AN: As you probably already saw in the last chapter, I'm using Beetee's last name from the movies. It's honestly just easier that way; in my opinion someone famous – especially since Alys sees him more as a scientist than a victor – deserves a last name and I didn't want to come up with one myself if the (semi) canon already has one for him. What I did add to the story though is a specific date for Beetee's Hunger Games. His victory year is never clearly stated anywhere, all we know is that he's kind of old. But since he also doesn't have a specific age assigned to him in the books, I made him a bit younger so that Alys could have witnessed his Games (kind of). I hope that's okay with everyone, the story will still stay canon-compatible, Beetee is the same person, just younger. Just wanted to get that out of the way before people start wondering!
Day 3: Attack
Beetee Latier of District 3 won the 53rd Hunger Games 16 years ago by setting an electricity trap for the career tributes and killing six enemies at once. He used a seemingly useless piece of wire as well as a rudimentary generator he built himself, and voila. Since I'm also currently alone against a group of six, the tactic of setting as large a trap as possible seems like the perfect way to increase my chances of victory. And something else plays into my cards: I'm from District 5, so electricity is our bread and butter, plus my goal is science just like young Beetee's. And didn't I want to use the arena for my purposes anyway? To win by a clever idea? Just now this idea flares up right before my eyes. There is more than enough electricity in the metal labyrinth, the constantly burning lamps testify to that.
I make sure I am alone in my passage, then I leave my hiding place. On tiptoe, I reach up to one of the narrow lamps and once again use the tip of one of my knives to unscrew the screws. As the cover of the lamp comes off, it reveals a row of narrow neon lights. My knife clamped between my teeth, I pull the sleeves of my overalls over my fingers and reach for the hot fluorescent tube. With power still running on the lamp, I do my best to touch only the glass part of the bulb. A turn of 90 degrees, then I pull it out and hastily lay it on the floor before the fabric of my clothes burns through. The other lamps keep it bright enough in the hallway that I can clearly see my disassembled lamp. I need to know how they are constructed. A few more turns with the knife later, I've also removed the plastic covering of the lamp and can now see the open power conductors that connected the wires to the plates on the sides of the bulb.
I can't tell how many volts are flowing through the cables, but I do my best not to touch any of the conductive areas as I carefully release the cable from its holders. I am also able to pull it out of the wall a bit and when I have pulled out a few turns, it is surprisingly long. I estimate that, severed, it would reach almost to the floor of the hallway.
Still: "Too short," I state half aloud. The cable is too short to reach sleeping career tributes on the floor. Besides, the risk is too great that the conductive points, still energized, will touch the walls next to which they dangle, and the metal will grill the entire arena, including me. No, that's not what I want.
As I hoped, I am being heard in the Capitol – whether Porter, Spud or a sponsor is providing for my welfare, I can't say, but I am grateful. Unscrewing the walls and lamps must be show enough to get two gifts in such short time. Winningly, I stare at the ceiling as it opens to reveal a large parachute. This time, the tinny can contains two long, coiled cables with open wires on the side. For test purposes, I pull them apart, careful to touch only the insulated sheaths. I wrap one end around the neon lamp lying on the floor, and hold the other carefully against the silvery surfaces still attached to the top of the wall. The lamp on the floor flickers, then lights up again.
Bingo.
Except that the next time these cables will be used, there will be no fluorescent tube at the bottom.
Carefully I disconnect the power connection again and roll up the extension cables. After tucking them into my belt, I expertly reassemble the lamp – after all, if anyone should come down this hallway in my absence, I don't want them to be alerted to my hiding place.
Before I set off, weapons and map in hand, I fill up my little flask once more and eat the rest of my dried meat. Now it counts, I can't be hungry.
This time I work my way systematically through the identical corridors. In circling laps I run through the arena, getting further and further away from the Cornucopia. After a while, I've scoured Sector A and come to the dividing barrier between the parts of the arena marked on the map for the first time.
Double doors block my view into the corridor that will take me to Sector B. I feel my way cautiously – though there are no other obstacles marked on the map, nor can I see anything, I dare not underestimate the arena. How do I get across? Is there a trap? A riddle? A blood sacrifice? But when I'm right in front of the door, and it opens without a hitch, I have to realize that the only danger of the partition gates is that you can't see what's lurking behind them. I sigh – all this tension over nothing. Psychological stress, which I can't use right now in addition to the adrenaline.
As soon as I enter the second sector, my mouth falls open in amazement. Instead of shining silver, the walls and floor here are golden. A glance at the map also shows the absence of sinks. Interesting. But my round continues, I dodge traps, peer into corridors, but don't encounter a soul and am only briefly interrupted once by the display of today's fallen, the boy from District 3.
Then I hear voices, footsteps, and muffled noises. Instantly, I stop and press my back flat against the nearest wall. But what I hear remains at the same volume, and I know I've found what I'm looking for: the camp of the career tributes. It is late, they seem tired, and even if I understand their words only in fragments, I can imagine that the noisy moving of objects and the slowly fading conversations mean that they are preparing for the night. I persevere for a while, the hard metal wall at my back. Then a snore pierces the silence.
I glance at my map. The career tributes can't be far away, I perceive them too clearly for that. I run my finger down the hallways and discover a place that, unlike some of the other hallways in this area, offers escape routes in three directions. I decide to try my luck there and creep cautiously in that direction when I hear footsteps.
Again I flinch and disappear around a corner just before a slender blond boy passes by. His curls shimmer in the lamplight and he twirls an axe around his wrist. It's Saffyr from District 1, part of the career tribute alliance. What is he doing away from the camp?
Breathing shallowly, I stop, review my plan, run through my thoughts. Just as I've decided to move on, he passes by again, from the same direction as a moment ago. Astonished, I look after him, then dart around the corner and consult my map again. And that's when I realize that it's not the escape routes that are decisive for the designated camp site, but the fact that it lies in the middle of a square of corridors. And that's what Saffyr does: he patrols the area along the same route.
I remain in my place and wait. Saffyr passes by several times, never noticing me. I, on the other hand, am completely focused on him, counting the seconds that pass between one appearance and the next. He makes his fastest lap in 190 seconds, at what must be his laziest gait, he reappears after 220 seconds. I watch him disappear around a corner. It takes him ten seconds to meet his way out of my field of vision, then at least three, at most three and a half minutes to pass by again.
How quickly can I disassemble a lamp and connect the cables to the body and guide plates? I mentally calculate the time – earlier I took my time, but now I know what to look for. Three minutes is extremely tight, but I can do it. The key is preparation. I grab my knife ready to screw and check the cables for knotted spots. Then I take a deep breath. My pulse is rapid, but it's the good kind of excitement that can be turned into purposeful discipline.
Saffyr walks past me. I wait for him to disappear around the corner. From my observations, I now have three minutes until he returns from his lap around the camp. Three minutes to take out at least two career tributes. Three minutes to bring myself closer to winning the Hunger Games. I waste not a second and move quickly forward, chasing after Saffyr to save time. I turn right into a corridor and see the camp: they have rolled out a row of sleeping mats on the floor and are lying on them wrapped in sleeping bags. All their equipment is set up in the hallway, blocking the way to them a bit, but not enough to be a serious obstacle. Except for the patrolling guard Saffyr, nothing about this camp says that even one of the six is worried. Wrong thought.
I have just passed the supplies of the pack and am about to stretch towards the ceiling, when I notice a movement in the corridor opposite me. Instantly I freeze and hold all my limbs still, not daring to breathe. Count one and one together. I am not alone at the camp of career tributes. Quickly, I glance again at the sleeping bodies scattered on the floor. Saylor. Cassia. Angel. Riva. Romulus. Saffyr is on patrol and he won't be back yet, the way is too long and my counted time too short for that.
But if the group is complete, who is waiting behind the corner on the other side of the camp?
Slowly I raise my weapon higher, this time in defense. At the same time, I slowly take a few steps backwards. My plan is discarded, as I walk I merely grab the carrier of a backpack packed with food.
No sooner have I returned to the direction from which I came than a figure quietly jumps out of the other passage, a machete in his hand. It's a tall guy with broad shoulders, but the features under his bushy dark hair are childlike. His sand-colored overalls already have some tears, and on his back he carries an equally battered-looking backpack. I run through the remaining tributes in my head and assign him to District 12. With a grim expression, he creeps toward the camp, steps between the career tributes and raises his weapon.
Then our eyes cross. His eyes grow huge, I continue to back away. My knife and backpack still clutched, I raise my hands and slowly continue walking backward. And the boy from District 12 carries out my plan to take out the career tributes – at least almost.
He's too slow.
Distracted.
His blade slices through Riva's throat in seconds, but just before her cannon sounds, he hesitates too long between Cassia and Angel. The thud of Riva's death thunders through the hallways and I notice life driving into the sleeping career tributes. Before Saylor awakens, the boy from 12 performs a hasty thrust with his machete and hits Romulus from District 2 in the thigh. He goes up yelping and at that moment I take to my heels. I run in the direction from which I came and in the general commotion no one notices me. I hear Saylor's angry roar, then nimble footsteps as Saffyr comes running back from his patrol, a trampling, and when I have already turned twice the second cannon. The career tributes must have caught the boy from 12. Hastily, I run through a few more corridors, and only when I'm sure I'm out of range do I stop.
Two enemies less. That's good. And I didn't even have to do anything for it. Still, I curse. My plan would have been better, would have taken out more dangerous opponents! Besides, with each death outside the group of career tributes, the risk increases that Saylor and the others will decide to hunt me exclusively from now on. Who's left? The girls from 3, 9 and 10, Tic and me. Five career tributes. I exhale air in annoyance. Why did the boy from 12 have to run to his doom like that, making my life miserable? Saylor and his group would certainly not just post a single guard another time, let alone a patrol. How the hell am I supposed to get to them now before they get me?
Shaking my head, I pull out the map and make my way back to Sector A, annoyed and dejected.