Ishtar Marmaduke, 18
District Twelve Female
"I'm leaving."
She stands, arms limp at her sides, not sparing Afandina a glance as she gathers her things.
"What? Where are we going?" Afandina says, sitting up. He winces, reminding Ishtar that he's still injured.
She could kill him, right now. He's done nothing for her but be dead weight. It would be easy. It would be quick. It might even be merciful.
"We're not going anywhere. I'm leaving." Ishtar shoves a half-empty water bottle into her backpack, trying to ignore the throbbing in the scratches on her shoulder. Those are doing her no favors. Afandina keeps telling her they're infected, and sometimes they leak puss, so he might not be that far off.
She doesn't kill Afandina. She could, but she doesn't. Maybe it's mercy. Maybe it's attachment. Or maybe she's just had enough of killing to last her a lifetime.
"You're…breaking off the alliance?" Afandina's voice cracks as he scrambles to his feet, as if in his weakened state he would be able to fight her off. "You can't do that! You have all of the medical supplies—"
"Sucks to be you, I guess," Ishtar answers without care as she slings the backpack over her good shoulder. She fights the wince of pain that follows when it knocks into the scratches.
She probably should kill him. It would be one less competitor to go through, and she's sure the audience would be all over it.
The girl from Twelve, who volunteered for love, turns into a ruthless killing machine after the death of her beloved. It sure seems like a narrative the Capitol would eat right up.
Ishtar chuckles at the image and starts to walk away. She doesn't know why Afandina's so surprised. He had to know this was how it was going to end. Their alliance was never built to last. Really, all she had wanted from Afandina was backup in the fight against Tamarah and Liesel, and now that she's gotten her revenge (no thanks to Afandina, she might add) she doesn't need him anymore. And he's not that wounded at this point. None of his injuries are going to kill him, or even pose a huge detriment. He'll be fine on his own.
Apparently, Afandina does not agree. He tackles her to the ground, attempting to wrestle the backpack out of her possession. He acts with viciousness, fighting and kicking without restraint, and all Ishtar can do is follow.
"Let go!" Ishtar shouts, kicking her legs wildly as she tries to roll over.
"I need those supplies!" Afandina screams back, looking almost feral in his desperation. Yellowing bruises mar the face of a boy who was once quite attractive. Mixed with the rabid look in his eyes, the fact that he's not wearing a shirt, and the hastily bandaged burn on his chest, he looks almost less than human.
(Ishtar imagines she must not look much better. Neither of them have bathed in over a week. Barely bandages, infected scratches trail down her shoulder, flinging disgusting puss around as they grapple with each other, neither gaining an upper hand.)
Afandina manages to break the strap of the backpack, yanking it from Ishtar's grip, and then he's off. He doesn't get very far, as Ishtar launches herself across the floor and snags his ankle, pulling him back to the floor. She snatches the backpack from his slackening hands and attempts to stand. It doesn't work, and a moment later she finds herself back on the ground, Afandina looming over her with fire in his eyes. Since neither of them have a weapon, Afandina slams a hand into the scratches on Ishtar's shoulder, worming his fingers under the loose bandages and digging them into the infected flesh.
The pain that follows is blinding, leaving Ishtar in a guttural scream as she lies on the ground, writhing in the flash of agony. By the time her vision clears and she can breathe again, Afandina and the backpack are gone.
She sits up with a huff, examining the swollen wounds on her shoulder. They pulsate with pain, tattered bandages stained with blood and puss fluttering around her arm. She needs to get them rebandaged. Cleaned, too. Who knows where Afandina's hands have been?
At least this arena has bathroom dotted around it.
However, when Ishtar stumbles out into daylight, she doesn't head for a bathroom. She heads for the lagoon on the other side of Tomorrowland, near the mountain. She moves carefully, knowing that if she goes the wrong way she'll be in direct sight of the Careers at the Cornucopia, and she's not prepared for a confrontation right now. No weapons, open wound prime for hurting. No, if she were to fight the Careers right now, she would lose.
Perhaps she'll make a visit to their camp tonight, when most of them will be asleep, and try to steal a weapon.
She passes by a cart stocked with drinks and picks up a large cup filled with a blue liquid. Once she reaches the lagoon, she empties the cup into the water, watching the fizzy blue disperse. Then she skirts around the pool, cup in hand, to a spot where the water is shallower. After taking a moment to wonder how clean the water is, she reaches through the fence, dips the cup in and watches it fill.
Gingerly, Ishtar climbs over the railing separating the pathway from the water. She peels off her tennis shoes and socks, leaving them on the sidewalk, and then steps into the lagoon.
The trees that creep over the water provides some cover, but it's not as much as Ishtar would like. It's likely someone would still see her if they came walking by, but she will have to take her chances.
She rolls up the remains of her shirt sleeve and pours the water over the scratches. As it trickles down her side, she thinks that she should have taken off her shirt, but she would rather not stand here in just a bra. Were a tribute to come along, it wouldn't be a very dignified way to die.
At least, without the supplies, she's not going to starve. There's more than enough food around the arena that seems to magically replenish itself over night. Ishtar figures that the Gamemakers thought it would be boring for all of the tributes to die of starvation in such an interesting arena. She remembers watching the Games as a little girl and watching tributes waste away from hunger or thirst. In many ways, that was a worse way to go than to another tribute.
A few years ago, she can remember watching the Games with Jayce. What Games it was escapes her, but it wasn't like she cared about who won back then either. There were tributes starving left and right, dehydrated and stumbling around, blind with thirst. The arena had been some kind of desert, and none of the tributes knew how to…
Jayce.
Jayce had been there. And if Jayce were here right now, she would know what Games it was. She would know who won. Because Jayce is just like that. No. Jayce was just like that. Because Jayce is dead.
Jayce is dead, and Ishtar avenged her, but that doesn't bring her back.
Nothing can bring her back. Because Jayce is dead.
Sometimes, Ishtar finds herself needing to be reminded of that. Jayce isn't away in District Six, dating another girl. Jayce isn't waiting for her back in District Twelve. Jayce is dead, locked away in a coffin, being sent to her family, where Ishtar will never see her again. Unless she wins, the last place she will have ever seen the love of her life is in the sky. Because Jayce Dotter's life ended with the sound of a cannon and a katana in her back.
Ishtar scoops up another cup full of water. She couldn't protect Jayce. She couldn't even protect her own supplies.
The supplies. The supplies. The backpack, where her token was tucked at the bottom, beneath a pair of gloves and sunglasses and a water skin, where no one should ever find it.
A photo. A photo that had to be removed from the frame, because the Gamemakers thought she might smash the glass and use the shards as weapons. A photo of her and Jayce, happy, eating ice cream and happy. They were there, they were real, and now that photo is in the backpack belonging to Afandina Hariri. He'll probably rip it to shreds once he finds it.
Ishtar stops pouring water over her wounds, and stands frozen, not even moving to breathe. She has to find Afandina. She has to get that photo back. It's the only thing left of Jayce Dotter, and Ishtar will be damned if she lets anyone destroy it. Anger filling her veins, she chucks the half-filled cup across the lagoon, watching an arc of water fly through the air before it plunks off of one of the yellow submarines that patrol the pool.
She pulls herself back over the fence and starts toward the mountain, uncertain of where to start looking, but knowing she will stop at nothing to find him.
(All across the Capitol, the audience chokes on laughter when she leaves behind her shoes and socks.)
Shad Marcum, 18
District One Male
The metal of the Cornucopia is cold against Shad's back. Everyone else is taking shelter inside of the hull from the rain that has begun to drizzle from the sky, but Shad can't stand to be near them right now. The cuts on his legs may be healed enough that he can stay on his feet, but they still look at him like he's a lost cause.
He has, of course, considered the fact that they're probably right. He probably is a lost cause. But he'll never admit it.
He won't. He won't admit it. Even if he feels like it.
Because he's Shad Marcum. He doesn't admit defeat. Not even when he loses.
Shad catches a glimpse at his reflection in the shiny Cornucopia. Ratty brown hair that desperately needs a wash hangs over dark eyes that stare back at him with accusation. A blue t-shirt that's seen better days, the graphic on front beginning to peel from exposure to rainwater. Bandages peeking out of the legs of his cargo shorts, no longer stained with blood.
Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He thinks of himself back in District One, where everybody lauded him as beautiful because he didn't have the normal One look. He wonders what they think of him now.
This is not the reflection of Shad Marcum. This is not the strapping young man from District One that was so certain he was going to win the Hunger Games. This is the face of a boy who has lost his direction in life, all because he is not going to win the Hunger Games. It's a harsh reality that Shad has been forced to face and now he has nowhere to go but down.
Shad has come down to Earth, and now he sees that he is no better than anyone else. And, God, that sucks. Because Shad has always been the best. That's his entire identity. Every part of him is built upon being the best in any given room. And if he isn't, then what else is there? There are no other pieces of him to work with, nothing else to build a person from. He is the best, but he is not, so what is he?
He looks up to the sky, eyes drifting across the expanse of synthetic dreary clouds. Gray hangs above the arena, blanketing them in uncharacteristic darkness for this time of day. It matches Shad's mood, but it doesn't make him feel better.
If by some miracle, Shad does make it out of the arena alive, then maybe he will be the best again. He'll be a Victor, a winner, the best.
But something tells him he won't win. Yet Shad can continue to hope until his very last moment. Really, hope is all he has left.
The old Shad Marcum—the pre-Games Shad Marcum, the confident Shad Marcum, the best Shad Marcum—would be appalled at that. The old Shad would rather eat a bucket full of a termites than admit he ever needed to hope for something. After all, the old Shad didn't need to hope—all he needed was to know.
He considers going inside the Cornucopia, where it will be dry, when he notices movement out of the corner of his eye.
Beneath the Adventureland sign, leaning out from behind one the poles, partly hidden by foliage, is a tribute. A tall boy with tan skin and straw-colored hair, peering across the square at him. Either he hasn't realized Shad has seen him, or he doesn't care, for he stays exactly where he is, even as Shad stares back him, confused.
Slowly, Shad reaches for a nearby, discarded sword. The boy sees this, and turns and runs.
So Shad does the only thing that makes sense: he chases after him.
Shad may no longer be the best, but he is still a killer. That is one thing he is certain of. Killing makes sense even in a world turned upside down.
(Maybe this is all Shad is. A killer. Maybe this is all he's destined to do. Just kill and kill and kill until nothing else is left. He thinks he can manage that.)
It isn't until he's past the Adventureland sign and his legs are starting to burn that he realizes he didn't call for backup. Although he feels fairly certain he won't need it, having a second person to outnumber your opponent is always a good thing.
But if he had backup, he might actually catch up to the boy. In his current state, he can't run very fast or very long, and he's already lagging behind. Still he attempts to breathe through the pain and keep going, because he will be damned if he lets this kill slip through his fingers.
He isn't even sure which tribute it is that he's chasing. As he runs, he goes through a mental checklist of the male tributes that are still alive but this boy's face rings no bells. Something tells him he's from an outer District—Eleven, maybe. Or is the guy from Eleven dead?
They run past the enormous tree house and down the path by the river. Shad stumbles to a stop, struggling to breathe through the pain ravaging his legs. He reaches out an arm for something to hold onto, groping blindly until his hand closes around the bar on an ornate fence. He straightens up slowly, searching for any sign of the boy he was chasing but finds him gone.
Shad is horribly vulnerable in his current position but his legs are screaming too much for him to even think about moving for cover. He drops his sword with a clatter, sliding to the ground with an attempt to conceal his groan of pain. He rolls up the legs of his shorts and notices that some of the cuts have reopened.
He glances around again, checking for possible assailants, and then he wonders who would even be a threat at this point. Scoria is, and maybe Bayou, but most everyone else in the arena isn't going to march up to him and kill him. That boy he was chasing could come back and kill him and Shad would struggle to put up a fight, but he hasn't done that. Who else in the arena is going to initiate confrontation like Shad just did? He's safe here. He's armed, he had a high training score, he's a Career. The outliers know to fear him.
With a jolt he remembers how amazing that feeling is. To know that he's feared, that the other tributes would never start a fight with him. Even injured they know he's more formidable than they are. Hell, almost half of the tributes left are younger than fifteen! What chance do they stand against him?
Shad stands with effort, still leaning against the ornate fence. He looks up, lifting his free hand to shield his eyes from the rain, and stumbles back upon seeing where he's taken refuge.
That awful, white mansion stands before him, tall and foreboding. He swears his legs hurt more at the sight of it.
He remembers the hatchet-wielding spectre, remembers the way it chased him and Bayou through the house, remembers the room that got longer and promised them that the only way out was to die. And he swears he can see the hatchet-wielding ghost standing up the path, but that's impossible. It disappeared as soon as they left the building. There's no way it could be there, just watching him curiously.
Shad reaches over the fence, grabs a handful of dirt from the flowerbeds, and throws it at the apparition. It fades, wavering, and then disappears.
Feeling oddly triumphant, Shad picks up his sword and starts walking back to the Cornucopia. That ghost may have screwed up his legs, but it's not a death sentence. Shad may not have gotten that boy, but he'll have another chance. He didn't do what he came here for, but it's not the end of the world. Maybe he wasn't the best, but he hasn't been for a while now. He can hear Old Shad cursing him in the distance, but he finds he doesn't care.
He chuckles to himself as he walks, slower this time, taking care to not injure his legs further. He imagines how pissed Scoria will be when he returns. Maybe she'll think he betrayed them and attack. Then Shad will get the final test of if he is the best or not.
Rain starts to fall harder, and Shad decides he'll take shelter in the Cornucopia when he returns. His clothes will need to dry anyway.
He strolls across Adventureland, imagining a tribute lurking on the edges, watching him in fear. They'll never have the confidence to attack unless they knew he couldn't fight back, because Shad has proven time and time again that he can best anyone.
(Except for hatchet-wielding ghosts, but that's beside the point.)
He bets this tribute would be cowering, afraid that he might spot them and attack, because he's a Career. He has a score of ten. He's strong, he's fearsome, and he is someone you don't want to mess with.
So, sure, maybe he isn't the best.
But that's okay, because he's still feared. And damnit, Shad will do anything to keep being feared.
Sterne Colvin, 14
District Five Male
Sterne can't sleep. It's partially because of the rain, partially because he's been here for too long, and partially because the population counter just ticked over to 000000003. Sterne is no longer alone in his safe haven.
He fumbles for the knife in his pocket, holding it in his hands like a lifeline, but he doesn't leave the houseboat. He knows that there were two Careers patrolling around the arena a few days ago, and if he comes into contact with them, he'll never win that fight.
So he bides his time, hoping to catch a glimpse of the intruders before deciding what to do. He doesn't want to fight, but he's reached a point in the Games where aggression has become necessary. He'll never get anywhere if he hides in a houseboat for the rest of his life.
Sterne carefully schools his expression, knowing he's probably on camera right now. The audience in the Capitol must be on the edge of their seats, wondering if he'll find the other tributes and what he'll do when he does. So he does his best to look unperturbed, even confident. He just can't let them know that he's afraid.
All Sterne wants is to turn and run. Just get out before something goes wrong. He might be able to escape, if he can find the other tributes. It's dark, it's raining, visibility is low. He might be able to get out undetected.
But should he? Will the Capitolites see it as a sign of cowardice? Sterne has yet to make a kill in these Games. He can prove himself here, attack the tributes, get a kill. Prove that he's a formidable player. He can do that, can't he? Can't he?
"What tribute do you think is in here?" It's a younger voice, definitely not one belonging to one of the Careers. Sterne breathes a sigh of relief before he reminds himself that he's not out of the woods yet. Any tribute is a dangerous tribute if he makes the wrong decision.
"I dunno," the other answers. "It's probably someone hiding. If they wanted to attack, I bet they would have done it already."
"Maybe. Just…don't let your guard down, okay, Ainsley?"
"Whatever."
Ainsley. That's the girl from Nine, isn't it? She must be with the girl from Eleven, then. Sterne remembers seeing them together during training. They probably won't attack him if they spot him. They don't seem like the types to jump into a fight like that. But he can attack them.
But if he does, is it a fight he can win? There's two of them. He could catch them by surprise and fell one of them before the other could even blink. It would be risky, but he might be able to do it.
And he has to do it. Killing is a necessity now, now that their numbers are getting down and people will be itching for action. Sterne can't just sit here anymore and hope the other tributes will wipe themselves out. He has to act, and he has to do it now.
Sterne raises the knife, taking a moment to wipe the sweat off of his hands, and then he carefully peers out of the houseboat.
Only standing a few feet in front of him with their backs turned are Ashe and Ainsley, just like Sterne figured. They both look soaked, so they must have been out in the rain for a while. For a moment, Sterne feels for them. They have also lost their allies to the Games.
He shakes his head. He's going to attack them. He's going to kill them. He can't afford to sympathize with them. They are his enemies.
Sterne takes a deep breath, adjusts his grip on his weapon, and charges.
The knife grazes Ainsley's shoulder, eliciting a hiss of pain from her. She whirls around in time with her ally, sending droplets of blood arcing through the air. Sterne stumbles back in panic, trying to decide what to do when his plan failed, brandishing his knife with both hands. Ashe attacks, holding a weapon of her own, but Ainsley, curiously, doesn't move.
Sterne doesn't give the girl from Nine second thought, too preoccupied with keeping Ashe back. He swings the knife wildly as he steps backward through the houseboat, phantom quacks accompanying his movements. Ashe follows, wielding a knife that's slightly bigger than Sterne's. As if he needed another disadvantage.
For a moment, neither of them move. Then Sterne takes another deep breath, trying to build himself up to it in a second, and he attacks.
It isn't a very pretty or a very graceful fight, considering the fact that neither of them are experienced in combat. However, Sterne falls into a rhythm, of slash, dodge, slash, dodge. But neither of them make very much progress, as most of the fighting consists of desperate stabs and last-minute dives.
Sterne throws himself forward, attempting to hit Ashe in the stomach, and suddenly they're both on the floor. Ashe trips over his discarded backpack and flops on top of him, and for a moment all Sterne feels is panic.
Then he feels pain.
The tip of Ashe's knife is digging into the palm of his hand. He squirms, trying to force the blade out of his skin, trying to buck Ashe off, trying to save himself somehow. He can feel blood slipping down his hand and forming a puddle on the ground. He glances at it and gags at the sight of his own lifeblood.
Ashe snatches his knife from his grip and throws it away, carelessly picking up her own. She holds it over him with shaking hands, seeming overcome with indecision.
(That's all Sterne needs.)
He manages to worm a hand toward his pocket and in one swift movement removes the key inside and jams it above Ashe's hip. The girl screams, rearing backward. She drops the knife, forcing Sterne to roll out of the way, where he remains on all fours.
Taking care with his hand, Sterne eases himself back onto his knees, looking around at the scene. Ashe, lying her side, having ripped out the key and tossed it onto the ground. The wound doesn't look grievous, which is unfortunate, but for a moment Sterne imagines himself coming home from a rough afternoon with an injured hand and proudly declaring to his family, "You should see the other guy!".
Ainsley remains in the same position as before, standing motionless, staring at the drying droplets of blood on the cobblestones. Sterne peers at her, wondering what's gotten into her. She would probably be an easy kill, but Sterne has had enough fighting for one night.
Sterne is just about to stand up and get the bandages from his pack when trumpets blare across the arena. All three of them startle. Sterne takes the opportunity to spring forward, snatch up his backpack, and scramble away from Ashe. The blood covered key rests in the palm of his injured hand.
"Greetings, and congratulations to the final twelve! We have a lovely surprise for you all: California Adventure is now open for business!"
Sterne moves away from the houseboat, brow furrowed as he listens to Orion Garnet's words. What the hell is California Adventure?
"However, admission is very hard to come by, as there are only eight tickets, and twelve of you! What a pickle."
Twelve of you. Eight tickets. Oh god.
"Now, in order to get inside, you have to find a key hidden somewhere in the park, and insert it in a specially marked door. You'll find one door with the Panem Seal in each land of the park, but the keys could be anywhere."
The key. The blood covered key in his hand. Sterne clenches his hand around it and breaks into a run. What if Ashe realizes that he has a key? What if she comes after him? He has to get out of here.
"Oh! I almost forgot—any tribute who does not find a key and a door will have their tracker exploded, subsequently killing them. That's all for now, and have a magical day in the Happiest Place in Panem!"
The population counter ticks over to 000000002, but Sterne doesn't stop running. He doesn't stop until he's at the base of the mountain, where he can't see anyone, and he sits on the ground and dry-heaves on the ground. He fumbles in his backpack for bandages, a cloth, anything to staunch the blood flow from his hand. He feels like he's swimming, but he's drowning, and he can't breathe. Everything is just too much, too much, too much—
"Fuck."
Sterne doesn't know if he's saying it because of the announcement, the wound, or just his life in general.
A/N: You have no idea how long I've waited to unveil this twist. Also, since at least four tributes are destined to die on day nine, who do you think it will be? How will our final eight end up looking?
ALLIANCES:
They Are Not Having a Good Time: Calista (D1F), Shad (D1M), Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M)
The OGs: Ainsley (D9F), Ashe (D11F)
Really Going Through It: Afandina (D10M)
Vengeful Ghost: Ishtar (D12F)
Definitely an Equinophobe Now: Everett (D9M)
Not Vibing: Wonder (D2M)
Fuck (reprise): Sterne (D5M)
Director of Bad Decision Making: Tam (D10F)
Next chapter will probably take a while, because it's going have like eight POVs so I'll see you whenever that happens.
Until next time,
-Amanda
