Launch

Jayde Cassidy, 17, District 10 Female

Jayde doesn't need the knocking on her door to wake up, but it still comes in frantic waves that let her know exactly who is waiting for her. On the third attempt, she can hear Gracen yelling through the door to let her know she is behind schedule. Jayde puts her pillow over her head to try and shut out the noise, but her mentor's voice eats through the cushioning. It's like what Jayde would imagine the half-starved mice in her apartment would sound like if they could scream.

"Screw off, I'm awake!" Jayde finally yells. As she sits up, she can feel the collecting tears stream down to her chin and she only half cares to wipe them away. Today the Hunger Games begin. Jayde isn't sure whether she is glad that today is finally here or if she wishes she could have another month to prepare. Either way the destination would be the same so she shouldn't care.

"You have ten minutes," Gracen calls through the closed door.

Jayde scoffs at the timeline and decides to sit in bed a few minutes longer. She has every right not to do what her mentor says, even if a small part of Jayde is pressuring her to just obey for once. She didn't even know there was a part of her that cared about rules, but that's one more thing that's been brought out by the Capitol. It's probably what they want, to have her so terrified that she is willing to jump the second that she is given the command to do so. Jayde hates that she can feel the fear washing over her as she lays here, waiting for nothing. She hates that there is a bit of her that is willing to be controlled if it makes things easier.

When she can't stand it any longer, Jayde throws her blankets off the bed and send the silk pillows tumbling after them. Satisfied, she steps across them and into the bathroom. Even if she's going to follow direction now, Jayde isn't going to be perfect. That's just not in her nature. She won't be broken down so easily, not if she can help it. Those other tributes might give in but Jayde will hold onto every shred of dignity she has until the bitter end. They don't deserve her compliance, not after everything they're taking from her.

Anyone watching from District 10 will think that Jayde has nothing to go back home to. They know her as a thief, a delinquent, and another street kid that isn't worth a passing smile. Her life has never been glamourous, but it's her life. Jayde would give anything to return home to her dingy apartment with mould growing out of the ceiling. Other people might not think it's a life worth living, but that's not for them to decide. She needs to get angry; she needs to fight for herself like she has everyday of her life so far.

However, the anger is too hard to grasp onto when a swampy sea of loss is flooding around her. She has nothing to cry about yet, her body is still whole, so why are the tears falling so readily? Jayde isn't dead yet. She shouldn't be mourning herself as if she were.

After she's washed up, Jayde throws on the first pieces of clothing that she touches and stands ready in front of the door. Her hand trembles as she reaches for the doorknob and she pulls it back just as quickly. There is nothing behind this door that is going to hurt her, but she knows that the second she leaves this room there will be no going back. As soon as the door opens she will be on display, for Chase, Gracen, and eventually the whole world to see. There will be no more silent nights to cry into her sheets. That has to be behind her.

She wipes the last of her tears on her sleeve, telling herself that there will be no more from this point on. She has survived up until now and she isn't going to allow herself to be seen as weak by anyone including herself. Jayde knows how strong she is, and she promises herself that this is all that Panem will see.

"You're late," Gracen says before the door even fully opens. She is sitting at the dining table with a bleary-eyed Chase on one side and an empty place setting on the other. There is an impressive spread of food in front of them, but neither looks to have taken even a nibble. Jayde can feel her stomach turn just at the sight of it, but she isn't going to turn it down.

"Bite me," Jayde murmurs as she slides into her usual chair.

Gracen stares at her as Jayde fills her plate with far more food than she plans on eating, but she doesn't comment. Jayde shoves a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth and feels immediately sick at the taste but forces herself to swallow. She's not going to be this lucky in the arena, that's about the only thing she can be certain of. Jayde's gone hungry before but it's not a feeling she is looking forward to having again.

"How are you feeling this morning?" Gracen asks.

Jayde snorts and looks away, unwilling to let either of them see her get emotional. She has no intention of being honest, but for a moment she wonders if it would make things that much worse if she said how she really feels. Jayde dismisses the idea almost instantly. It's not like Gracen truly cares what her answer is either way. She's just doing her job.

"Peachy," Jayde spits around another mouthful. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see Chase recoil against his chair to get even further away from the spread of food. She shoots him a half-smirk, but he isn't even looking at her. Too bad.

"I know that today will be difficult," Gracen says calmly, once again ignoring her cutting response. "It's perfectly normal to be nervous."

"I'm not nervous," Jayde says, her voice too forceful as it tries to cover up the crack in her words. She quickly wipes away the tear that slips down her cheek and, of course, finds Chase looking over at her. Jayde can't stand to think he might see her cry. "Take a picture, idiot. It'll last longer and maybe they'll even bury you with it."

Chase pushes himself out of his chair and heads to the living area without a word. Jayde almost feels bad for making the comment, but he may as well get used to their reality. They're not making it out of that place without a healthy dose of luck and probably more than a few scars. She can see his shoulders shaking from her place at the table, and Gracen leaves her to check on him. It's just as well, Jayde would rather be alone anyways. She can't trust anyone here as far as she can throw them.

Florian de Avila-Coronel, 15, District 12 Male

"You should eat something," Abdiel tells him again, nodding towards the full dishes in front of them.

Florian shakes his head and leans back into his chair. All of the foods that he would usually be delighted to see now suddenly make him feel sick to his stomach. He doesn't think that he could get any of it down if he tried. "I'm not hungry."

"I know," Abdiel says. "Please try anyways."

Florian nods weakly but doesn't make any move towards the plates. Beside him, Ira nervously pushes some peeled fruit around her plate but Florian notices that almost none of it has actually made its way into her mouth. They haven't talked at all today, it just doesn't feel possible. Florian could almost pretend that they were close a couple nights ago, but today things feel even icier between them than usual. He wants to reach out just to have any kind of comfort, but it's better that they don't talk about it. If no one mentions the arena out loud, it feels like maybe they won't end up there.

"Do you have everything you need?" Abdiel asks them. Florian knows that their mentor is just trying to fill the silence, but every attempt at conversation is just making him retreat further into his mind. He felt better when he could pretend he was just visiting the Capitol, but today that illusion has been stripped away. Florian knows where he's going and he has little hope that he's ever going to see outside the arena again. He can only imagine what type of horrible landscape is waiting for him; to think that will be the last place he ever sees makes his head throb.

Florian isn't sure why he let Abdiel talk him into trying. As soon as he got on the train he knew that his life was over, but he reached out for the rope his mentor tossed him anyways. He did what he was told, even partnering with someone he hardly knew, but it's not going to matter. Florian isn't built to survive, he's built like the china plates that sit on display in his dining room. He's never accomplished anything besides finding the easiest ways to hide from his responsibilities. He's built to shatter on impact, not withstand. Florian feels stupid to have ever considered that he might be strong enough for any of this.

"We're not allowed to take anything," Ira says quietly. Florian once again notices the pronounced red rings around her eyes and the dullness to her usually sharp eyes. They stayed up late just staring at the screen after the interviews, though Florian can't remember a single word that the announcers said. He wanted to talk, but about what? They're only together because that's what Abdiel said would be best for sponsors. If it were up to Ira, Florian doubts she would have anything to do with him. He doesn't blame her for that either. If he were her, Florian wouldn't give himself the time of day. He's a failure in every respect. For his parents. For the Hunger Games. For himself.

"I know, I'm sorry," Abdiel says quietly. He too looks exhausted, despite the fact that he went to bed long before Florian or Ira. "You two can do it. I know you can."

"We can't," Florian whispers, trying hard to keep his tears from slipping. "We just can't."

"We will," Ira says with only the slightest crack in her voice. She turns towards him and Florian can see the dampness in her eyes, but she too looks unwilling to cry. That's about the only thing they have in common, an unwillingness to actually show how they're feeling despite it being so obvious. No one watching them would think they look confident. Neither of them have a reason to be.

"Just don't," Florian says after a moment. He appreciates what she is trying to do, but there is no longer any reason to pretend. Either they already have sponsors or they already blew it; there's nothing they can do about it now. They don't have to be strong anymore because it already feels like it's over.

It's a few minutes before anyone says anything, and Florian manages to put one grape in his mouth that he doesn't spit out. The flavour is too sweet and too tart at the same time, but he doesn't blame the fruit. Florian wraps his arms around his stomach and waits in the silence, trying to stop himself from breaking down completely before they even reach the arena. They have a plan, made days ago with Abdiel, but if Florian loses it now he isn't going to be able to even try to put it into action.

"It's time to go," Abdiel says finally, but it takes several more seconds before anyone moves. Ira is the first to stand and follow Abdiel towards the elevator while Florian finds it difficult to do the same. The two of them stare back and wait silently until he is able to put both legs under him and force the few steps. He tells himself not to look back at the apartment he'll never see again, but he steals a glance at the couch where his finished book is still lying.

Florian turns to Abdiel as the mentor calls up the elevator. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Abdiel says with a sad smile. He might be from the Capitol, but Florian still feels close to him. It's a small comfort when he gets into the elevator behind them, because Florian isn't sure he is ready to say goodbye just yet.

As the elevator doors close, Florian once again wraps his arms around himself. They begin to ascend and his stomach turns, threatening to reject the pitiful breakfast altogether. It's silent when he feels Ira's arms around him, but rather than push away he leans into the embrace. Abdiel lays a hand on each of their shoulders but says nothing. Silent tears stream down Florian's face as he rests his head on her shoulder, and he doesn't even try to stop them. He's never cried in front of anyone else, but he doesn't care right now. He glances up at Ira to see wet streaks running down her cheeks and he knows that she needs this moment just as much as he does. Whether they've been forced together or not, Florian is glad to have her for as long as she's willing to tolerate him.

Doran Ibarro, 16, District 5 Male

Doran isn't sure how long they have been on the hovercraft, but it's not getting any easier to breathe as the minutes pass. The chair only allows the slightest bit of movement and he can't even reach down to massage the stinging pain in his forearm from the earlier injection. Just turning his head to look at Fitzroy or Emilia exhausts him, but that's the only thing keeping him sane right now. As horrible as it is that they have to be here too, remembering that they are with him is the only comfort he has. He isn't going to be alone.

He's just not sure that he can trust them all.

Doran knows that Emilia wouldn't hurt him. At least, he hopes that he knows this because it's the only thing that feels certain right now. Her happy-go-lucky optimism can get annoying, but she's the closest thing he has to a friend here. She's the one that cheered when he scored higher in training and smiled whenever he answered a question at the interviews. That's what he needs, someone to be the positive force that Doran had always tried to be in his old life. He needs to be serious, but sometimes that just feels too suffocating. If he thinks too hard about anything, it just makes it more difficult. Emilia lets him relax; with her there is no pressure.

Fitzroy smiles at him when Doran makes eye contact again, and Doran gives a weak grin in response. He feels good about Fitzroy as well. He seems like a friend that Doran would have liked to have back in District 6, a kind of calming force to counteract Emilia's high energy. He always fits perfectly wherever they need him, but Doran also doesn't feel like he knows Fitzroy. He's learned a lot about Emilia, like how she likes to paint and put off getting a job so she could spend more time creating. As he sits here now, the only thing that Doran can remember about Fitzroy is that he's from District 6.

Doran can see the same fear and uncertainty that he feels mirrored in Fitzroy and Emilia's eyes. He wishes that he could see Chiara right now, as if maybe that would give him a better idea of whether he can trust her too. Emilia has already told him she does but Doran isn't so sure. She's definitely the strongest one in their alliance, and she has the highest training score out of them to show for it, but is that a reason to trust her? Doran doesn't think so.

He rests his head against the chair and closes his eyes for a moment. Out of the hundreds of possibilities Doran considered for his future, he never pictured sitting on a hovercraft heading to the Hunger Games. It would almost be funny if it weren't so horrible. All of those hours of stressing out about where he might end up don't mean anything now. He just wanted to make the best decision so that he would be happy with the way his life was going; so that he wouldn't look as exhausted and beaten down as his father does when he gets home from work. Now, that happiness is about as far away as it can be.

It's not gone, though.

There might not be a thousand possibilities to search through anymore, but that doesn't mean Doran has given up on being happy. There are only two options now, live or die, and Doran knows which one he wants to pick. He wants to be alive so that he can stress about his future again when he gets home. He wants to live so that someday he will find that perfect job and perfect life that will make him happy. He wants to live.

The lights slowly start to come on again and all of the ambition feels like it's being pulled straight out of his throat. The chair still has not released its grip on him, but now he fight against it again. His eyes catch Fitzroy's and his ally offers a calming smile, but it doesn't help Doran's anxiety. All of the windows are still dark so that they can't see where they are, but he knows they've arrived. The arena is probably just outside the hovercraft but Doran has no desire to see it. He just wants to run even though that's not an option anymore. As stupid as it is to fight, that's the only thing he can think to do. He wants to live but he feels like he's being suffocated in this place.

The District 4 boy is pulled up from the seat beside him and Doran can feel his entire body start to tremble. Across from him, the District 11 girl dutifully follows the guards with wide eyes and beside her the District 9 girl bursts into tears again. Doran isn't sure why he doesn't feel like crying, especially when that's all he seemed to do as he tried to fall asleep last night. He's shaking and every breath feels like fire in his throat, but his eyes are dry. He briefly wonders whether this is how he'll feel until he dies. However, every thought is thrown away as the guards come for him.

The closest guard waves a hand over one armrest and Doran folds forward as the chair releases him. Strong hands pull him to his feet and Doran is unable to do anything to stop them. He tenses against their grip and his eyes go wide as they begin to lead him down the ramp. It feels as if he can't catch his breath and the room is spinning around him, even as he knows he's standing perfectly upright. The next breath catches loudly in his throat and Doran's feet refuse to hold his weight. His knees buckle but the guards don't let him fall.

"I can't breathe," Doran croaks.

"Doran!"

The cry sounds like Emilia, but Doran can't turn around to be certain. The guards mumble their annoyance and the tops of his shoes slide against the floor as they easily pull him along. The hallway they lead him through is dim and the walls are so close together that Doran is certain they are about to close in on him. As they go deeper into the building, he finds it harder and harder to breath and straight up impossible to walk on his own. Doran never thought he would be thankful for the guards, but without them he would be trapped in this place. He would never even be able to get himself off the ground if they left him now, so he stops fighting against them.

Sinead Kennard, 16, District 9 Female

The handkerchief is soaked in Sinead's hands, but she doesn't care to ask for a new one. Her stylist works around her silently as she cries, but Sinead wishes he would say something. This morning everyone has stared at her with either contempt or pity, and Sinead isn't sure which one she prefers. She knows that she looks like a mess, in fact she feels like one too, but she just wants someone to tell her it's going to be okay even if she won't believe them.

"You need to get dressed," Monty, her stylist, whispers and helps her carefully from her chair. Her frizzy hair has been smoothed into a high ponytail and her, usually undefined, curls are twisting perfectly out from the hair tie. Normally, Sinead would want to know what he did to achieve that when she's never been very good at getting her curls to behave but today she didn't even watch him work. All she did was cry.

Sinead doesn't answer Monty, but he brings over the hangers that Sanai dropped off earlier. Before now she hadn't even looked over to see what the uniform would be. Sinead wonders when she became so different. At what point did she lose the motivation to even care what was going on around her? It feels like the most important parts of her have been stripped away and what's left isn't even a person. Sinead knows deep down that her curiosity got on people's nerves, and sometimes they told her she needed to keep her questions to herself. She lets out a weak laugh, earning a sideways glance from Monty. Perhaps they'd like this shell of a person, but Sinead does not.

"Simple enough," Monty shrugs as he examines the garments. "Thick fabric but nothing out of the ordinary. It feels like it could be water resistant, but I wouldn't test that either. If it is able to get wet, I'd bet it doesn't dry well because of the fabric blend."

Sinead opens her mouth automatically, but quickly realizes that there is no question or comment ready to pour out. Fresh tears collect in her eyes and she wipes them away before they can even fall. Monty takes the soaked cloth away and helps her into the clothing, almost all of which is black and stretches to fit her snugly. The sweatshirt's sleeves are long and almost completely cover her hands, but it's more comfortable than she expected. Her thumb pokes through a hole in the sleeve as Monty laces up the shoes- a pair of heavy, ankle-high boots. Finally, he helps her into a black, slippery vest covered in empty pockets. Sinead zips it up as far as it will go but decides to leave the hood down. Besides being clearly more expensive, it doesn't feel completely out of place on her body.

"I wish I could tell you more," Monty tells her once she's dressed. Sinead nods slowly, knowing that he's already done more than she can expect. From what she's seen, Jory's stylist probably won't be even try to give him pointers about the outfit. Sinead's lucky she has Monty, even if his quiet pity isn't what she wants right now. He's at least trying to be helpful.

"Thank you," she whispers, attempting to blink back another wave of tears. She should be out of tears by now, but they just keep coming. Now is the time when she should be focused on staying strong and being ready to help her allies, but she isn't. If anything, she feels smaller and weaker than she did standing in front of her district at the reaping. Sinead wants to tell herself that she still has time to hurt, but the truth is that she doesn't know that. The five-minute warning has already come and gone. There's no telling how much time she has left.

Monty hands her a dry handkerchief and Sinead takes it gratefully. "I'll need it back before you go."

"I know," Sinead says, drying her eyes for what might be the hundredth time today before passing the fabric back to him.

"I hope to see you again," Monty says after a moment. When she turns to him, Sinead can see that his eyes too are glassy with tears. For a second, anger flares in her cheeks. He has no reason to be afraid, nor will he probably ever have such a reason in his life. Almost as soon as it appears, though, the anger is gone and the familiar anxiety tightens once again in her chest.

"One minute to launch."

Sinead stares up at the ceiling as if she might find the owner of the voice up there, but of course there is no one. She looks back to Monty, her eyes wide with fear, and he lifts his arms for a moment as if to touch her but recoils just as quickly. Before she can think, Sinead throws herself into his arms and Monty's hands wrap tightly around her. Her teeth chatter in her mouth, but for the first time no new tears form. Perhaps she is finally too afraid to cry.

"You have to go now," Monty whispers into the top of her head, his voice shaking along with her body. Sinead takes a breath that feels like it barely gets past her throat and releases her stylist reluctantly. She wants to stay here for as long as she can, even with the fear that is threatening to strangle her. Anything seems better than walking onto the launch pad.

She doesn't need to be told where to go; the silver disc in the corner of the room has been staring back at her since she arrived. Sinead doesn't stop in front of it, knowing that is she does she will lose the miniscule amount of courage she currently has. She places her hands against the back wall and takes a shuddering breath as she hears the glass wall slide into place behind her.

Sinead turns to face Monty, who stares solemnly back at her from outside. She whimpers as the floor begins to push her up into the ceiling, panic overtaking every muscle fiber and telling her to run even though there is nowhere to go. The light of her prep room disappears and she finds herself surrounded by thick darkness that smudges across her eyelids. A dim light comes from above and barely illuminates the air in front of her as the plate clicks into position. Sinead looks around her, seeing only vague outlines and feeling only a wet breeze as it slides across her face.

All at once, burning light comes from all directions and Sinead falls to her knees to cover her eyes. She hears scattered screams come from beside her, but she is unable to recognize the voices. The questions return to her mind in rapid fire, wondering where she is, who the screams belonged to, and whether someone has already been hurt. None, however, are more prominent than the one that howls over and over in her consciousness- the one that wonders if she is about to die.

A/N: Hello, hello. So, we have finally arrived in the arena and the tributes are about to start dropping. I must say that it's been really difficult planning the deaths and plots because I feel pretty deeply attached to all of these tributes and their journeys so far. All of them have plot potential and all of them have reasons why they should make it farther, but that's just not how these stories work. Before the Bloodbath drops, I want to thank everyone for submitting such wonderful characters and making these decisions so difficult. I simply can't keep everyone alive and I hope that everyone is able to understand that.

Have your opinions of these 4 tributes changed (Jayde, Florian, Doran, Sinead)?

Who do you think will be lost to the Bloodbath? Who do you want to lose?

Any arena guesses?

I will be updating the Bloodbath sometime after August 3rd, potentially later as I'm moving pretty soon. After that, updates are probably going to be a bit more spread out than they have been recently due to school starting back up (why? No idea). Rest assured that I'll still be updating as regularly as possible as we get into the thick of the action. Until next time!

~ Olive