Chapter 6: Glory With Honor

A combination of nerves and a body clock that has been out of whack all week jostles me awake sometime in the wee hours of the morning. Unable to find slumber or any kind of peace again, I morosely watch what little light there is poking through the curtains turn from navy to grey to pink. Sunrise.

Sighing, I swing my legs out of bed and check the clock on my nightstand. 8 A.M. In exactly two hours, I will be launched into the arena, at which time I will probably face my doom. I drag myself to the shower, not bothering to pay as close attention as to which buttons bring on which settings. I'll likely never need to know these keystrokes again. My bleary eyes are banished by the scalding hot jets of water and green exfoliator that rains down on me, but I hardly feel it anywhere else. Rubbing the green foam through my blonde tresses, I think that at least I'll have done some of my prep team's work for them.

By the time I step out, a towel wrapped around my breasts, it is getting on 8:30. I jump a little at seeing Dolly in my room, going through my wardrobe. At least she isn't Brutus. My escort smiles at me, holding out my beige Reaping dress.

"Good morning, dear. Wear this to breakfast and the hovercraft for now. You'll have arena clothes to change into once you arrive on-site; Antonia will be there to help you."

I nod, allowing Dolly to drop the dress over my head. I even let her pin my mockingjay pendant on, once again directly over my heart.

Eyes becoming glassy, I wrap her in a hug, which I feel her stiffen at. Eventually, she pats me on top of the head, and I draw away.

"Thank you," I murmur.

We enter the living area to find everyone else already at breakfast. Brutus is splitting his attention between the clock and a newspaper folded open at his place, finger scanning what looks to be betting odds already placed for the first day of the Games. Beech is pushing a muffin around on his plate, his face a ghastly pallor of seasick green. Gilla is openly weeping, her voice a breathless gasp as she repeats over and over, "I don't wanna die…. I don't wanna die…."

Haymitch is glaring at everyone in sight, including the little girl. Including me. Shooting him a warning look, I take a seat next to Gilla and whisper comfort to her.

"Gilla, when you get in there, stay calm. I will try to find you and take you along, and we'll try to get away."

She whimpers. "You promise?"

I nod my head firmly, feeling Brutus's sharp gaze at my back but not giving a damn what he thinks. "I promise." I hold out my arms to her. "Hold tight to me." We stay wrapped in an embrace, almost like mother and child, for the rest of the meal, eating what we can keep down. Though it isn't much – frankly, I've lost my appetite.

The clock chimes to strike the top of the hour. 9 A.M. No one responds, the atmosphere as silent as the death that awaits at least three of the people sitting here, to greet us possibly by the end of today. Brutus blithely raises his eyes to the clock, sighs, and folds up his newspaper.

"Hour to go." The terrors of my imagination are running away with me, hearing him sound like the Grim Reaper itself. "We'd best get to the roof. It's a long hovercraft ride to the arena, and the pilots want to fly with the tailwinds." We all get up morosely, not even bothering to clear our plates. Will the dishes of untouched food still be here, after we're gone from the earth? Who will clean them away finally, washing away the last signs that we – four people – were ever here? I try to banish such morbid thoughts, but the stone lodged in my gut won't let me do it.

The six of us manage to squeeze into the elevator, which rockets us up one floor to the roof of the Training Center. A hovercraft, its rotors lazily spinning, awaits. Gilla still puts her hands over her ears.

Brutus has to raise his voice slightly over the insistent breeze from the plane. "If you make it past the Cornucopia, run and find a source of water as fast as possible. If you don't by the end of the day, dehydration will set in quickly, and then you're pretty much done for. If you can't retrieve a weapon, make one out of whatever you can."

Haymitch scowls at him. "Anything else?"

Brutus glares right back. "Yeah: stay alive, genius." Our mentor crosses his arms over his chest. "Glory with honor," he intones. I recognize the custom: it's a common sign of goodwill amongst the Careers, usually seen near the end of the Games before their alliance turns on each other in an event colloquially known as melee.

Beech and Haymitch copy him clumsily, but don't say the words. I don't participate at all, finding it highly hypocritical that Careers can talk of such things as 'glory' and 'honor' when they're the most ruthless killers in the Games. I watch as Beech kneels down and wraps Gilla in a hug, murmuring something to her. I feel a light touch on my arm and I turn.

Brutus is there, looking sheepish. "Maysilee…. you can do this. And…. I'm sorry."

I nod once, curtly. "I know." He nods back, mouth drawn, and waves us forward to the hovercraft. Dolly stops me briefly to give me one last hug farewell. "Good luck, dear."

We all clamber into the plane; I am forced into a seat between Haymitch and Beech. On Beech's other side, I watch as a Peacekeeper injects a tracker into Gilla's arm; she bites her lip, not even having time to cry out in pain.

As the officer moves on to Beech, Haymitch and I look at each other. I don't know what he finds in my expression, but whatever it is, he holds out his hand to me. Mouth dry, I take it.

"You OK?"

"Yeah," I nod, my voice strangled, even to my own ears. I feel the Peacekeeper line up the vein in my arm, and Haymitch squeezes my hand. I grasp tightly back; oddly, I don't even feel the tracker being injected into my arm.

It is as impossible to keep time in a hovercraft as it surely will be once we're in the arena, but the ride probably takes about 45 minutes. We're alone in the belly of the plane, without any of our other competition. No one says a word. The rumble of the plane beneath us lulls me into a strange sense of complacency, and when we finally land, I start when I realize that Haymitch and I are still holding hands. I don't move to pull my fingers away, and neither does he. We stride down the gangplank in this manner, watching the guards coming over to separate us.

Haymitch turns to face me, his face appearing uncharacteristically gentle. "You'll be all right?"

I shrug. It seems like a silly question to ask: all but one of us will be dead within the next few weeks. But instead, I just say, "Sure."

He nods. "Well…. take care of yourself."

"You too." Then, before I lose my nerve, I stand up on my tippy-toes and brush my lips against his cheek. He bristles in surprise, and I can't help but smile weakly at his shock. "For luck."

His mouth twists funny, like the muscles in his face are in indecision over whether he should smirk or frown. The smirk finally wins out, though it's slight.

The guards separate us, and I am hustled into an underground vom. Guided into a clinically white launch room, I find Antonia waiting for me. My arena garb is a black undershirt and trekky pants with rough fabric. A light jacket completes the ensemble – perhaps the nights will be cool. For the final touch, Antonia fastens the mockingjay pin over my breast. I stare down at my Reaping dress, to be left behind here, sadly. I will never see it again….

"Ten seconds to launch!"

Antonia hugs me goodbye, and I let her; she may have acted like a vainglorious cow at the parade, but she made up for it.

I step into the glass launch tube, and hear it seal around me with a hiss. It is only now that the fear threatens to debilitate me and I whirl around in a panic. Antonia only gives me a slight nod. Then, I feel the pod rise, pushing me up, up, up into….

I don't know what to make of this place. It is almost…. pleasant. Religion is expressly forbidden in Panem, but I have heard of some people furtively speak of a plane of existence beyond this one. A place called 'heaven.'

Is that where I am now? Have I been cut down already, my life as a tribute – my life period – ended, and I just didn't feel it or don't remember it?

We are standing on our pedestals in a vast meadow, not unlike the meadow that is just beyond the border fence back home in District 12. Belle and Danny have often snuck out there to be alone; my sister once told me how she took Merle Undersee out there last spring and lost her virginity to him, making love amidst the tall grasses….

The grasses here are as high as in the meadow back home; they'll probably come up to my calves. I turn my head – a large forest is at my back. To the west, in the distance, a snowcapped mountain strains up to kiss the robin's egg-blue heavens. There's the Cornucopia, about forty yards ahead of me, glinting in the sunlight. I am directly in the path of the gaping, yawning mouth of the horn. Backpacks, weapons and an assortment of other supplies spill out from the pile stacked within the mouth, spreading out sparser and sparser.

I'll never be able to make "The Run", as I've heard some Victors call it on TV, and rush back out alive. If I go in too deep, I'll be killed….

The holographic square above the Cornucopia has been counting down steadily: 30 seconds now, and dwindling… Shifting my eyes downward, I spy a bright red backpack, about fifteen yards ahead of me and slightly to the left. I kneel into a crouch, tunnel vision making that backpack, and the long staff leaning against it, seem like the only things in the world. If I can reach it, turn right around and make for the trees behind me….

The gong sounds, and I spring like a gazelle off my pedestal a second later.

I race for the red backpack at a dead sprint, snatching it up and the staff at its side. I can feel from the weight of it in my hands that it's hollow, like the ones Proximo showed me back in the Training Center. As I stoop to swing the backpack over my shoulder, I spy a second staff lying in the grasses and grab it too. Just in case I lose the other one.

A roar makes me look up. One of the boys from District 2, short and stout (he can't be any older than 14, which is unusual – most Careers wait until they're 18 to be deployed to the arena) is bull-rushing me with a javelin. I am too stunned to move as I watch the weapon's tip sail through the air towards me as it leaves his hand. I observe it close in on my breast, a direct hit to my heart….

It bounces off lamely, and I stagger back in shock. By sheer luck, the javelin's tip hit the golden metal of my mockingjay pin. The little pendant saved my life.

The small Career has skidded to a stop about four feet from me, blinking at how he could have possibly failed to make that kill. Then, with a bellow of rage, he charges me.

I don't have time to think. With two sticks in each hand, I flick both of them with that muscle memory I learned in training.

Nothing happens to the staff in my right hand. I hear the HSSH of a blade emerging from the staff at my left. A naginata.

The Career is lunging for me, reaching for my throat. I run him through without another thought.

The small Career sags against me, gaping at me in shock. I too am astonished, as I yank the blade back out of him, hearing the nauseating tear of flesh before my first kill flops back into the meadow grasses and lies still.

The cannon strangely doesn't fire, but it doesn't have to – I'm already scarred for life. Skittish as a deer, I turn tail and run with what I have. I neglect to claim the javelin that failed to take my life.

My stride doesn't slow until I've reached just inside the line of trees, and I glance back. About a quarter of the way around the arena, in the distance, I see another tribute just hitting the treeline. From so far away, I can't tell who it is. I can just make out the outline of the small District 2 Career, lying sprawled in the grass. Everyone else appears to be just moving off their own plates, as if they're all in some kind of trance.

An image of Gilla flashes in my brain, and I briefly debate doubling back and trying to fetch her, but with 45 other kids only now just making a dash for the horn, it would take too long. I spin around and wind-sprint onward into the trees.

Everything looks the same around here, and I try keeping my breathing even so as not to panic. Tributes – even those who make it close to the end – have been known to panic before; I've seen it happen. And too often, panicking leads right into making careless, sloppy mistakes…. with devastating consequences.

I finally lean against a solid pine to rest when my lungs can't get any more air. I can't tell how long it's been since I fled the Cornucopia, not even by checking the patterns of the sun – only dapple patterns of sunlight are able to filter in past the expansive canopy above me. My internal body clock – shot to hell over the past week – also won't be of much help.

Nevertheless, after what I estimate to be about two hours since the start of the Games, I begin to hear the cannons.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM….

I keep careful count, breathing out the next number until I reach 18, and the retorts halt.

Eighteen tributes dead, including the Career I took out. Thirty left to play. In any ordinary year, that would have blasted us right past the traditional Final Eight, probably only leaving the Careers standing so they could go into melee. This year, though, there is still more than a whole arena still out there. Are Haymitch, Beech and little Gilla among the survivors? I dearly hope so, but I won't know for sure until nightfall.

Till then, I slide heavily down the trunk of my tree and open the clasp on the pack, ready to study my loot. A bowl – empty. Two dozen darts – glancing to the hollow staff at my side, I smile. It's like this backpack was gathered and filled for me! I can use the hollow quarterstaff as a blowpipe. In the next moment, though, my grin falters. Even if I could stick tributes with darts, what good would that do me? It would likely have the same, non-fatal effect as if I tried to slice everyone's wrists using nothing but the inch-long tip of my pin. I set the bundle of darts back into the backpack; I'll figure it out later.

A pack of dried beef jerky, and I lick my lips hungrily. I refrain from digging into the bounty, though – until I can find another source of food, I will have to make this last as long as I can. I scan the trees around me: are there any wild animals in here? I spent a decent amount of time at the Survival Skills station in training; I know how to set a few snares now. I breathe deeply again, to calm my nerves. All in good time, Maysilee, all in good time…. You'll set a snare tonight, just as a test. Perhaps a rabbit will wander into it….

The beef jerky also poses another problem. It's greasy and dry, dry, dry, which will no doubt only parch me faster. Follow what Brutus said – I have to find a source of water, and quickly.

A tinkling of chimes makes me glance up. A parachute is coming to rest in a low-hanging branch of the pine – about six feet above my head. A gift from a sponsor! Grunting, I climb up to the gift, hand over hand, and tear it loose, crashing back to the earth.

I land hard on my back, briefly knocking the wind out of me. When I recover enough to go through the parachute, I nearly cry in relief – a water bottle! It takes all of my self-control not to gulp it all down right then and there. Instead, I unscrew the cap, taking a conservative sip, before replacing the lid and placing it almost lovingly into my backpack. Like the beef jerky, I'm going to make this water last as long as I can. Raising my eyes to the sky, I toast Brutus by blowing a kiss. "Thank you," I whisper. No matter what angst happened between us, if I ever get out alive, I'll gladly give him the biggest shag of his life just for this gift alone!

I have enough to keep me going for now, but I don't trust my self-control. I may have water, but with every sip I take, I'll keep doing so until one day, the bottle will be empty, no matter how frugal I think I'm being. I decide to scout around and see if I can't find a more natural water source to supplement. I search high and low for a few hours. No stream or river appears. Pausing to rest, I open my pack again and nibble off half a wad of the beef jerky for an early supper. Around me, the shadows from what little sunlight makes it down this far grow steadily longer.

Thin beams of moonlight soon replace those of sunlight, and the anthem begins to play. Through a particularly wide gap in the canopy, I get a clear view of the dead tributes' faces as they appear in the sky.

The first to appear is the short and stout Career boy from District 2, the one I murdered – murdered. I feel a twinge of guilt go through me, and before I can stop myself, I throw up into the dirt.

Wiping my mouth, I lift my head up just in time to see all four of the pre-teens from District 3 have been wiped out.

The next face is a surprise – one of the large eighteen-year-old boys from Four. Wow. I wonder who got the drop on him? Two of the kids from Five – a littler boy and girl…. I guess the sly one from their district made it. Three of the kids from Six. One apiece from Districts 8, 9 and 10. Both girls and one of the boys from 11.

Wait….. did I count right? Oh, no…. oh, no….

When Gilla's face appears – the eighteenth and final one of the day – I collapse in tears, sheer regret coursing through me.

I should have gone back. I should have found her and taken her with me. I even made a promise to her that I would, and I broke it. All I can hope for now is that she went quickly, and without too much pain.

I sit heavily against a tree, and think over what the Gamemakers have told us. For myself, I learned just as much from knowing who lives as who's dead. Haymitch and Beech both made it out alive. The feat is impressive especially for the latter, given his mediocre training score that he was so upset about. But Beech is strongly built, blessed with intimidating muscle. It makes me wonder: was he the one to take out the large boy from District 4? If so, I would have to applaud him. Or congratulate him, if I ever see him again.

That's the most remarkable thing about this whole Bloodbath: not one, but two Careers have been taken off the board. It is exceedingly rare enough to see one of the Career Pack fall at the start of the Games, but for two of them….? Regardless, the dozen-strong Career pack – special for this year's Quell – has been whittled down to ten. I don't know how much of a dent I made by killing the smaller boy from 2. What was he even doing in this arena anyway? I've heard rumors that tributes from 2 are handpicked by their trainers at their Academy, after rigorous testing. Usually, these tributes have to still stake their claim for an arena spot by volunteering at the Reaping. Was the boy I killed naturally Reaped as anyone would be, but a handpicked, likely older boy failed to volunteer in his place? I try to think back to the recap of the Reaping in 2 we watched on the train, but I can't remember. Brutus could tell me how the whole process works, should I ever have the chance to ask him.

The sounds of the night are coming out the woodwork now – the hoots of an owl. The chittering of cicadas. Drawing my light jacket around myself, while keeping a strong grip on my two staffs (the naginata in my dominant left), I curl into the base of my tree and will myself to settle down to sleep.

Just before I drift off into the subconscious, I hear the sharp blast of a cannon.