he's glad to be dry. Just knowing that his situation could be marginally worse makes him feel a little bit better.
The most comfortable way to lay is on his back without a shirt on, but since the storm rolled in and the air conditioning hasn't buffered, he's beginning to get cold. Nearly every inch of his body aches with a dull zing. Pain is a great way to remind him of his place.
When he first felled both of those monkeys, he was proud, maybe a little bit awed. Eventually he realized they couldn't have been adult gorillas, or else he should be dead. With or without the cat and the lasers.
The burn on his chest is probably the worst. The rest of his injuries are bruises and pulls. They will heal soon enough. But the burn could get infected, could get him killed, maybe should have gotten him killed.
Maybe he should have died to the monkeys. Maybe he should have died to the laser. Maybe he should have to died to gravity, all the way back in the Tribute Center.
Maybe he should have. But somehow, he didn't. Somehow, he didn't die, so here he is, shirtless on the floor, shivering in front of a display case full of white helmets. Injuries haphazardly bandaged, Ishtar Marmaduke pacing back and forth beside him.
He's not sure if Ishtar has stopped moving since they ran out of the Astro Blasters building. He was under the impression that once she got her revenge, she'd be "at peace" or whatever. Clearly, that's not what happened. If anything, Ishtar seems worse off than she did before. Dark circles hang beneath her tired eyes, red from tears, and the scratches on her shoulder look to be in the early stages of infection.
If not for lack of trying, Afandina has attempted to get Ishtar to clean and rebandage them at least. The only response he was offered was a mumbled "doesn't matter".
At the end of the day, it doesn't particularly matter to Afandina either. In Ishtar's current state, she's not doing much for him and he's not doing much for her. The only reason he's stuck by her side is that she still has all of the medical supplies, and without those, he's fucked.
Yes. That's the reason. It's not because Afandina would be…lonely, or anything. No, it's purely practical.
A crack of thunder makes both of them jump. "Getting pretty crazy out there, isn't it?" Afandina says in an attempt to strike up conversation.
"We used to have storms a lot back home. It's nothing to worry about," Ishtar says without pause. She doesn't look up, doesn't offer Afandina her gaze. Just continues to pace the floor, seemingly intent on blazing a crater into the linoleum.
Afandina wishes he had that much energy. He wishes he had that much going on in his head—enough to keep him up at night.
Because Afandina doesn't, thank you very much. Afandina is fine. He's keeping things simple, he's not thinking too much, he's making good, rational decisions and being smart like he is. Like he always is.
More thunder snaps through the sky. It startles Afandina and jostles his injuries. Pain makes him wince and a quiet sigh escapes his lips. "So…what are we gonna do?"
"What do you mean?" Ishtar asks.
For a moment, the only sounds to be heard are Ishtar's footfalls and the ping of rain on the roof.
"Where are we gonna go? What's next for us?"
Ishtar finally spares him a glance. "I don't care."
With some effort, Afandina sits up. "What's that supposed to mean?"
A moment of silence followed by a shrug is all he gets out of Ishtar.
"Ooohkay," Afandina says, tiredly laying back down. He feels restless, like he needs to be doing something. Which isn't going to work right now, what with the storm and Ishtar's general…everything.
He's restless, but he's tired, and he doesn't know what he wants. He doesn't know if he wants to win or if he wants to die. Nothing makes sense in his head. He's turned around, upside down, and everything just keeps swirling nonsensically.
Thunder crackles in the distance.
Gosh. Who is he kidding? His thoughts are keeping him at night.
He just wants this to be over. He wants to go home. Back to when his problems were not understanding his feelings for others and messing up card games. Those problems seem so simple, so childish…so far away. Was it really only two weeks ago that those things were at the forefront of his mind?
All he wants to know is how everything went to shit so quickly.
And why he's so tired. He'd like to know that too.
At some point, Ishtar stops pacing. He only notices when he realizes someone is kneeling beside his arm.
"Jayce is gone."
Afandina looks at her, confused, and says, "I know."
"So is Liesel."
"Yeah…and?"
"I killed Liesel."
Afandina raises his eyebrows at her, unsure of where she's going. "Yes. I know. I was there."
"Why don't I feel better?"
"That's not really how it works," Afandina answers, sitting up. "Revenge didn't fix the problem. It just…made a different one."
"But I should feel better. That's what I thought was going to happen."
"Well, it's not what happened," Afandina says snidely. "Life ain't fair. Get over it."
Ishtar glares at him. "You're one to talk. Don't think I haven't noticed you over here, wallowing in self-pity."
"I'm not the one who's been wallowing in self-pity, sweetheart." Afandina snorts, crossing his arms.
"Yes, you are," Ishtar says. "You've been sitting here, staring off into space, for days."
"Like you've been doing any better."
"I'm trying to keep it together—"
"So am I—"
"Don't talk over me—"
"You did it first—"
More thunder crashes and breaks up their argument. Ishtar gets to her feet and stalks away, disappearing behind a display case full of capes.
Afandina watches her go. He knows that their alliance is a ticking time bomb that is dying to explode. He knows that it is bound to blow and it's only a matter of time. And he doesn't even like Ishtar. In fact, he finds her to be rather insufferable.
But he likes to know that there is one person in this arena who isn't actively trying to kill him.
And, yes, okay. He doesn't want to be alone. Not that he doesn't know that Ishtar would leave him to die alone if it would save her own skin.
He never really minded it before. At least, he doesn't think he did. Maybe he did and he never noticed. But goddamnit, being alone scares him now. Being alone scares him more than being dead, and being dead means he loses.
And. Fuck. Afandina's not going to lose. Well, he's pretty sure. Like, ninety percent. Maybe eighty-five. Or something lower…
No. No. He's going to win. He's Afandina Hariri. He's the best! He's the best.
Afandina leans back against the ground. He feels like he has this argument every day. Because half of him thinks he's still the best, and the other half knows the truth.
The truth. The truth that he's not going to win. He's going to lose—and that may just be worse than being alone.
A/N: Haha do you guys remember when I updated like several times a month.
EULOGIES:
15th Place – Lana Meadows, District 3 Female. Crushed between spinning teacups.
I don't really know what to say about Lana. I really loved her—she helped set things into motion, worked as a mediator between her allies. She was a fun character to get into the head of, and I always love writing younger tributes because they have such interesting feelings about the Games. Lana was no exception. When I first got her form, I would not have put her as the first fourteen-year-old to fall, but plans change and other characters overtook her. RIP.
14th Place – Quinn Bayers, District 11 Male. Bled out.
I mean, we all knew it was coming. He had the same submitter as our last Victor, and also got stabbed without medical supplies and such. Quinn is a tribute I never quite resonated with. I knew what I wanted from him and how to write him, but something about him never seemed to hit me. I feel as if I underutilized him, but his involvement in our story is not done. RIP.
ALLIANCES:
Well, that's Unfortunate: Calista (D1F), Shad (D1M), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M)
Yikes: Eris (D7F), Ashe (D11F)
Less Sad Lesbian + Even Deader Weight: Afandina (D10M), Ishtar (D12F)
Why She Do That: Ainsley (D9F)
Definitely an Equinophobe Now: Everett (D9M)
Vibing: Wonder (D2M)
Besties With Donald Duck: Sterne (D5M)
Also a Sad Lesbian: Tam (D10F)
Judging by past updates, I'll see you all in six months.
-Amanda
