Telata Landers, 13
District 3 8th Female
Caden, Telata, Spurr, Kenneth, Teff, Lena, Ronan: seven of us in total. We hardly look like an alliance: an eighteen-year-old, a sixteen-year-old, and a bunch of terrified kids who find safety in numbers. Unlike the tributes from Districts 5 and 8, which I'm pretty sure were sent to the arena on separate hovercrafts, the Capitol is pairing us together this time.
I fly with Cache, who soundlessly stares downward at his hands while the hovercraft begins moving. I resist the urge to glance out of the far window and close my eyes, taking a deep breath. The odds are stacked against me in almost every way imaginable, not the least of which being my age.
I've always thought I'd try to kill myself if I was reaped. But that train of thought is silly. When your life is truly on the line, you will do literally anything for just another day, just another minute of life.
Anyway, I don't think I'll be able to stop breathing no matter how hard I try. Even if I could, they might pluck another poor girl out of her home to fill my spot. Out of her school, out of her family. Out of her life.
Cache's breaths are uneven. I'd like to talk to him, but I'm sure the cameras would bark at us to keep quiet if I did. Why they're flying us together when we're not allowed to interact, I'm clueless. I'm clueless about a lot of things right now.
I try to relax as much as I can. Because I'm so tightly bound down, I can't do anything more than relax my back a small amount. Then I can sort of rest against the constraints, which hold me in place with their relentless grip.
Part of me might even hope that sleep will come. Snow knows I didn't get nearly enough last night. Drenched in cold sweat, rest seems impossible. I never thought I'd sweat in a place with fancy Capitol air conditioning. Cool air blasts around the space so strongly that the cabin feels near-freezing. The realization comes that I'm shivering more from the fear than from the cold.
The hovercraft ride continues for much longer than it should, and much longer after that. It's possible they're flying us in circles, ensuring we can't guess how far away the arena is. They don't want us guessing its location. While it surely must be nighttime outside, the lights remain as harsh as ever, still causing me to squint to see clearly in the small space.
My body can't tell the time like it usually can. I close my eyes hard, trying to feel the time of day, the location, anything. But I feel nothing, so I don't tire my mind out any more. The only thing to savor here is the blissful silence.
Secala Wade, 17
District 9 10th Female
They smell like disinfectant. That's what surprises me most about the catacombs underneath the arena.
I never imagined they'd have a smell, and that's what feels the most jarring. Not the faint hum of the security cameras. Not the whine of the radio playing soft, patriotic music. Not even the fact that the cookie machine only dispenses lemon.
I can't stop sniffing in the disgusting aroma as I change into my uniform: plasticky rain boots, a rough black jacket, and thick black jeans. If I can make an educated guess about one thing, it's that the arena will involve quite a lot of water.
If the forty-eight of us are entering a water arena, it's probably unlikely that any other arena of the first stage will be similar. That's strange, because I imagined the gamemakers to be saving their water arena until it's District 4's turn.
Thinking of it now, that would sway the odds massively in District 4's favor. But the Capitol has never been terribly concerned about making things fair, has it?
"Sixty seconds until launch."
I stuff one last lemon-flavored cookie into my mouth and then head for the tube. I plan to be one of the first tributes locked into my tube, but I freeze in place the moment I reach the narrow partition. Down here, I'm safe. Up there, I'm the last thing from it.
"Forty-five seconds until lauch."
I grab the sides of the entryway and pull myself in. A single, longing glance back at the grey sofa is all the time it takes for me to be sealed in. The voice announces thirty seconds as the arena comes into sight.
Fog. That's the only thing visible at first. Then I notice the water. It stretches out in all directions, gray, drab, and rather murky. A completely flat surface. The rising pedestal breaks up a cluster of small rocks, which tumble into the water and then disappear. Ten meters behind me, there's a lush green shoreline covered with white flowers. The white flowers are absolutely everywhere. They're innumerable: crowding around the shore, floating through the water, woven into the vine cornucopia. The aroma of the white flowers is absolutely stunning, almost overpowering the muddy stench of the water. Through the soup of fog, I make out the forms of the several dozen others, our pedestals forming a tight circle around the horn. Even the horn itself is shrouded with mist.
Milly Lockwood, 13
District 3 3rd Female
60, 59, 58, 57, 56, 55, 54, 53, 52, 51.
The dense fog is more annoying than ominous as I scout the cornucopia field. While my pedestal is almost completely surrounded by grey water, a thin line of exposed mud runs to the cornucopia like a spoke in a wagon wheel. The various supplies float in buoyant plastic packages around the cornucopia.
50, 49, 48, 47, 46, 45, 44, 43, 42, 41.
Where are Fusae, Katya, and Gwenith? As much as we thought about this, we'd never considered the possibility of reduced visibility. I can clearly see the tributes about five pedestals in either direction. The next three or four tributes are nothing more than faint silhouettes standing against the fog. After them, there's only white mist.
40, 39, 38, 37, 36, 35, 34, 33, 32, 31.
I glance over my shoulder, letting my eyes rest on the slate-gray surface of the water. Safety. I blink hard. I will not be tempted. I won't allow myself to be tempted. I can't run off without Fusase, Katya, and Gwenith.
30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, 22, 21.
The most optimistic standpoint I can take is this: there don't look to be any careers nearby. That would make sense if I was toward the end of the pedestal row. Am I toward the end, or closer to the middle? I literally can't tell. The scary thought sets in that the fog will probably be thicker in other parts of the arena. The cornucopia is always at high ground, where the fog is clearer than normal.
20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11.
Every second feels like five as my eyes dart back and forth. I might have been composed a few moments ago, but now the pure animal instinct to survive is all I feel. If I can get in there and get out of there with my allies, I'll be safe. That's what I remind myself.
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.
I leap off of the metal plate the moment the gong plays its note. My plasticky black boots stick to the muddy pathway and sink downward: sometimes, I have to grab my foreleg and physically rip my appendages free. The ground grows more solid as I near the cornucopia.
The muddy island housing the horn is a rather picturesque place. The ground is covered by clusters of colorful rocks, and, of course, the white flowers. A taller boy rushes past me, accidentally smacking me in the ear with his shoulder. My eyes are trained on the boy's thin form as he races toward the cornucopia. It's less than ten seconds before a dark shadow appears beside him. His loud scream only lasts for a moment. If he makes a noise when he hits the ground, I can't hear it. It's drowned out by the cacophony of so many frantic footsteps.
The mud flies off of my boots as I sprint uphill to the cornucopia. My feet dislodge clusters of the colorful rocks, sending them flying down the slope. Tributes grunt as they slip and land flat on their fronts. A girl with blood dripping from her mouth races past me, only to be intercepted by Socket, who slices open her chest with two heavy chops. Her corpse goes careening down the slope and lands with a loud splash.
By the time I reach the cornucopia, it's swarming with tributes. Those that managed to brave the treacherous slope kneel, scoop up supplies, and sprint wildly back and forth. Two girls stand in a shadowy part of the cornucopia, tossing crates out of the horn's gaping mouth as they pilfer them of their contents. Do I approach them? Do I dare? If they aren't my allies, I could be killed. Reassuringly, they don't look like careers. I saw Maizie further down the slope; though I haven't seen signs of Cordaire, it's safe to assume she isn't here either.
One of the girls lets out a short scream as I approach, then rests her hand on her chest, breathing heavily in and out.
"Milly, you just scared the crap out of me."
"Katya."
"Yep, it's me," Katya confirms, tossing loaves of bread into an empty orange backpack. "Gwenith is here too. No signs of Fusae."
I've lost count of the screams by this point. Numbering them would be impossible.
I scoop up one of the orange backpacks and throw it over my shoulder, then arm myself with two wicked-looking hunting knives. Already, the noise of frantic footsteps has faded from a disturbing cacophony to a faint annoyance. Most of the tributes are splashing through the water by this point.
"Let's get out of here," Gwenith says, and neither of us. Fusae tacks on once we reach the base of the slope: our foursome now complete, it's only a matter of staying as quiet as possible as we paddle away from the horn.
"Not a single career encounter," Fusae says, sighing. "Unbelievable. Not like I'm complaining or anything."
We've been treading through the bog for less than five minutes when the first cannon fires. Seventeen others follow in rapid succession. We freeze in place, standing like soldiers in the chest-high water while the roaring cannon shots roll over the arena like thunder.
Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom!
It's a long time before we get moving again. Right now, our hope is to find any kind of solid ground. Somewhere where we can relax and take inventory of our supplies. Maybe even curl up and get some sleep. The four of us continue to travel as the sun dips below the horizon.
The moonlight glitters over the white flowers.
Paxton Riverthorn, 32
Capitol Citizen
"Good morning, team," the head editor, says. He wears white while the rest of us wear dark blue. Nothing speaks bureaucracy like a leader who wears a different color than everyone else.
"This is it," he continues. "You all did a fantastic job last time, and we need you to put forth an even stronger effort this time."
Our job is sometimes simple and sometimes a serious pain in the ass. We watch over the games as they happen and cut out, edit, change anything that can't be shown on television. Anything from minor signs of rebellious behavior to full-on cannibalism. We've seen it all and then some.
A red light begins to flash on the ceiling. A rotating view of the arena is displayed on a hologram in the center of our circle. Each tribute is marked with a name. Right now, their names stand still. The moment the gong rings, they will change into a mass of moving pinpoints.
We settle into our positions as thirty seconds is announced. A peacekeeper comes through and retracts everything that could distract us: coffee, jewelry, and the like. The only accessory allowed is something to tie back loose hair.
The gong sounds, and the tributes burst forward and backward. A few of them splash into the water and paddle for their lives, shooing away the tangles of white blossoms in their struggle to escape. The mast majority head for the cornucopia, running, crawling, or dragging themselves up the slope.
No outlier thinks they're going to run into the cornucopia. Their minds always change soon enough. It's designed to be irresistible.
The first death occurs as Danton runs into one of the career boys, Sorghum, who is already armed with two knives. A few simple slashes is all it takes for Danton's tracker to go out like a light. Moments later, a girl from District 3, Momenta, is cut down by the ravenous socket. Momenta blanches as the machete connects with her check. She stumbles backward and goes careening down the slope, screaming and groaning as the sharp rocks bang into her skin.
By this point, all four careers are armed. Cordaire makes her first kill, sprinting into the midst of two girls who are fighting over a small orange pack containing dried beef strips. Cordaire goes for Aluma first, mercilessly hacking at her throat and chest with her weapon. The other girl, Juliya, is completely frozen in place, dumbfounded with terror. A single swipe of the hatchet is all it takes to put her out.
Maizie and Sorghum, both armed with spears (Sorghum has tucked his daggers into his shoes) tackle the large, disconnected alliance, who are now carefully making their way down the slope in a vaguely brisk manner. Caden screams as Maizie appears out of nowhere, skewering her weapon through his lower abdomen like a block of cheese. The others, suddenly overtaken by terror, spread out and begin to move more quickly. Lena can't sidestep fast enough before Sorghum's spear is thrust straight through her, protruding from her front in a matter of moments.
The others (Telata, Spurr, Kenneth, Teff, and Ronan) have completely abandoned all forms of coherent strategy as they blindly sprint downhill. Teff is the first to stumble: her bare toe hits a root, and then she's absolutely flying, rolling and crashing downward. Her head splits open like a rotten melon on a sharp rock near ground level, and nearby Ida freezes in terror, mortified while Cordaire takes her out with two heavy chops.
Uphill, near the cornucopia, two boys are tussling over a much larger pack and a case of knives. It's a valuable stock: well-worth risking one's life to obtain. A third boy, Pad, soon joins the fray, but he is vastly outmuscled by the others. Othello knocks Pad squarely in the stomach, winding him and sending him down a deadly descent. Othello eventually wins, momentarily knocking Coco unconscious. Othello flees with his sister Desdemona as Coco curses and Pad's tracker stops detecting a heartbeat.
Desdemona and Othello soon regroup with Silicon and Demi, their other allies. The group chooses their first targets soon afterward: Datum, Mitzi, and Oswald, who have spontaneously agreed not to kill each other as they flee the horn as a group. Desdemona goes for Datum, Silicon goes for Oswald, and Othello and Demi gang up on Mitzi. All three are swiftly killed, and that's that.
About halfway down the slope, the careers and the anti-careers clash. Cordaire, Socket, Maizie, and Sorghum (the careers), are well-armed, but Huxley, Oshea, Bolt, Bryony, and Liose (the anti-careers) are great in number. Huxley punches Socket squarely in the mouth, and he reels, cursing. Huxley takes advantage of his shock and lunges, tackling Socket to the ground. Huxley realizes his fatal mistake too late to be saved. As Socket begins to roll downhill, Huxley is dragged down too. Socket takes a handhold and breaks his fall, but Huxley is not nearly as fortunate.
Things keep going downhill for the anti-careers. Before long, both Oshea and Bryony are gravely injured, with Bolt and Liose growing more exhausted by the second. They abandon the careers and head for safety, and the scattered disoriented careers regroup at the cornucopia to pick off the last few outliers.
The next minute is not very eventful. Sorghum takes out Prota. Socket kills Cache so fast he doesn't even flinch. Abilene and Cabot, both from 9, find themselves facing their deaths at the hands of Cordaire and Socket. The spear-wielding 9s and the knife-wielding 3s regroup once more, and it's at least a minute before they make the bloodbath's final kill.
Basil, a fifteen-year-old boy from District 9, has been spending the last two minutes trying to find a way to escape without being noticed. At last, he takes a desperate leap of faith, dashing between the girls Cordaire and Maizie. The girls' spider reflexes do not fail them, and both their weapons have pierced his flesh before he has time to scream.
The four careers spend the next twenty minutes taunting and torturing the younger boy, who bleeds out a total of twenty-three minutes after the ringing of the gong. The moment his name goes dark, the names of the eighteen dead tributes appear: half of what must go for our twelve survivors to be determined.
Momenta Clarence, District 3 2nd Female
Huxley Grunge, District 3 3rd Male
Caden Yallenson, District 3 4th Male
Cache Marksens, District 3 8th Male
Prota Carys, District 3 9th Female
Pad Nemrose, District 3 9th Male
Datum Gemsie, District 3 10th Male
Mitzi Tanner, District 3 11th Female
Juliya Bethe, District 3 12th Female
Aluma Barton, District 9 2nd Female
Abilene Carron, District 9 3rd Female
Basil Huchra, District 9 3rd Male
Teff Stellar, District 9 5th Female
Cabot Lampkin, District 9 5th Male
Danton Robbins, District 9 7th Male
Lena Munger, District 9 9th Female
Ida Gleaves, District 9 11th Female
Oswald Downs, District 9 11th Male
Remaining Tributes (30): Cordaire, Socket, Taure, Milly, Kaicee, Tallie, Oshea, Laurisa, Bolt, Fusae, Coco, Telata, Katya, Silicon, Spurr, Maizie, Sorghum, Kenneth, Bryony, Olivo, Desdemona, Othello, Gwenith, Elodie, Harvey, Florian, Secala, Liose, Demi, Ronan
