Ashe Illyrian, 14
District Eleven Female
Terror has weighed Ashe down since the moment the announcement came. She barely wasted a few moments to patch up the wound above her hip before she dragged Ainsley off to search. Because right now they're not playing the Hunger Games; they're playing a game of luck. Even if they move fast they still might lose. They could still run out of time, especially with the way Ainsley has been acting.
Ashe tugs her through Frontierland, keeping an eye out for other tributes, and the bandages on her hip shift, sending a stab of pain through her body. She silently curses Ainsley for abandoning her while she was fighting Sterne. If Ainsley had just stepped in, just done something other than stared at the ground like she wasn't even there, then Ashe might not have been injured. They might have even been able to take that boy down.
She startles. Did she want to kill Sterne?
Of course not. It's just…they're down to the final twelve. She has to start playing more aggressively if she wants any chance at getting out of here. And she does. She will get out of here.
"Ainsley," Ashe says. "Let's go in here." She points toward the sign that reads Pirates of the Caribbean.
"Okay." Ainsley glances off into the distance, a vacant look in her eyes.
"Ainsley," Ashe repeats, trying to get her attention. "Come on."
She pulls her ally under the archway. Together they duck under the chain-link ropes and make good time going through the maze. They trudge up a curved walkway and step into the building. Ashe pauses in the doorway, listening to the sound of someone singing a strange song about pirates and pillaging.
"Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me."
"What the hell is that?" Ashe says, looking around. Then she spots it; in front of her is a canal filled with boats bumping into each other. On the other side of the boats is a bird perched on a beach. It sings in a croaky voice, turning mechanically and lifting its head.
"Let's…hurry through this part," Ashe says, pushing Ainsley forward. The bird reminds her of Push the trashcan, and then she sees Eris's arm lodged in its teeth, and then Eris falls and—
As they walk through the pathway, Ainsley suddenly says, "Do you think that bird is going to attack us?"
"Not if we don't engage with it," Ashe says, shoving her forward. "Let's just move quickly and figure out if we can get on these boats."
"Okay."
The walkway straightens out into a loading dock. Lanterns hang from the rafters above them, giving it a certain ambience. Ashe can hear crickets chirping and water lapping against the sides of the canal. For a moment, it reminds her of home. The darkness, lit by kerosene or candles or whatever is in the lanterns. Bugs humming in the underbrush. She closes her eyes and breathes in deep.
A pair of boats rumble up onto the loading platform. Ashe and Ainsley climb into the front row of the first one, marked with the name Mystique on the sides. Somewhere above them, a man's voice warns them to keep their hands, feet and objects in the boat and to watch their children. Birds caw as they bump along the platform. The drop into open water makes both of them jump.
Ashe looks around, trying to ignore the late night scene before her and focus on finding the Seal of Panem. But it's difficult, now that the boat has dropped them into a bayou in the middle of the night, where a man sits on the porch of a rundown house and plays the banjo.
On the other side of the boat, an empty but well lit restaurant sits, bathed in a yellow glow. A sign on the far wall dubs it the Blue Bayou.
The boat drifts forward, slow and lazy, past the man with the banjo and into darkness. Lanterns hang from wall, but they don't offer much light. The same man's voice reminds them stay inside the boat.
An owl hoots. The voice signs off by saying, "Dead men tell no tales."
Somewhere beyond them, Ashe can hear water rushing, as if it's pouring downhill, and suddenly she grabs onto Ainsley's arm. "Ainsley, I think there's a waterfall up ahead!"
"What?" Ainsley splutters, leaning forward over the front of the boat. Her hands, which Ashe can see are white-knuckling the railing even in the dark, start to shake around their holds. "We need to get out of the boat!"
"But—they said—we need to stay in the boat!" Ashe exclaims, holding onto her ally to keep her from jumping ship.
"We're going to go over a waterfall!" Ainsley yells. "We'll die!"
"Hold on!" Ashe yells back, grabbing onto the railing with ferocity. A skull, lit by a spotlight, asks them if this adventure is worth it, and then they plunge over the edge.
Ashe and Ainsley scream in unison, holding on for dear life as they plummet down the drop, but it's not a sheer fall. It's on an incline, like they're just careening downhill. As they slam to a stop, water droplets spray Ashe in the face, forcing her to wipe her eyes in order to see.
An echoey voice sings, "Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me" as they drift through a cavern lit by blue lights.
And that's when Ashe sees it.
A key, floating on the surface of the still-churning water beside the boat. In a flash she reaches out and grabs it, pulling it out of the water with a plunk. Ashe glances at Ainsley and sees that she didn't seem to notice. The singing must have covered up the sound of Ashe reaching into the water.
(And it's clear to Ashe that after everything that's happened, all of Ainsley isn't here anymore. She tends to stare off into space, eyes searching for some unseeable point in the distance, like if she looks hard enough she'll find their allies alive and well again.)
Ashe pockets the key and pointedly doesn't think about the betrayal she's paying to her last ally left. The first and the last and Ashe intends on leaving her in the dust.
The Games really do that to a person, don't they?
They edge their way through the blue caverns for a while, listening to the man continue to sing about pirates and pillaging and saying, "Yo ho" a lot. They go down another drop, although this one is much smaller and easier to see coming, and for a moment, Ashe almost has fun. The adrenaline of thinking she was going over a waterfall has worn off, and now she has a key in her possession. A weight has lifted off of her shoulders, and for just a few, glorious seconds, she forgets where she is.
Then they turn a curve and come upon a beach draped with skeletons, and reality crashes back in with a bang.
"Do you…do you think those are real skeletons?" Ainsley says. Her hands continue to grip around the railing at the front of the boat like she's afraid she'll be vacuumed up into the sky.
"I don't know," Ashe says. "They might be."
For all she knows, those could be the skeletons of deceased tributes. She could be looking at the bones of Lyndie, Lana and Eris and she would never even know. The thought almost makes her gag.
But she tears her gaze away the skeletons and tries to search the cave for a door. The Seal of Panem should be obvious in a cavern like this, but she might have missed it. What if there was a door back by one of the drops? Or in the dark where the blue lights don't reach? What if she's already missed the door and another tribute has gotten to it? She could have lost her chance. All of the doors could be taken by now, and Ashe won't find out until she explodes. It sends a spike of panic through her body, knowing that she could literally blow up at any second. If Ashe found a key this easily, surely the others have keys by now too. They could have already found doors and already be in the other park and already have figured everything out and all at once Ashe can't breathe.
She couldn't save Lana or Eris. All she could do was avenge Lyndie. It isn't enough yet here she, about to spit on Ainsley's offer of allyship and abandon her at her most vulnerable.
A slow, echoing voice repeats, "Dead men tell no tales."
They pass into another scene, forcing Ashe to calm her breathing. This cavern echoes with thunder and flashes with lightning. Rain lashes at the rocks in the distance, but Ashe remains dry. When everything is lit up, it shows more skeletons, piloting a shipwreck stuck on rocks. Ashe's breath hitches in her chest again.
Around another corner they go, and the slow voice is replaced by jaunty flute music. There are more skeletons, this time coated in spiderwebs, hunched over a chessboard. Behind them is a ladder, and beside that ladder is a door.
A door with the Seal of Panem emblazoned on it.
Ashe doesn't think; she just moves. Desperation for her chance at salvation clouds her mind and all she can think about is getting to that door—and stopping Ainsley from beating her there. In one swift movement, Ashe reaches across the boat and grabs the discarded seatbelt. Before Ainsley even begins to react, Ashe knots it across her waist, effectively trapping her inside.
She doesn't afford a moment to pause and wonder what she's doing. All she does is stumble across the front of the boat and jump across the slim strait of water onto the sand. She bumps into one of the skeletons, but it doesn't budge. It doesn't even cross her notice as she fumbles to get the key out of her pocket, racing toward the door like it's the only thing left in the world.
In a way, it is. That door is a promise of a chance to keep living, because without it she will wind up dead. Ashe kicks another a skeleton out of the way, ignoring the pain that blossoms in her toes, the key clenched in her sweaty hand.
"Ashe?"
Ainsley's voice makes her turn, makes her remember herself for a moment.
"Ashe, what—what are you doing?" Ainsley tugs at the knot around her waist, the lanterns reflecting across her face and making her look almost monstrous. "Are you—is that a key? Have you had a key this entire time?" Her voice begins to rise in anger that is much more characteristic of the girl Ashe knows, and she struggles harder against the belt on her belt.
"I'm sorry, Ainsley," Ashe says, the key shaking her hand as she stumbles toward the door. "I'm sorry, but—but this is how it has to end, isn't it? Only one of us can win."
"Ashe!" Ainsley yells as the boat begins to disappear into the next room. "Ashe, you—you asshole! You can't do this!" She throws something as she drifts under the overhand, but whatever it is doesn't make it very far. It barely makes it to the sandbar before wind resistance tugs it to the ground.
Curious, Ashe warily approaches the little yellow thing and picks it up.
It's the sunflower. The knit sunflower that came from the parade. Ainsley had taken it with her. She remembers seeing Ainsley messing with it a few days ago, when they were all still camped out on that track. Now it's become frayed and dirty, but it's still the same sunflower. Ashe drifts a finger across the surface, thinking about what it represents. They agreed to be allies while discussing this flower. It was Ainsley's token. It serves as a reminder of their alliance—their alliance that couldn't keep each other alive and still ended up at each other's throats.
Every alliance in the Hunger Games always does.
Ashe takes a deep breath and drops the sunflower into the water. It sinks slowly, frayed threads reaching upward as if calling for help, but Ashe doesn't pick it up. When it disappears from view, Ashe turns away, biting her lip hard enough to fill her mouth with blood. Her hip stings but she ignores it.
For the first time, everyone in the arena now has it out for Ashe. There is no one she can trust not to attack her. Only now have the Games truly begun.
Ashe spits the blood from her mouth and jams the key into the door.
Afandina Hariri, 17
District Ten Male
After everything he's gone through in the past few days, Afandina will admit he's not doing so hot. He's wounded and aching and just attacked his only ally for little reason at all. At least he has the supplies. He needs those. Once he gets through one of these stupid doors, he'll be stocked up and prepared for whatever the hell California Adventure is.
Yeah. Yeah. He'll be fine. He'll be fine (he won't).
Afandina's not an idiot. He can do this. He can do this (he can't).
But he can't. He can't win. He won't win.
He will. He will win because that's what he does. He never loses (until he does). He always wins (except when he doesn't). He's Afandina Hariri, he doesn't lose (but he does).
He isn't even sure where he is. After his fight with Ishtar, he just started running and didn't stop. He's fairly certain he's in one of the shops south of the Cornucopia, judging by the racks of clothing and the sweet smell of confections wafting through the air. He doesn't know how he got here, either. Everything following the fight with Ishtar until the announcement came is a blur, an absolutely meaningless blur. Has he been asleep? It feels like it. Being dragged back to reality by the blaring of trumpets felt like waking from a nightmare. Or maybe he's still in a nightmare. It sure feels like it.
Okay, Afandina, he thinks. You have to get up now. You have to go look for the keys and the doors. You to have to survive.
Every movement he makes is robotic. Stand up. Gather supplies. Start walking. He commands himself to do every action, as if he is not quite in control of his body. Maybe he isn't (he is). His actions haven't really felt like his in a while, so maybe he is just an onlooker with minimal control over his life. It wouldn't surprise him (it would).
He moves with rigidity, trying to keep unfocused eyes on his surroundings in case another tribute is around. He doesn't know who else would want to hide out in a bakery, but at least the food must be good. If he had an appetite, he might pause for a few bites.
But he can't afford to waste time. He has a key to find and a door to enter. If he doesn't get through a door, he's dead. That's it. He'll die, and there will be no escaping his fate. So he must find a key and he must get a through a door. It's the only way to ensure that he will still be the best (he isn't).
And, thus, Afandina moves like a man who is turning to stone, but still he moves. He has to. There is no stopping. Stopping means failure. Stopping means no key. Stopping means death. So he doesn't stop.
He walks through the opening in the wall of the bakery that leads to what must be a clothing store. There's a section on the far wall dedicated to stuffed animals. Many of the stuffed animals have been knocked to the ground and arranged into a nest sort of formation. It tells Afandina that someone has been—or still is—here. He tries to make himself focus, tries to make himself remember what is at stake.
But his mind goes back to the fight with Ishtar, how he attacked the only person in the arena who wasn't actively trying to kill him for a few measly medical supplies.
Afandina isn't a very nice person. He has established that time and time again. But he would like to think that he isn't that mean.
Apparently, he is.
Carefully, he creeps toward the stuffed animal nest, looking around for signs of life. He sees none, but what he does see is a thousand times better.
Right there, on the wall, is a gray door emblazoned with the Panemian seal.
Afandina rears forward, excitement clouding his veins, finally having a stroke of good luck. After everything he has been through in the past week, he deserves a little good fortune, even if it must be short lived—wait.
He doesn't have a key. And for all he knows, the door has already been used.
His shoulders sag, the excitement and relief draining from his body, and once again he feels less than human. He is returned back to previous state; a passenger in his own body, calling out instructions that may or may not be heeded. Only a mere onlooker in his own life.
His stomach grumbles. He considers going back to the bakery for food and then setting out to look for a key. It seems like a good enough plan, so Afandina turns around and—oh.
Standing a few feet away from him, wielding nothing but a tiny knife, is Wonder Hammerfort, the little boy from Two. Afandina raises an unimpressed eyebrow at the boy, but Wonder is armed and Afandina is not. And, Wonder looks well fed and uninjured. More than Afandina can say right now. This could be a fight that he could lose.
Afandina almost laughs out loud at that idea. Losing to a child! A twelve-year-old boy, who stands at maybe five feet tall! The mere though is so absurd that Afandina struggles to control his glee.
He forgets to be entertained when Wonder charges. The boy reveals handfuls of keys—colorful keys, large keys, small keys, showy keys, pretentious keys, basic keys, any type of key under the sun—clasped in his little fingers. What Afandina had assumed was a knife turned out to be a large, elongated key with seal of Panem on it.
Afandina needs that. That must be the key to open the door. He has to get it.
So, they fight. Afandina has a significant height advantage, but Wonder is armed and fighting like a rabid, feral animal.
Afandina dodges the swings of keys and knocks Wonder back with his tried and true fists. It works like a charm (it doesn't) but somehow Afandina is losing.
It might be the keys. The keys do a surprising amount of damage; one catches Afandina on the forehead and opens a cut that bleeds a river of red into his eyes. Another is jammed into the joint of his right elbow, making him drop to his knees and scream.
For a moment, Wonder is motionless as Afandina screams on the ground, clawing at the key peeking out of his forearm. And then Wonder tackles him to the ground, throwing all of his weight (which can't be very much, the kid is almost skin and bones) onto to keeping Afandina on the ground.
Afandina grunts, blinded by the pain in his elbow and also the blood pouring into his eyes, but in his last few moments of any sort of sight, he sees Wonder swipe a square, yellow pillow with a small head sticking off of the front. He puzzles over what it is and what Wonder is going to do with it for a moment before the boy from Two slams it over his face.
It takes a moment to sink in.
Afandina tries to suck in a breath, but his air supply is cut off by a lion shaped pillow. He writhes on the floor, forgetting or ignoring the pain in his elbow, he isn't sure, because he can't breathe. He can't breathe. He's going to die here, suffocated by a goddamn pillow held by a tiny boy from District Two and he's going to die—
At first, he fights. He swings his fists and wiggles and kicks his legs but he never hits anything. Wherever Wonder is, he had the good conscience to get out of the way. He gags on the pillow in his mouth, feels tears burning his eyes, or maybe that's just blood and he's dying, he's dying, he's dyingdyingdyingdying—
He can't die. He just can't (but he does). There's still too much to do, too much to see too much to live. He has to stay alive, because he's the best, and the best doesn't get suffocated with a pillow on the floor of a clothing store in the middle of the Hunger Games. The best comes out on top, the Victor, the greatest, the remembered-forever. That's Afandina. That's supposed to be Afandina.
Afandina is the best. He's the best. He always has been. He always has been.
(He isn't).
His vision starts to turn strange colors and he gradually stops fighting. There's not enough, there's no air, and he can't breathe and he can't breathe and he can't breathe.
Such is the price of being the best, he muses as sensation dims in his body and his lack of air ceases to matter.
Ishtar Marmaduke, 18
District Twelve Female
The Cornucopia is deserted when Ishtar comes upon it. The supplies have been picked over, which tells her the Careers aren't planning on coming back. It gives her ample time to dig through what's left for a new pair of shoes. She takes a packet of knives too, figuring she can never be too well armed. Besides, any weapon is better than no weapon.
She grabs some bandages and starts to wrap the scratches on her shoulder. It hurts like a bitch, but she'll live.
Ishtar drops heavily onto an empty crate. She can tell it isn't that hot out, but she feels like she's been set on fire. That's probably not a good sign. She is reminded of the puss that leaked out of the scratches when she fought with Afandina and…
Afandina.
She needs to find him.
She's on her feet in a second, ignoring the wave of dizziness that crashes over her shoulders. She ducks out of the Cornucopia and turns in a circle, trying to decide where to start looking. Afandina ran away from her. She didn't get a chance to see where he went. But she will find him.
She needs to find him.
For a moment, she stands and gathers her thoughts. She feels unstable on her feet, but it's nothing to worry about. She's fine.
And she has to find him.
Ishtar takes a wild guess and starts to walk toward the castle, moving in a slightly crooked line. But that's nothing to worry about. She's fine.
And she has to find him.
She has to find him.
The castle looms in front of her, and as she begins to cross the drawbridge, a cannon fires. It makes her stop in her tracks, because that could belong to Afandina. That could signal that somewhere in the arena, Afandina just died and his body will be dragged from the arena and the picture will go with it and the last piece of Jayce in the world will be stolen from her forever—
But how does she find him? He could be anywhere. He could already have gotten through a door, for all she knows.
She knows one thing, and one thing only: she needs to find him.
Ishtar wipes sweat from her brow and continues across the drawbridge. It doesn't matter how long it takes. It doesn't matter what happens. She will find him. She will get the picture back. She will kill him for ever taking it in the first place. She will make him pay. He has to pay.
Her eyes blaze with fever and resolve. Her wounds are infected. But she has never let anything slow her down before, and this will not be the first time.
A noise over her shoulder makes her turn. It sounds like a door opening and closing on the other side of the Cornucopia. Ishtar walks back that way, intent on checking it out. It could be Afandina. It could Afandina.
Light reflects off of something in the sky, momentarily blinding her. She peers upward when her vision clears, spotting the hovercraft that must have just materialized as it drifts silently overhead. It's funny; she always thought that the hovercraft were loud. That's what she heard back in Twelve, anyway.
She steps around the Cornucopia and freezes.
On the steps of one of the stores, someone left a body. The body of Afandina Hariri. She can see the backpack slung over his shoulder, half-unzipped. There's a spot of blood drying on the fabric that wasn't there before.
She doesn't think. Her vision tunnels on that backpack, and she runs.
A claw begins to descend from the hovercraft to drag his body away, and more importantly, the photo. The one piece of Jayce left in the world.
Ishtar runs faster, ignoring the dizziness that crashes over her shoulders. She can't stop. For Jayce.
She closes the distance, but she isn't fast enough. She isn't fast enough.
The claw closes around Afandina's body. Ishtar trips to a stop, reaching blindly, desperately, for the backpack, but it's out of reach. Within a few seconds, Afandina's body disappears into the hovercraft, and it's gone.
It's gone.
It's gone.
It's gone.
It can't be gone. The picture can't be gone. Her last chance at revenge can't be gone. Ishtar watches the sky, even long after the hovercraft vanishes. She stares into the abyss, waiting for it to stare back. That photo was the last piece of Jayce she could hold onto. She needs it back. She needs some reassurance that Jayce was ever real.
(Sometimes, in those long years she spent alone in District Twelve, she wondered. Maybe Jayce had always just been a pleasant dream.)
Once Ishtar is done being dejected, she gets angry. She jumps to her feet, marches into the nearest store, and tears the place to pieces. She doesn't care who hears her. She doesn't care if someone comes to fight her. In fact, she would welcome it! A chance to let off some steam on some random tribute that deserves it…it sounds wonderful.
No one hears her. No one comes to fight her. Disappointing.
Eventually, she leaves. She walks back across the drawbridge toward the castle and does everything in her power to not turn around. She finds herself a key hanging off of the drawbridge's chains and thinks, at least one thing has gone alright since this began. She pockets it and keeps walking. If she stops, she might never start again.
Ishtar fans herself as she walks, wishing for an ice bath to dunk herself in. She presses on the scratches on her shoulder, which accomplishes nothing but making her stumble. She picks one of the buildings at random, hoping it has air conditioning.
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride does not, in fact, have air conditioning. But it does have a place to sit down, so Ishtar is willing to count it as a win. The music is loud, and a voice with a weird accent keeps telling her to have a jolly good time, but a chair is a chair. This particular chair is in what looks like an ancient car, complete with a lap bar (that Ishtar does not pull down) and a tiny steering wheel (that does not control the car's movements).
The car moves through various scenes with fast and jerky movements. The music remains too loud. Ishtar lets the car take her through a library and down a hallway, past a restaurant and through many silly near-death experiences. A cardboard Peacekeeper tells her to stop before she gets hit by a train, she almost drives off of a wharf, narrowly escapes an explosion and nearly gets hit by a car.
All of it passes beneath her notice. Although her eyes follow the strangeness going on around her, the rest of her is elsewhere. Because she was so close to…to…well, a lot of things. She was so close to having Jayce back. She was so close to keeping Jayce safe. She was so close to getting revenge. She was so close to getting her picture back.
Ishtar's life has been nothing but a parade of "almost", and she is sick of it. She decides, right then and there, as her strange little car drives through a bar, that she will not be an "almost" again. She will not be Ishtar Marmaduke, the Almost-Victor. She will not be Jayce's Almost-Love. She was no longer be an almost-anything.
This time, the car really does get hit the by the train. At least, that's Ishtar's best guess, because the car swerves away and they bank a turn into Hell.
Ishtar doesn't know where the concepts of Heaven and Hell come from. No one around District Twelve really does. It's a vague form of superstition that carries over from a time long before the Dark Days. Ishtar can remember being a little girl in the market and listening to an older boy warn the kindergarteners about going to Hell. He told them it was a fiery place where kids who stood up to bullies went when they died.
Of course, Ishtar doubts that last part now, but the lesson remains. Bad people go to Hell. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Ishtar wonders if this is a sign.
It must be a sign, but not the kind she thought of initially. It must be a sign, because right beyond the columns of flames is a door. The Seal of Panem, tucked in a corner, where it could be so easily missed.
But Ishtar does not miss it. She jumps out of the car, glad she did not put down the lap bar, and stumbles across the track toward the door. She could swear the room gets hotter as she moves, and she jams the key into the lock, she wonders if that's real smoke she's smelling. It didn't smell like smoke before. But in the end, it doesn't particularly matter.
Ishtar is not an Almost-Finalist. She steps through the door and solidifies her place in the Final Eight, resolving herself to never be anything less.
Sterne Colvin, 14
District Five Male
Despite the security of already having a key, Sterne hasn't had any luck finding a door. Fear has crept up on him, voices whispering in his ear that there might only be one door left, or maybe there are none, and he's already screwed.
Sterne shuts them out and powers on, because until he explodes, he hasn't lost. He's still in this, and he's in it to win it.
He finds the Cornucopia deserted when he comes across it. Stacks of supplies still sit in heaps around it, but there are no Careers to be found. Just to be safe, Sterne peeks inside, making sure no one is hiding out to attack him, and luckily finds none. If the Careers were here, they've since moved on.
So, Sterne takes the opportunity to loot the remaining supplies. He has no idea what California Adventure may entail, and if food will be readily available like it is here. Besides, he needs more weapons and medical equipment. So Sterne stocks up; he stuffs his backpack full of bandages, a sleeping bag, a flashlight, whatever left over items he can find. Lastly, he picks up a small sword. It fits snugly in his hand, and he slashes it around for a few moments, trying to get a feel with using it. He has next to no experience with one in his hands, but swords are formidable. It's the kind of weapon that makes him look dangerous. He needs that.
By the time he leaves the Cornucopia behind, the cut on his hand is burning and he knows he needs to change the bandages. Lucky for him, he just stocked up.
He ducks under a sign boasting The Enchanted Tiki Room and hurries toward the doors of a straw-roofed house. Cheerful music rings in his ears.
The room inside is dimly lit and filled with rows of benches. Sterne weaves his way toward the center, marveling at the dozens of birds perched on branches hanging from the ceiling. Each one is a different color and size, covered in beautiful feathers and moving robotically. Sterne watches them all for a moment before he realizes just how easily they could kill him. Each of them is also armed with a set of talons, and Sterne doesn't want to know how easily those could cut through his skin.
The birds almost make him leave and find a different place to rebandage his hand. He goes so far to turn around and start toward the exit when something catches his eye.
One of the benches is overturned and missing a post. A few feet behind it, a figure stands, obscured by shadow. Whoever they are, they are brandishing the leg of a bench and guarding something with their life.
Sterne steps forward and reaches for his flashlight as the birds overhead begin to come alive, chattering in eerily-human voices. He glances at them, making sure they are all staying in place and not attacking. All of them remain rooted to their perches.
He flicks the flashlight on, and the figure is bathed in light.
Everett Reed stares back at him, eyes a little wild, holding the table leg out like a sword, desperation coloring his features. For the life of him, Sterne can't remember anything remarkable about him. Not a training score, not anything from his interview, not even his age. But he does know one thing—the Games have not been kind to Everett Reed.
(The Games have not been kind to Sterne, either. He knows that. He knows that, because he reaches for his sword without hesitation, key tucked safely into the waistband of his pants. The blade fits in his hands, ready and waiting for him to attack.)
The birds squawk over their heads, singing nonsensical songs and only making Sterne want to leave this place quicker. They might get bored and attack at any moment.
He drops the flashlight. It illuminates the wall behind Everett, where Sterne can see light reflecting off of the Seal of Panem, emblazoned on a metal door, clear as day.
He doesn't think. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't see a person before him, only an enemy. He just charges.
Everett's bench leg is nothing against Sterne's sword. Their blades clash, Everett bringing his up at the last second, and Sterne presses hard. The wood starts to crack, and Everett shoves him off. Sterne stumbles backward, tripping over a bench and landing hard on his tailbone.
He doesn't let that stop him. Doesn't even allow it to faze him. He only gets up and keeps fighting. It's the only thing he can do. It's the only thing he knows how to do.
Metal meets wood once more, and this time, the leg splinters. Sharp fragments go flying through the air as Everett drops his weapon, raising his fists as if that is any match for a sword.
Sterne nearly scoffs as how easy this is going to be, staring down his weaponless-enemy with little concern. He raises his sword again, preparing to swipe down the tribute before him, when something comes flying at his face.
The water bottle smacks him right in the nose, sending him reeling backward. His sword slips from his grip, landing on the ground with the clatter. Everett advances, still armed with nothing but his hands.
Sterne recovers quick enough, and by time Everett has thrown a punch, Sterne is ready. He dodges, throwing all of his weight toward the ground, toward his sword. He just has to get his hands on it, just has to make it those few feet.
Everett stamps on his hand before he can get there, crushing the cut on his palm into the wooden floor. Sterne can't help the scream that tears from his throat, causing his vision to momentarily pulse white. The blurriness passes just in time for Sterne to see Everett bring the sword down on his face.
He rolls out of the way at the last second, scrambling to his feet and whipping his backpack off of his shoulders. Blood arcs through the air, flying from his aching nose, but Sterne pays it no mind. He stumbles backwards, trying to stay out of Everett's reach as he desperately searches through his backpack for anything useful. At last, he produces a small knife, the one he had used to try and kill Ashe.
A painful sching! sound echoes as he brings the knife up to meet the sword. It barely holds it back.
All of the while, the birds continue to chatter and sing, oblivious to the fight going on below them.
Sterne is aware of the height and muscle disadvantage. He can tell from just looking at Everett that he was a field worker in his home District. And now that the sword is in Everett's hands—well, Sterne begins to truly fear for his life.
They clash again, Sterne leaning out of the way of the blade with seconds to spare. It catches him on the arm, cutting open his shirt sleeve and splattering blood on the ground. The pain starts to wear on him, but Sterne refuses to stop fighting. He doesn't know how to to—the only thing on his mind is survival. He slashes this time, going in for the offensive, but Everett dodges. It passes through his head like a mantra as he advances, attacks becoming more violent and desperate as he struggles to keep on his feet.
Finally, he sees it. The opening he needs. Everett loses his balance, swinging the sword too violently, and Sterne takes the only chance he may get.
He brings down the knife, slamming it straight into Everett's skull, and he hears the sword bang against the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a cannon fires.
Sterne rights an overturned bench and sits heavily, catching his breath. After a moment, he digs into his backpack for a roll of a bandages and carefully begins to fix his wounds. He starts with his hand, feeling each bone to check for breaks. He doesn't find any, so he rebandages the cut on his palm and moves on. His nose seems to be in working order, so he slaps a bandage over the cut on his arm and wipes up the blood. Most of it has dried on his skin, and he doesn't feel like getting up for water. Besides, if he lets the door out of his sight, he might lose it.
Lastly, he checks on the key. It's still there. He pulls it out and stares at it, crusted blood and all. He moves his feet when the puddle of blood reaches them and starts to soak into the soles.
The birds have gone silent. Sterne glances up at them, expecting to find them all baring their razor-sharp talons at him. They all remain on their perches, docile and still. It feels eerie now.
Eventually, Sterne stands, key in hand. He gathers up his belongings, fitting them all into the backpack, and slings it over his shoulder. He bends over and removes the knife from Everett's forehead, wiping blood and brain matter off on Everett's shirt.
He expected his hands to shake. He expected to break down in tears. He expected a reaction.
But Sterne stands and stares at Everett's corpse, and feels nothing but detachment. Everett was an enemy. A tribute. Tributes are not people. They cannot be people, not if Sterne wants to win. Tributes are nothing but obstacles that stand between him and his prize. So he has to cut them down. It is either them or him.
Sterne steps carelessly over the corpse and inserts the key into the door. It fits perfectly, and the door swings open. Sterne adjusts his backpack and steps into the black.
He does not spare the corpse of his own making a second glance.
Scoria Primer, 18
District Two Female
The split was a quiet affair. Scoria and Bayou agreed to go one way, and Shad and Calista went the other. Scoria doesn't know what will happen if she crosses paths with the pair from District One again. Will they fight? Will their alliance continue? She doesn't know, and she hates not knowing.
But in order for them to cross paths again, all three of them have to live.
You'll notice that she does not include Bayou in that tally. No, today Bayou has to die. She has to kill him.
She has to. Even if it feels…bad, almost.
Scoria clenches her hands into fists, glancing at Bayou with trepidation, angry at herself for feeling anything. Bayou has outlived his uses. At least, that is what she has been trying to convince herself of. But while the Ones have been off fighting their own feud or whatever is up with them, Scoria has formed an odd sense of camaraderie with Bayou. He isn't very smart, but he's nice.
Somewhere in the distance, she can hear her father screaming it at her. "KILL HIM!" he commands, much like the night Favio died. "Do your job, and I may forgive you."
Does she want forgiveness? She spilled one of his dirtiest secrets for the whole of Panem to see. If she comes home, what will he do? Will he kill her? Will he arrest her? Does she care?
It may not even matter. Somewhere along the way, Scoria stopped thinking of her Victory as a "when". There are eleven tributes left in the arena, going off of the earlier cannon shot, but she has never felt more uncertain of her future. It has become an "if" and only an "if".
"Scoria," Bayou says, looking at something above their heads.
"What?" Scoria says, tilting her head upward. Her eyes rove around for a moment before she spots it: a small, gray key, dangling from a marquee sign almost five feet above them. As soon as she sees it, she begins to wonder how they're going to get it down.
There aren't any good footholds on the wall the sign sticks off of, although climbing it wouldn't be impossible. They might be able to boost each other up but she doubts they would get high enough. All of the nearby benches are bolted to the ground.
"Here," Bayou says, handing her the lengthy spear he had taken from the Cornucopia. "It'll be jus' like hittin' a pinata."
Scoria accepts the spear, pretending that she has hit a pinata before, and swings at the key. She narrowly misses catching the wire it hangs from. She misses the second time as well, but on the third try, the wire snaps and the key lands with a quiet clatter on the cobblestones between them.
For a moment, neither of them move. And then, as if overtaken by an animalistic need to be the one that makes it out, Scoria and Bayou spring forward in near unison, hands grappling against each other for the little piece of metallic salvation between them.
Scoria's vision tunnels in on the key. She has to get it. If she doesn't, she might die. So she shoves and kicks and fights dirty.
Their hands slam into the key at the same time, and it goes flying another few feet. Scoria dives, but Bayou dives faster, and they knock heads, sending both of them rearing back. Scoria recovers first and bolts to her feet. She steps toward the key but Bayou appears from behind and tackles her back to the ground. They crash in a whirlwind of limbs and suddenly the spear is in her hand and she's straddling Bayou and plunging it into his chest—
Except she doesn't do that. She can see it, in her mind's eye, can watch herself kill Bayou Hacksom, can hear her father screaming at her all of the way in District Two, can hear him commanding her to do it, to kill him, to do what she is conditioned to do. But she doesn't do it.
She holds the spear over Bayou's chest, inches away from ending his life, and her shoulders heave with breath. She stares at him, both of them unmoving. She meets his eyes, sees the fear saturating them, and she almost puts down the spear.
Almost.
Because Bayou is the enemy. All of the tributes are. She has to kill them if she wants to go home.
So she should kill Bayou.
She should kill Bayou.
She should kill Bayou.
Shouldn't she?
If she does, she'll become exactly what her father wants her to be. Bayou is her…friend. Yes, he is a friend. She's pretty sure, at least. So she shouldn't kill him. If he is her friend, then she can't kill him. She won't be what her father wants her to be.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, he screams, "FINISH IT!"
Scoria puts down the spear and hauls herself to her feet. She extends a hand to help Bayou up. Her father's voice goes silent.
After a moment of hesitation, Bayou takes her hand and she pulls him up from the ground. They stand there for a moment, tension thick in the air, unsure of what to do next.
Scoria bends down, picks up the key, and says, "Come on. We should…get looking. For a door."
"Righ'," Bayou says in a hollow voice. Scoria eyes him for a moment, wondering if she should apologize. She's never done that before.
They walk in uncomfortable silence toward the building labeled Star Tours. After a brief conversation, they decide to look inside, since there's no guarantee that any of these buildings are safe to enter. They may as well take a chance and go inside.
The interior is a walkway of sorts. Metal bars separate the floor into pathways, and the whole room is dark. A set of spotlights shine on what looks like a tricked up Capitol hovercraft. It's red and white striped, shaped vaguely like a shoe, and sporting a bright red door with the Panemian Seal emblazoned on the side.
"Huh," Bayou says, vocalizing exactly what Scoria is thinking.
Scoria twirls the key between her fingers. "You should take this."
(Somewhere in District Two, her father curses her name. Scoria does not listen.)
"I should?" Bayou says incredulously. "Why?"
"There are more doors," Scoria says. "I'm willing to fight for one. You should take this one."
"I'm willin' to figh' for one too," Bayou says.
A part of Scoria—an older part, she thinks, a colder part—wants to agree with him. Wants to leave him behind. Wants to take the key, rush the door, and dash through it before Bayou could even begin to react. It wouldn't even be hard. She could take Bayou in a fight any day.
But she doesn't want to.
It feels like a foreign concept, doing things because she does or doesn't want to. She never wanted to volunteer for the Hunger Games. She never wanted to kill Favio. She doesn't want to kill Bayou.
So she shoves the key into his hand. "Go. Go on, before I change my mind." She injects a little venom into her voice, just to convince Bayou that she might decide to not let him go after all.
Bayou, still looking confused, closes his fist around the key and climbs over one of the metal railings. "Are you sure?" he asks, pausing halfway between the door and his ally.
Scoria hesitates. This is the kind of thing you do for friends, right? She isn't entirely sure. She's only ever really had one friend before, and everyone knows how that turned out. But letting Bayou take the door—that shows she cares, doesn't it? It proves that they're friends. She wants them to be friends. "I'm sure."
"Okay." Bayou hoists himself up on the railing that separates the path from the ship. He steals a glance back at Scoria and adds, "We'll find each other in the new arena, righ'?"
"Of course," Scoria says. "We'll find a way. This alliance isn't over."
Bayou nods, once, and sticks the key into the lock. "Good luck…Scoria," he says as he opens the door, balanced precariously on the railing.
"Thanks," she says, but she doesn't think he hears her. He steps into the door and disappears.
Scoria stands there for a moment, staring at the striped spaceship, and wonders if she just made a mistake.
She finds another key shoved in a potted plant on the other side of the Cornucopia. There must be hundreds of keys in the arena, she assumes. After all, the keys aren't what they're fighting for—it's the doors. And there are only eight of those. At least one has been taken.
As she walks toward Frontierland, she wishes there was a counter or something. Anything to tell her how many chances she has left and if she just squandered her only shot at salvation.
Well, she decides. If I die because of this, at least Bayou might have a chance of winning. He's my…friend. So if he wins, it's better than if any of the others do.
But that doesn't mean she's going to let herself die. No, Scoria will fight tooth and nail to take victory, even if it means killing Bayou. If it comes down to the two of them, she'll kill him. There will be no room for selflessness in the final two. Some would argue that there is no room for selflessness period, but Scoria has already made that decision. She did the first selfless thing of her life, and it could get her killed.
In some weird, twisted way, that might make it okay. Perhaps it is a way to repay her sins.
She holds the second key in one hand, the spear she almost killed Bayou with clenched in the other, and she prowls through Frontierland, on the look out for the Seal of Panem. There is no sign of movement, no indication that she is encroaching on the Ones' territory. Perhaps both of them already got through the doors. She won't know unless she lives to see the anthem tonight.
For a few moments, Scoria pauses by the minecart mountain. She thinks of Calista's report that Ottilie was crushed by one of those minecarts. She had looked haunted when she described it. It had made Scoria realize that Calista may not be as heartless as she thought and…
Her roaming eyes land on a panel of wood on the adjacent shooting range's counter. Except although it's sandwiched between panels of wood, this one is made of metal. The Seal of Panem stares back at her, inviting her to use her key and step inside.
In a few seconds, she is kneeling in front of it. It's only about half her height. In order to get inside, she'll have to go in legs first, which does not make her feel very confident.
Still, Scoria inserts the key into the lock and pulls the half-door open. She sticks her head inside, trying to see what she is getting herself into, but it's nothing but darkness. She adds an arm, feeling around for a wall or ceiling or anything to grab onto, but finds none. It's nothing but blackness and emptiness.
Then something slams into the back of her neck and shatters. She loses her grip and her footing, and goes tumbling headfirst into the darkness.
Tamarah "Tam" Colt, 16
District Ten Female
"No, no, no, nononononono—" Tam grapples with the metal panel as it swings shut, kneeling on shards of the broken bottle she wielded without noticing. That was her chance. If only she had aimed better, hit the back of Scoria's head instead of her neck. Then, the girl would have been knocked out, maybe worse, and Tam could have stolen the door. She would have been home free.
Now, all she is is soaked in alcohol, dripping blood from various glass-related cuts, and no closer to safe than she was before.
She sits back on her knees, staring at the Panemian Seal on the door. It stares back, taunting her.
The arena is eerily quiet. Tam freezes at the realization; what if she's the only tribute left in it? What if she's about to explode because she didn't get to a door quick enough? She's already heard two cannon shots. It wouldn't be that weird for her to miss a third.
She waits for a few moments to explode, but nothing happens.
Tam blinks a few times, trying to clear her head. This whole "going without alcohol" thing is not agreeing with her. But she needs a clear head in order to get out of here alive, and the withdrawal symptoms probably won't set in until tomorrow. By then, she'll have found a new source of alcohol. Besides, she's got a couple bottles with her, to use as weapons.
Yes. Weapons. Not…to drink, or anything. Absolutely not. She's being responsible.
She is! Really.
Tam takes out one of the bottles and unscrews the cap.
Just as she's about to put it to her lips, she stops. She can smell the alcohol, can feel the relief, can almost taste it on her tongue, but she doesn't drink.
She shouldn't. For Liesel.
Yeah. For Liesel. She needs to live for Liesel. It's what Liesel deserves. Not Not-Liesel. But Liesel.
Tam gathers up her bottles and stumbles over to the river. She leans over the railing, and, one by one, she unscrews the caps and dumps the alcohol into the water. Once she has emptied all of them, she sets the bottles down and stares at the dissipating liquid. Maybe she just made a mistake. Trying to get clean in the Hunger Games probably isn't the smartest decision, but it's something she…something she needs to do.
Yeah. Yeah, she does. If not herself, for Liesel.
She doesn't know why it's taken her this long to figure it out. She may not be able to avenge Liesel's death, but she can make sure it wasn't in vain.
Tam sets aside one of the bottles to use as a weapon, promising herself she'll have better aim next time. Then she snatches up one of the other bottles and throws it as hard as she can toward the island in the middle of the river. It doesn't even get close to hitting land, and the distant plunk when it sinks into the water isn't very satisfying.
She turns, another bottle in her hand, intending to throw it at the door that Scoria went through, but finds it gone. None of the panels on the shooting gallery counter have the Seal of Panem on them. They're all made of wood, not metal.
Tam shrugs and throws the bottle anyway.
As she continues to destroy the evidence of her addiction, she reminds herself that she's making a lot of noise. She could attract another tribute. But right now, she figures that getting to a door is more pressing than killing the alcoholic girl from Ten.
The doors.
Tam smashes the last bottle on the railing and starts to move. All of this will be for nothing if she doesn't find a door. And she has to find a door so she can win. For Liesel. Not for herself. For Liesel.
(Maybe if she tells herself that enough times, she'll start to believe it.)
She walks toward the mansion across from the river, wielding one broken bottle and one whole bottle. Blood drips down her legs from the cuts on her knees. Her skin is discolored. Her steps are uneven, her path wayward, and her eyes filled with nothing but blind determination. The beginning of a headache beats at the back of her eyes.
She does not look like a Victor of the Hunger Games.
But she has to be. There is no other way.
For Liesel. For…
"You need to stop and rest, Cal?"
"I'm fine, Shad. Stop worrying about me."
"Whatever. Just don't pass out on me, because I will leave you behind."
"I'm not going to pass out, Shad!"
Tam dives over the fence beside her as the pair from One round the corner, landing face down in a garden box. Plants crunch beneath her as she ever so slowly turns her head so she doesn't swallow any dirt. She doesn't dare to shift her position to get a better look at them. The half-wall of bricks surrounding the plants will conceal her, but not if she draws attention to herself.
Barely confident enough to breathe, Tam lays with an ear pressed against the ground, broken bottle digging into her thigh, and waits for them to move on.
The sound of someone sitting down heavily on the other side of the bricks makes her breath catch in her chest. She can see the very top of Shad's head peeking over the wall. He must have sat on the ground.
"What are you doing?" Calista snaps.
"I'm sitting," Shad says. "I'm injured too, Cal. We both need to be running at the fullest capacity we can be."
"Well, while you're sitting there resting, the other tributes are running about taking the doors. I bet Scoria and Bayou have already found doors. We're going to run out of time," Calista says.
Tam smiles slightly before she remembers that she is no closer to getting through today than they are. For all they know, there is one door left, and someone is going through it right now.
Again, she almost expects to explode right here. Of course, nothing happens. But the fear is real.
Calista comes over and leans against the ornate fence. She sighs. "I guess…a momentary break can't hurt."
"How's your hand?"
"What hand?"
"Touché."
They fall silent for a few moments, and Tam doesn't even dare to breathe. Any sound could clue them into her presence. They're so close. They could discover her so easily.
And they do.
"Um. Shad," Calista says.
"Hm?"
"Look behind you."
Shad stands up and peers down into the garden box. Tam stares back at the pair from One, for a moment frozen with fear.
And then she springs into action. She snatches up the broken bottle and takes a wild swing at Calista's face. The shards catch her in the eye, tearing through the skin and sending blood arching through the air. Calista screams, dropping to the ground with her remaining hand clutched around her eye socket. Tam takes her shot and leaps over the fence. Her foot gets caught and she goes tumbling to the ground, tearing her pant legs further and skinning her knees (as if they weren't already bloody enough). Shad grabs at her feet, but she manages to nail him in the nose with an expertly placed kick and then she's fleeing.
Shad begins to give chase, but apparently decides she isn't worth it.
As Tam runs, she chances a glance over her shoulder. What she sees haunts her—Calista removes her hand from her face, revealing half of an eye coated in blood. The skin around it sports deep gashes like something akin to claw marks. Tam almost stops to retch, but decides she can throw up as much as she likes once she is out of sight.
That was her fault. She did that.
She swiped Calista in the face with a broken bottle and tore out part of her eye. That's the kind of injury tributes don't come back from. It would have taken a miracle for Calista to win without her hand, but now she's as good as dead.
Tam can't decide if she's supposed to feel bad or not.
Liesel would want her to feel bad, she thinks. Liesel would have joked about it, but would have been horrified.
Tam is supposed to feel bad. All she feels is grossed out. She wants to throw up, but not because she did that. Because of how disgusting the damage was.
She ducks around the side of a building and vomits on the ground. Calista's shredded face is an image she'll never get out of her mind. She sinks down the wall into a sitting position, making sure to rest a ways away from the puddle of throw up, and listens to the pair from One talk.
"Just…slap some bandages on it, Shad! It doesn't matter! This isn't over yet!"
"Come on, Cal—that's gotta hurt like a bitch."
"Who cares if it hurts? We need to get to those doors!" A pause. "Give me those!"
A short, high-pitched scream splits the air.
"I'm—fine, Shad! I'm fine!" Tam hears the sound of a scuffle, as if Shad and Calista are fighting over something. "See? There. I'm fine. Now…let's go toward that…that mountain. With all of the water."
"Maybe we should wait a few minutes. You look like you're about to pass out."
"I. Am. Fine. Come on."
Tam peers around the corner and sees Shad leading a staggering Calista by the wrist toward the mountain past the mansion. She grips her intact bottle and darts out into the open. Neither Calista nor Shad notice her.
They'll make easy targets. Calista is injured and refusing to admit it. Shad is going soft. They'll lead her right to a door, and then she'll kill them to get what she wants.
"Hang on, Liesel," Tam whispers under her breath. "This is all for you."
Ainsley Platte, 14
District Nine Female
And just like that, Ainsley is alone.
It's not as if she hasn't been alone before; back in District Nine, she never had many friends. Nobody has ever really been fond of her. At least, not until she got allies. They were her friends. That was how she saw them, anyway.
Apparently, she is the only one who saw them that way. Ashe must have seen her as nothing but a means to an end. Ashe betrayed her. Ashe stabbed her in the back and ran off on her own.
Ainsley stumbles over her feet as the sun beats down on her back. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, she sees a wide paved channel, littered with discarded roses. She hears footsteps, the voice of a girl she thought she could trust say, "Ainsley Platte." Just as quickly, she hears Lana scream, watches herself stand idly by as Bayou throws her ally to the wolves. She blinks, and sees Eris's face projected in the sky, listens to Ashe explain what happened with detachment. She zeroes in on Ashe and sees her kill Navarro without hesitation.
She pauses, reminding herself that all of this was inevitable. Betrayal is inevitable. Dead allies was inevitable.
If she didn't want to get burned, she shouldn't have played with fire.
Alliances are always predestined to fail. After all, there is only one winner.
Ainsley moves again, forcing herself forward, powered on nothing but desperation and spite. She finds herself walking back toward Toontown, where she stood by and watched Ashe fight Sterne for her life. It is all she is capable of, after all—standing by. Watching the world go on without her.
(And, maybe there was a part of her that wanted Sterne to get Ashe. Yesterday, she cared about Ashe, but if she had died to Sterne's hand, then Ainsley wouldn't have to kill her. Now? Now, all Ainsley wants to do is sink a knife into Ashe's flesh.)
The population ticker flips over to 000000001 as she passes beneath the bridge. There is a key in her pocket—she found it shoved in a bucket of popcorn a few hours ago—so she keeps her eyes peeled for a door. She doubts that anyone has used the Toontown one yet, if the population tracker is to be trusted.
She walks past the houseboat where Sterne and Ashe fought. There is still blood dried on the fake floorboards. Ainsley walks faster.
She peeks into various buildings, finding them all filled with cartoonish, plastic furniture but void of doors with the Capitol Seal on them. When she ducks out of a pink and purple house, she notices that the sun has started to set. It makes her wonder how many doors are left. She may be almost out of time.
So, she searches faster.
The next building Ainsley comes upon does not look very trustworthy. The marquee sign over the open doors reads Roger Rabbit's Car Toon Spin, and features a train with a face smashing through a wall. But Ainsley must cover all of her bases, so she steps inside.
Ainsley almost turns around and leaves when she steps into a loading zone. Little yellow cars—with faces, of course—are this building's chosen vehicle. They each stop for a few moments at the loading bay, and then careen around a corner into darkness.
As Ainsley climbs over the metal dividers, dejectedly heading for the yellow cars, she wonders what kind of arena this is, anyway. None of it really makes any sense. Why couldn't it be a simple arena? Like a forest, or a desert, or a tundra? Why does it have to be whatever this is? She would kill to be in a normal arena.
Well. Maybe that's not the best analogy.
Ainsley sits in one of the yellow cars and pointedly does not fasten her seatbelt. It reminds her of Ashe. Of Ashe, tying her to her seat, trapping her in place, so Ashe could run off and save herself. She doesn't think she will ever get over that betrayal. She trusted Ashe. She trusted Ashe, and then she went and threw it all away.
(Deep down, Ainsley does know that it was inevitable. Of course it was. No alliance lasts forever. But this whole time, Ainsley has deluded herself by thinking their alliance would be one that ends because all but one of them die. Not because Ashe, the one she thought she could trust, takes all of her faith and throws it back in her face.)
The car swivels around a turn, and Ainsley keeps her eyes peeled in the blue-lit room for any sight of a Capitol Seal. The key in her pocket threatens to burn a hole through the fabric. Ainsley takes it out, pressing the cold metal against the palm of her hand. It reminds her of Sterne, that poor boy from District Five, and the sight of Ashe's knife digging into his hand. Ainsley wonders if Ashe feels bad about that.
Somehow, she doubts that she does.
Ainsley looks up as the car passes a rabbit, sitting in a vehicle identical to hers and spinning wildly in circles. As if on cue, Ainsley's own car begins to twirl out of control, and for a few moments she regrets not putting on her seatbelt. The spinning makes it hard to look for doors, and even harder to keep her grip on the key. She reaches out to take hold of the handle on the front of the car to steady herself, and the key slips from her hand. It falls with a clatter, disappearing into the darkness.
"No," Ainsley says aloud, voice barely audible over the sounds of the ride. She kneels down, feeling around with her hands on the floor of the car. The key has to be here. It has to be.
Then the car moves at just the right angle, causing light to glint off of something discarded on the ground a few feet back. Ainsley lunges out of the car, hands groping through the air for the key. She loses her balance, tumbling to the floor as the cars around her suddenly screech to a halt.
Once the key is safely back in her hand, Ainsley hears it.
"Please keep your hands, feet, and other objects inside the ride vehicle at all times. Please keep your hands, feet, and other objects inside the ride vehicle at all times. Please keep your hands, feet and other objects inside the ride vehicle at all times."
It comes from a tinny voice somewhere in the ceiling, and Ainsley slowly moves back to her car, looking around warily. The rabbit in the car in the room she just left has stopped spinning. Slowly, mechanically, its head turns to stare at her and its eyes pulse red.
Ainsley nearly jumps back into the car, this time locking her seatbelt for good measure. The voice in the ceiling falls silent. The cars move again. When she glances over her shoulder, the smile is back on the rabbit's face and its car spins again.
The key stays clenched in her hand as she searches her surroundings. The car spins in circles, making her slightly motion sick.
She spins past a cartoon bull balancing dishes in his hands.
She spins past mailboxes and apartment buildings with eyes that follow her movements.
She spins past a power plant, where a voice in the ceiling reminds her of danger. She wrings her hands anxiously at the sound, but it passes.
And she spins straight into a long, orange-hit hallway. She wonders if its supposed to be a nuclear reactor. Metal beams line the ceiling and walls, and the same rabbit from before screams in agony at the other end of the tunnel. Ainsley freezes, watching it get electrocuted by a…weasel, maybe? Ainsley isn't all that well-versed in cartoon animals. She furrows her brow as she watches the display, and her eyes wander just beyond the rabbit and the maybe-weasel.
Right behind them, tucked behind tesla coils and crackling electricity, is the Seal of Panem.
Ainsley is out of the car in a second, scrambling across the track to reach the door. Beyond that door is a chance at salvation. Beyond that door is Victory. Beyond that door is…is District Nine, she supposes. District Nine has never felt like home. And if she is being honest…going back won't feel all that amazing. She doesn't know who she is in the arena. She certainly doesn't know who she is outside of it.
It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter what happens after the arena, because if there is an "after", it means Ainsley will live. And she has to live. She has to live to…to spite Ashe. To get back at her for destroying what little she had. Even if that is all Ainsley lives for, it will be worth it.
The cars stop behind her. The tinny voice in the ceiling returns, reminding her to keep her hands, feet and other objects inside the ride vehicle at all times. Ainsley ignores it, ignores the way the rabbit and weasel's heads turn in unison to stare at her. She pushes it all of out her mind, holding the key out, and then the weasel moves.
Its cold, plastic hands lock around her right arm, and, much like the fate of the rabbit, the weasel slams her into the tower of tesla coils.
It shouldn't hurt. What she smacks into shouldn't have the power to conduct electricity. It's nothing but wood and plastic.
But static pours into her veins, ripping a scream from her mouth, as her back arcs and the key slips from her hand once more. Ainsley scrambles away from the tesla coil, laying still for a long moment as the world comes back into focus. As soon as she can feel all of her limbs again, she staggers to her feet and snatches up the key. She stumbles past the rabbit and the weasel, shoving off their cold, hard hands.
Ainsley jams the key into the key, turning it with vigor. She yanks open the door, and right before she steps before, she realizes she pissed her pants. She takes a deep breath through her nose, willing herself not to scream in anger, and steps through the door.
It feels like the first thing to go right since her name was drawn at the Reaping.
Calista Abbey, 18
District One Female
This isn't over yet.
This isn't over yet.
This…this isn't over yet. Calista refuses to let it be over. Not after everything she has worked for.
What has she always lived on? Spite. And what would spite the world more than living despite everything? She's missing a hand. Her face is shredded. But she could still win this. She can still win this.
(If she repeats it enough, eventually she will start to believe it.)
It took them longer than she would like to get to the mountain with all of the water. She won't admit it, but her legs gave out and she and Shad stopped to rest. She also won't admit that she let Shad bandage up her face, pointedly ignoring how strange the whole thing is.
Since when does Shad care about her wellbeing? Shad Marcum, who is famous for hating literally everything and everyone, for thinking he is superior to all. She can't figure him out, not anymore. She used to see him as nothing but a shallow, egomaniacal idiot who was going to get himself slaughtered ten minutes into the Games. She isn't sure where along the way that changed, that somehow Shad has become…soft.
Whew. "Shad" and "soft" are not two words she ever thought she would put in a sentence together.
Calista heaves herself to her feet, blinking with her one good eye in the waning sunlight. "We need to get a move on," she says distantly. "We're going to run out of time."
Shad stands as well. "So long as you're not going to collapse on me."
"I'm not," Calista scoffs, brushing dirt off of her pant legs. "Let's go."
Shad goes without further conflict, although Calista does not miss the way he keeps glancing at her like she might explode.
Well, with how long they've wasted today, she just might.
Together, they hobble their way toward the mountain. It's different from the one by the Cornucopia. It's greener, and instead of minecart track, it has canals. As they approach, Calista can see large logs floating along the water. Occasionally, they go careening down an enormous drop. Under different circumstances, it might look fun.
A particularly harsh stab of pain courses through her face. Calista tears her remaining gaze away from the mountain and looks at Shad instead. He's already watching her, unfamiliar concern warming his eyes.
"You're sure you're okay?" he says when they make eye contact.
"How many times do I have to say it?"
Shad looks away, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I was only trying to help. You are my only ally, after all."
Calista knows their alliance is not long for this world. Be it by death or door, their alliance ends today. It is only now becoming apparent that Shad doesn't seem to know that.
They start to walk around the mountain, searching for an entrance. They have figured out by now that all of these strange buildings have entrances.
Calista takes a deep breath and glances at Shad out of the corner of her functional eye. Pain pulses through her face at the movement, and in the back of her mind, her hand (or lack thereof) screams. She presses on, noticing that he seems…genuinely hurt. So she sucks in more air through her nose and says, "Thank you. You know, for…being concerned."
I can't believe I'm saying this to Shad Marcum.
Shad looks up, seeming startled. There's a ghost of a smile on his face. "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."
It's an alliance built from necessity, Calista reminds herself. Days ago, they were at each other's throats, almost begging for a chance to hack away at each other. She doesn't know what changed. She doesn't know why she cares. Shad has, and never will be, a real threat. His ego once stood in his way, but now his absence of one seems to be doing the trick.
The silence that stretches between them isn't as uncomfortable as it used to be. It is no longer charged with promises of future bloodshed. Calista isn't sure what replaced it.
She isn't sure about a lot of things these days.
For a few minutes, the only sounds to be heard are the distant rushing of water and the clank of footsteps. Calista sinks into the pain attempting to overwhelm her system and considers the pros and cons of taking another one of those pills. It wouldn't do her good to be drugged during a fight, but the lack of pain would be amazing. But she doesn't want to get addicted. She doesn't want to…
"Calista? Calista?"
When she opens her eye, she finds herself crumpled in a heap on the ground. She sits up with difficulty, looking around blearily. "What happened?"
"You collapsed," Shad says. "Maybe you should stay out here. I can go inside, look around and you can…"
"Like hell I'm letting that happen." Calista staggers to her feet, trying to ignore the way the world spins and flips. "You have the key. What's to stop you from finding a door and leaving me behind?"
Shad sighs, exasperated, and pulls the key out of his pocket. There's still a few specks of dirt on it, left behind from when Shad pulled it out of the ground while Calista was resting. The issue of who gets to use it went unspoken then, and it goes unspoken now.
"If you're so worried, why don't you keep the key?" Shad says.
"You could find another one inside. No, I'm coming with you." With some effort, Calista takes a few step forward.
"It's your funeral…" Shad mutters.
A pained smile spreads across Calista's face. "What was that?"
"Nothing," Shad says. "I didn't say anything."
The smile falls. "Come on," Calista says. "Let's just…get this over with." If she were somewhere else, Shad's suggestion wouldn't be so bad. A rest does sound really good, and everything is still spinning a little bit but that's probably nothing to worry about.
They enter under a sign naming the mountain "Splash Mountain". Calista clings to the railing as they climb various sets of stairs, making their way up the mountain in silence. The setting sun makes visibility low, which makes a good excuse when Calista trips and almost faceplants.
Shad helps her up, looking at her with a very unmistakable emotion in his eyes—pity.
As if this is over. As if Calista doesn't still have a shot at winning.
The game isn't over yet. The game isn't over until Calista says it's over, and she'll be buried six feet in the ground before she will ever admit defeat.
They emerge from a set of winding caves onto a loading platform. The logs roll past before gliding away on open water. Calista sits in the front seat, releasing some of the tension in her body as soon as she is off of her feet. She is vaguely aware of Shad taking the seat right behind her. The boat charges forward a few feet before thunking into the water.
Calista finds herself drifting with the boat. They move at a leisurely pace, climbing a conveyor belt and rounding a bend. There's a voice coming from nowhere that warns them to be sure to watch their kids, but Calista doesn't listen. Not really. The pain in her body has reached a crescendo and at any second, she thinks she might start screaming.
"Calista," Shad says in a quiet, furtive voice. It startles Calista back to reality.
"What?" she slurs.
"I think there's someone in the log behind us."
Calista squints, sitting up and craning her neck to look behind them. The log behind them looks perfectly empty. "What makes you say that?"
"I heard clunking when we were leaving the docks. And I swear there is something moving back there," Shad says. The log begins to climb another conveyor belt hill, this time under the cover of a wooden frame.
"Well, keep an eye on it, I guess," Calista says. She doesn't have the energy to worry anymore. Who left in the arena is even a threat? It wouldn't be Shad or Bayou. Half of the tributes still around are under the age of fifteen. Why should she worry about any of them?
They crest the hill, dropping a feet or so back into the water. The distant, jaunty music lulls Calista into a near-doze.
Until, of course, they go hurtling down a drop. Calista is sprayed by a fine mist, which actually feels quite good on her face.
The log slows down as the canal takes them inside. Somewhere behind them, a choked off scream of surprise echoes through the air.
"Definitely someone behind us," Shad says. He gets to his feet, ignoring the singing and dancing woodland creatures on the edges of the channel, and starts to climb over the seats to the back of the boat. Calista listens to his footsteps with her eyes closed, humming in reply to something unintelligible that he says.
"Calista," Shad says, face suddenly inches from hers. "Wake up. Come on. There is someone in the boat behind us. They might be a threat. Threats are bad, remember?"
Calista sits up again, blinking at their dimly lit surroundings. "Yeah. Yeah. I know. I'm just…tired."
"Yeah, well, now's not really the time for—"
The log plunges down another drop, this one much longer, and a wall of water crashes over the two of them. Shad hangs on for dear life as they drop into darkness. Once the ground flattens out, Shad sits back down in the seat behind her and says, "I hate this arena."
Calista snorts. "Join the club." Water drips from her face.
"Oh, man, Cal, your bandages got soaked," Shad says. "We'll fix them…um, later. I guess."
They pass a few more scenes of dancing animals in silence. The animals sing various songs, but Calista does not have the energy to decipher their words. She wants nothing more than to take a nap, but a primal fear has ignited in her chest. If she falls asleep, it's very possible that she could never wake up. The stump on her arm coupled with the mangled face could give her many reasons to never wake up.
But. It is not over yet. It is not over yet. It is not over yet.
To both of the log's passengers' chagrin, they begin to climb yet another conveyor belt hill, this one of the tallest yet. At the top, Calista can see golden light seeping through, the last remnants of sunset. She wonders if the moon will be full tonight.
Suddenly, she is shaken from her musings by the sound of someone splashing through the water behind them.
"Calista," Shad says. "Calista, look." He points to a section of the tunnel, beside the stairs that follow the conveyor belt, where a brown door painted with the Seal of Panem sits innocently. "A door. A door!"
A shard of glass comes sailing toward them, nicking Shad on the forehead. His head whips around, and Calista leans past him to see the girl from Ten charging up the conveyor belt, log forgotten and obsolete. She holds nothing but an empty, broken bottle. Calista remembers the blinding pain that came from being smashed in the face with one of those. She remembers that this girl did this to. This girl—this meaningless, forgettable, absolute nothing girl from District Ten bitch-slapped her with a glass bottle and condemned her to defeat.
(Defeat. The world must have turned upside down—Calista Abbey has admitted defeat.)
Calista snatches up the closest weapon—a knife hanging from her belt—and rushes her. Her knife clashes with Tamarah's glass, and the Games flash before her eyes. She sees Ottilie, crushed beneath a minecart. She sees Bayou, dragging a half-conscious, blood-covered Shad back to the Cornucopia. She sees herself, missing a hand, out of her mind with agony.
Tamarah punches her across the face. Her form is weak but the pain is real—Calista staggers, falling headfirst into the back of her and Shad's log. She brings the knife up to meet Tamarah's next attack, and she sees Shad out of the corner of her eye. He's holding a spear at Tamarah's chest, the point almost digging into her skin. The door is few feet behind them now. They're almost at the top of the hill. They're running out of time.
"Shad," Calista yells, kicking her legs at Tamarah. The girl stumbles backward, losing her grip on the log. Calista takes the opportunity to get up, only to have Tamarah tackle her back onto the boat. They wrestle between the seats, splashing in the water from the nasty puddles on the ground. "Go. I'll—I'll find another door! Go!"
Shad looks at her for a second, face conflicted, before he tosses her the spear, takes out the key, and unlocks the door. He catches her eye as she struggles to keep Tamarah on the ground, no matter how the girl screams and kicks and bites. "Go, Shad! I'll be—fine!"
Shad nods, once, and steps through the door.
The log reaches the top of the hill. Calista slides off of Tamarah, hearing a quiet set of beeps echo out of her arm. In the last few seconds before her tracker explodes, Calista rolls onto her back and looks at the sky. There, she finds a moon that is fuller than ever.
A/N: At long, long last, I have finally finished this chapter. I'm sorry this took so long but I've been really busy and haven't had a lot of time to write. We will get there eventually. We're getting close to the end of the Games (at last). After all, we're down to eight! Are there any surprises here that you didn't expect to see in the Final Eight? Out of those who are left, who do you think will be the Victor?
Also, there is new poll on my profile, so make sure to check that out.
Also, also, this is the longest chapter I have ever written to date. It beats out The Ones Who Survived which was somewhere between ten thousand and twelve thousand (I don't remember the exact number anymore; that chapter is over two years old now).
EULOGIES:
Twelfth Place – Afandina Hariri, District Ten Male. Suffocated with a Simba pillow pet by Wonder Hammerfort (D2M).
Afandina was a tribute I struggled with. At this late in the story, I kind of wish I had killed him earlier. His arc would have turned out cleaner, I think, if he had died earlier. I liked writing him more in the pre-games, and then once the Games started, I just kind of lost him. RIP.
Eleventh Place – Everett Reed, District Nine Male. Stabbed in the skull by Sterne Colvin (D5M).
In the Pre-Games, Everett was a tribute I always looked forward to writing. I just got him from the start and writing him always came very easily to me. I was very fond of him, but as we got into the Games, I ran out of places to go with him. I struggled to write him and eventually changed my plans to replace him with someone else in the Final Eight. It's sad, because I used to be so excited for an Everett POV, but I guess that is what happens when it takes two and a half years to write an SYOT. RIP.
Tenth/Ninth Place – Calista Abbey, District One Female. Tracker exploded.
Since both Calista and Tam die at virtually the same second, they both get tenth and ninth. Calista was a tribute that I really put through the ringer. None of the injuries she sustained were initially planned, but I just kept screwing the poor girl over again and again. I've always liked writing Calista, and did not start out with the intention to give her such a bad hand, but I've never been good at sticking to my plans. She will be missed, especially by Shad. RIP.
Tenth/Ninth Place – Tamarah "Tam" Colt, District Ten Female. Tracker exploded.
Tam has always been really fun. From her general drunken demeanor to her relationship with Liesel, I've always had fun finding out where she's going to go next. Even going beyond Liesel and how she deals with the fallout of their ploy was interesting and not something I've done before. RIP.
ALLIANCES:
BFFs (Baby's First Friend): Scoria (D2F), Bayou (D4M)
Keys: Wonder (D2M)
Betrayer: Ashe (D11F)
Betrayee: Ainsley (D9F)
Going Soft (Good For Him): Shad (D1M)
Not Fuck, For Once: Sterne (D5M)
Really Sad Lesbian: Ishtar (D12F)
And, for future reference, an updated kill count:
Calista: 2
Shad: 1
Scoria: 1
Wonder: 1
Bayou: 1
Sterne: 1
Liesel: 1
Larch: 1
Navarro: 2
Ashe: 1
Quinn: 1
Ishtar: 1
Explosion: 2
Gravity: 1
It's A Small World dolls: 1
Hopefully, Day Ten will be out sooner than July. I am hoping to keep up an actual update schedule, because it would be nice if I could finish this story before I die of old age. At this rate, it's starting to sound like wishful thinking. But we will get there in the end.
-Amanda
