Chapter Fourteen.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Marcella Carter
District Twelve, 13 Years Old
Morning of the Launch
Marcella had a restless night.
The twinge of discomfort, of embarrassment, from the meet-and-greet, kept her awake. She eavesdropped on other tributes as they entertained their fans from the Capitol, jealous of those with charming personalities, with the ability to just be themselves. The whole time, Marcella wasn't sure what to say. What the Capitol wanted to hear. She didn't have an interview-worthy life like some of the other tributes. Unlike Beau who wouldn't stop talking, about his mother, his allies, and himself.
What was Marcella to do? Talk about her addict parents? Her shoddy house? How she spent most of her time in the alleyways of District Twelve, waiting for her next victim to walk by and slip her hand in the pocket of their pants? Is that what Panem wanted to hear?
Marcella pulled the blanket over her head, letting out a muffled scream. She wanted to talk about her sisters and how much they meant to her. But, she couldn't; she would get too choked up. Speaking about them was hard for her to do, as her mind would drift away, wondering what they were doing while she was in the Capitol. She was their provider. Their protector.
Then, she thought about her sisters standing outside of a shop, peering over the windowsill at the television inside, watching the meet-and-greet. That almost comforted her, but it wasn't enough. She wanted to see them again. To hug them. The thought of seeing them ever again seemed far fetched. Marcella always had big dreams for such a small girl, but in the Capitol, she realized how unlikely all of her dreams were.
All she wanted was a normal life. Was that so hard?
Marcella thought of everything that could have been if she wasn't reaped. If she wasn't born in District Twelve. If her parents weren't morphling addicts. There were too many 'what ifs,' and winning the Hunger Games seemed to be the biggest one. What if she won? Would that change anything for the Carter sisters?
The odds were stacked against her; she knew tributes her age rarely did well in the Games, but she wasn't ready to give up just yet. She couldn't give up – for her sisters, for the future of her family. She was going to fight to return to District Twelve as a victor. She planned on buying her a family a new home and stock it with food and brand new clothes. She was going to buy her sisters books and toys. Marcella would finally be able to provide for her family, unlike her parents.
She was going to win the Hunger Games not for herself, but for them.
An alarm clock went off and Marcella shot upright, slamming her hand on top of it, silencing the alarm. She got out of bed, and as she passed her closet mirror before exiting her bedroom, she looked at herself. She wasn't like the other tributes – she didn't have a stable family, or money, or food, or anything, really – but that made her strong and resilient. That was the Marcella she should've talked about the night before.
Marcella walked outside of her bedroom to see Celosia alone at the dining table, while Ashra and Beau were outside, peering over the balcony. District Twelve had the highest apartment, and arguably, the best views. Marcella didn't care much for them, but Beau was awestruck every time they went outside.
"Good morning, sweetheart," Celosia said, pouring Marcella a glass of water as she sat down at the table. "How are you today?"
"I'm fine," Marcella replied. When the glass doors to the balcony slid open, Marcella slumped in her seat. Beau and Ashra walked in, and immediately, Beau sighed, as if he was expecting to not see Marcella in their own District's apartment.
What did I ever do to him?
"Hi, Marcella," Ashra said, and Beau rolled his eyes. It almost felt forced by that point, as if he had something to prove. To whom, Marcella wasn't sure, but maybe he didn't want to be seen publicly interacting with the have-nots of District Twelve. "You and Cassia did a great job yesterday."
"You know who did a great job?" Beau scoffed. "Me and my allies."
Me, me, me.
"You did a great job too, Beau," Ashra said, only to appease her son. "This is about to Marcella, though. Not you."
"I think we did okay," Marcella replied. "Cassia did most of the talking."
"Which did more harm than good," Beau retorted, chuckling. "She's a babbling mess."
"Cut it out, Beau," Ashra interjected, gripping her hand around his arm tightly. Marcella scowled at him, her hands trembling with rage, with frustration, with hatred. She loathed her District partner. "Leave her alone."
Beau was another what-if. What if he died? What if he won?
Marcella hoped she'd see his face in the sky on the first night in the arena. Beau had nothing to win for – his mother was a victor, they already lived in the wealthiest part of the District, they already had everything they could ever need in life – while Marcella had everything to win for.
He didn't deserve to win.
She did.
Gunnar Altman
District Five, 16 Years Old
Morning of the Launch
Gunnar drifted in and out of sleep.
As he tried to tightly close his eyes, wanting only a few more minutes of sleep, there was something echoing around his room, ringing in his ears. It was coming from outside of his bedroom, seemingly getting closer and closer. Louder and louder.
It was Kit's voice.
Gunnar wrapped the pillow around his ears, and when he could still hear her, he forced himself out of bed. Gunnar glanced at the clock and saw that it was too early for Kit to already be up and ready to go. Gunnar opened his door only a little to see their mentor, Delron, standing outside of it. Gunnar wanted to close the door, to close his eyes again, but he knew that he needed to talk to their mentors and his ally. It was the day they anticipated since their names were called at the reaping in District Five.
"She woke up before the sun rose," Delron mumbled with a smirk, pointing at Kit peering over Ethan's shoulder. "And then she woke us up for some last minute training."
Kit was undeniably eager, and most of the time, Gunnar appreciated it. She always wanted to try a different station, to observe a different tribute, to plan a different type of strategy. She took the initiative in their alliance, while Gunnar and Everett obliged, although on occasion Everett would snap back at her. It never fazed her, though; it was clear she dealt with dissent from her peers before in life.
"Gunnar!" Kit exclaimed. "They told me not to wake you up, so I'm glad you're finally here!"
"Good morning, Kit," Gunnar replied, rubbing his eyes. If Gunnar learned anything in the Capitol, it was how to deal with Kit's overbearingness early in the morning; he had no choice, really. "What have you been up to?"
"A lot of talking," Delron mumbled under his breath. "I told her she could use the rest, but Kit had a lot of questions for us."
They sat down at the table, and Gunnar picked at his food, while Kit dove into her rapid-fire questions that she started to do every morning to wake Gunnar up and to keep him alert. A small part of him wanted to go back in his bedroom, wrap himself in the blankets, and drown out Kit's voice, but it wasn't the day to do that. They would be in the arena in only a few hours and Gunnar would appreciate any last minute help like Kit.
"How do you swim?" Kit asked, gripping the edge of the table with her fingers.
"By closing your eyes and holding your breath," Gunnar replied matter-of-factly. Technically, he was true; he wasn't sure what type of answer Kit was expecting. This was not the last minute training he thought that Delron meant.
"How do you climb a tree?"
"With your feet and hands."
"Maybe these are too easy," Kit mumbled, leaning back in her chair. "What about…"
"How do you run? How do you eat?" Ethan interjected, nudging Ethan as they both erupted into a fit of laughter. "How do you breathe?"
"Not funny," Kit reprimanded. "So, let's get to it. What do you recommend we do during the bloodbath?"
"Get in and get out," Ethan replied, his voice shaky with laughter. "Okay, okay. Being serious now."
"Get what you need and run," Delron said, echoing Ethan's sentiment. "It'll bite you in the ass later on if you run away from it. You need supplies."
"Play it smart, though," Ethan said. "Avoid the Careers. Avoid the mouth of the Cornucopia. Run, grab what you need, and run some more."
Run. That's what Gunnar deemed the most important. Run, run, run. To be one of the first tributes to reach the Cornucopia, grab something, and then run away. While Gunnar wasn't concerned about following their rules, he worried about Kit. He was concerned that she wouldn't listen to them and linger at the Cornucopia, trying to grab too many things at once. He knew her own curiosity, her need to insert herself in situations, could be her downfall.
"And if anyone gets in your way," Delron said, speaking slowly, as if he was paying close attention to how he worded his advice. "Do what you need to do."
Do what I need to do? Does he mean kill?
"You can't freeze up in the moment, you can't second guess yourself," Delron continued. "There will always be a tribute who will kill you first. You cannot let your own morals, your own inhibition, stop you."
"Did you kill anyone in the bloodbath?" Kit asked abruptly, and Gunnar winced at the intrusiveness of the question. Kit needed to know everything and when she saw Gunnar's reaction, she shrugged. "It'll make me feel better about it if I know that our mentors did it."
"Yes, I did," Delron replied. Gunnar remembered Delron's Games vividly; it was two years after the Fourth Quarter Quell, where tension in Panem was still palpable, and during the launch, the tributes were randomly placed into a long hallway with another tribute, leading to the Cornucopia. Delron hoped it would be his District partner, maybe even a younger tribute, but it wasn't, and he choked the tribute to death. "And you can too."
Regardless of what his mentors said, Gunnar wasn't sure if he could.
He watched it happen for years on the television – the slaughter, the bloodshed, the savagery of it all – but he could never see himself ever doing any of that. As his mentors continued answering Kit's questions, he knew he had no choice. He had to do the things his mentors did in their Games if he wanted to be a victor like them.
He would have to kill if it came down to it.
It's the only way he would return to District Five.
Everett Landry
District Three, 18 Years Old
Morning of the Launch
There was a faint knock on the door, the sound barely registering with Everett. He groaned, stretching out his legs, and sat up in his bed. There was another knock on the door and Everett threw his head back into the silk pillow. When there was another knock on the door, Everett knew his morning wouldn't be spent lying in bed.
It was the day he was dreading, the day he was hoping would somehow just not happen – the launch. He sighed.
"I'm up!" Everett shouted, scooting off of the bed and planting his two feet on the ground. Everett sauntered over to his bedroom's door and when he saw Cassia standing on the other side, he raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't expecting to see you."
"Well, I live here too, so," Cassia replied, not making eye-contact with Everett. She was looking past him and out his window. "They told me to wake you up."
"Thanks," Everett said, yawning, stretching out his arms and tilting his head side-to-side to crack his neck. "What time did you wake up?"
Cassia was taken back by his convivial nature that morning. There was no off-hand comment, no eye roll. Everett wasn't being the boy Cassia was accustomed to.
"A few hours ago," Cassia said, raising an eyebrow. She was cautious with the way she spoke to him, anticipating a passive-aggressive insult. "Breakfast's been ready for a bit."
"Anything good?" Everett asked, peering over her, looking at the spread of breakfast foods displayed on the kitchen island. "Looks like there's a lot of fruit."
"More than usual," Cassia replied, letting her guard down. "Not in a fruit mood?"
"Nope. I'd rather stuff my face with pure sugar, but fruit will do."
"For once, I agree with you," Cassia said, letting out a muffled laugh. She coughed, suppressing it, still unsure of why Everett was acting so nice. So normal. To Cassia's surprise, and even to his own surprise, Everett was oddly calm and humorous that morning. Humor was always his go-to coping mechanism when he was nervous about something. In Everett's own words, he was scared shitless about what was to come.
"Good morning," Everett said, waving at their mentors, Allonia and Aidan. They were already poking at the assortment of breakfast foods. "Happy Hunger Games-day or something like that."
"Someone's in a chipper mood," Allonia said, just as confused as Cassia was about Everett's demeanor. "Is it because you spent the night with an Avox?"
Cassia and Everett both let out a hearty laugh, filling the room with a jovial energy. They sat with their mentors, smiles on their faces, discussing their final assessments of the other tributes, and as they started talking about some of the weaker-looking tributes, the mood quickly turned somber.
Everett's thoughts drifted to his allies. To Cassia and her ally, Marcella. He thought about what would happen to them during the craziness of the bloodbath. Of what would happen to him during the bloodbath. Of what would happen to them after the bloodbath and throughout the rest of their time in the arena.
He snapped out of it. For once, he didn't want to spend his morning with his head full of negative thoughts. Everett's typical cynicism, his typical pessimism, wouldn't help him that day. That attitude wouldn't help is alliance, either.
"It's almost time to go," Allonia said, reaching her hands over the table, and Cassia and Everett each held one. "Keep this energy up in the arena. You will feel hopeless, you will feel lonely, but please stay positive."
"District Three has won before and we can win again," Aidan said, placing his hands on top of the others. "I know you two aren't allies, but please remember that you are District partners, and that means something."
They all retracted their hands, standing up from the table, and their mentors led Everett and Cassia to the elevator. They pressed the button, and as they were waiting, Everett looked at Cassia. They weren't meant to be allies – they were too different – but maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe she wasn't as annoying, as grating, as he originally thought. She was younger than him and perhaps had a better outlook on life than he did.
When the elevator doors slid open, Cassia gave each of their mentors a hug, while Everett shook their hand. The two of them stepped into the elevator, nearly colliding with the Peacekeeper at the back of it. The elevator began to descend, and Cassia tilted her head towards Everett. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a smirk grow on her face, and his eyes trailed her arm as she raised it, and suddenly, jammed her finger on the 1 button.
"Ma'am," the Peacekeeper said. "Please refrain from touching the buttons."
Then, she pressed the 2 button.
"Ma'am."
The pesky security measures wouldn't allow the elevator to go to any other floor, since it was locked based on the tribute's District, but Cassia didn't care. She was only doing it to entertain Everett and herself. The Peacekeeper nudged her with his arm, and yet, she continued to smile. Everett couldn't even believe the smirk on his own face.
But, once the elevator doors opened, he gawked at the ominous scene in front of him. His skin blanched as he watched the tributes step into the large, metallic hovercraft, getting closer and closer to their inevitable death.
None of this was a laughing matter.
Everett just didn't know what else to do.
Georgia Aurello
District Two, 18 Years Old
Boarding the Hovercraft
"Drum roll please!"
As Georgia opened her bedroom door, the District Two mentors, Arick and Ryker, started banging their hands on the countertop and stomping their feet on the floor.
"May I introduce to you," Arick bellowed, cupping his hand around his mouth. "The soon-to-be-victor of the one hundred-and-twentieth Hunger Games – Georgia Aurello!"
Georgia curtsied, showing off her perfected regal wave. "Thank you, thank you."
"Seriously, you're going to kill it out there," Ryker jeered, lightly punching Georgia's shoulder. Georgia relished in Renour's apparent dislike for their chummy relationship; it was probably because he felt excluded, but he did that to himself, so Georgia didn't feel bad. He ostracized himself from the Careers and their mentors. "Literally. Ha-ha."
Georgia rolled her eyes when Renour stood up from the couch and stepped into her peripheral vision.
"Do you have anything to say to me?" Renour interjected.
Ryker shrugged. "Break a leg. Literally. Ha-ha."
"Don't be immature," Renour replied, focusing on Ryker and Arick. "I did nothing to you two, so I'm not sure what the problem is."
"You embarrassed us," Ryker retorted. "You're the laughing stock of the Career mentors."
It serves him right.
The four of them ate breakfast in silence, with their escort running around the apartment, opening each and every cabinet, looking for who knows what, and soon after, it was time to say their goodbyes to one another – or, for Georgia, it was a see you later.
Arick and Ryker ignored Renour and embraced Georgia, but after a few seconds, Georgia pushed them away; sentimentality made her seethe. Georgia and Renour stepped into the elevator and a Peacekeeper stood in between them. He pressed the down button and it began descending to the hanger where the tributes would board the hovercraft. Georgia found solace in the awkward silence; she liked watching Renour squirm as she stared at him.
"Good luck, Georgia."
"I don't need it," Georgia quipped. "You do."
"Really?" Renour said, sighing, and he turned to face her, the Peacekeeper tightening their grip on their rifle. "You're going to keep this act up, even when no one's here?"
"Act?" Georgia repeated, scoffing. "What about your act? This whole high-and-mighty thing you have going on."
"It's not an act," Renour replied defensively. Georgia must've struck a chord. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Do you really think you're different from me? From any of the Careers?" Georgia snapped. "You're just like us. You're like every Career that came before you."
"No," Renour said firmly, shaking his head. "I am not."
"You trained. You volunteered. Whether you wanted to doesn't matter," Georgia said, taking a step forward, blocking the elevator entrance. "All that matters is that you did. You chose to be here, just like the rest of us."
Renour shook his head. He didn't like what she was saying, as he didn't agree with any of it, but Georgia's argument did have some merit; Renour was chosen by the training academy in District Two, just like she was, and he volunteered, even though technically he could've declined – he would've been an embarrassment to District Two if he refused, so he'd find himself in a similar situation to the one he was in. Georgia didn't see how nuanced it was from Renour's perspective.
"It's such a shame," Georgia continued. "I liked you, but then you went and acted up."
"Don't gaslight me," Renour snapped. "You caused the rift in the alliance."
Gaslight. It was Renour's turn to strike a chord with Georgia. She was gaslighted in District Two. By her deceased father and her spineless mother. By the distrustful and heinous trainees. By those who she thought were her friends.
"Don't act like your shit doesn't stink, Renour," Georgia mumbled, rolling her eyes. Her patience was wearing thin and she did not want to be distracted during the launch. "I know mine does. At least I own up to it."
Georgia stepped out of the elevator with a pit in her stomach. She walked towards the hovercraft, standing in line behind some of the tributes – she didn't care about them enough to learn their names – and resisted the urge to look back at Renour. Georgia didn't regret a single thing she said or did in the Capitol. She was aware of her own flaws, not like Renour. He was lost and confused. His identity crisis wasn't her fault.
Georgia was aware of the way she acted, but she also knew she could be better, too. She could be less cruel, less cagey, less domineering. She could be a good person – Georgia was unsure of what 'good' meant, as she never met someone up to her standards of expressing any 'good' qualities – but she was never given any reason to change. Her life was built around a tragedy, a sob story, that hardened her.
Georgia doubted that her time in the Capitol would be any different, that there would be any reason to change how she acted. She also doubted that, in the arena, there would be any reason that she should change, either. Not even the made-up rivalry that Cleo and Renour conjured up. She was scared of what could happen, now that she's made several enemies out of the other tributes – only a little, as her competitors didn't intimidate her all that much – but she wouldn't admit it. Georgia only wanted to be the leader of the Careers, but it escalated into a whirlwind of shit-talking, insults, and gossiping.
Georgia genuinely didn't care about any of them, though. She was invincible. Whether someone liked her or not, Georgia was unbothered. She was there to succeed. To win.
She didn't care who she hurt along the way.
Cara Waycrest
District Eleven, 16 Years Old
Moments Before the Launch
"Cara! I'm so happy to see you!"
The door slammed shut behind Cara, leaving her alone with her stylist, Kitsey. Kitsey stood there, trembling with excitement, eager to show Cara what her arena outfit would be. She tapped her long fingernails on a table, waving for Cara to come over to it. She grabbed Cara's hands, leaning in to kiss both of her cheeks, and rustled her hands in Cara's hair. Cara shook her head, trying to shake away Kitsey, but Kitsey didn't get the hint.
Cara glanced at the table, raising an eyebrow at the sight of all the color white overwhelming the table. All of the clothing and accessories were made of pure white materials; there was a long-sleeve thermal shirt, a lightweight thermal jacket, a pair of thin gloves, and slip-on boots. A reflective, metallic 11 was printed onto the back of the jacket. She started to undress, carefully picking up and inspecting each item as she put it on.
"White?" Cara asked. "What does this mean?"
"I wish I knew," Kitsey replied. "I would've argued against it. I hate white!"
That wasn't what Cara thought she was going to say.
"I was never a fan of white," Kitsey continued, running her finger through Cara's hair, trying to get all of the knots out. Cara wanted to swat her hand away, but she pinned her arms to her side, letting herself enjoy the last few seconds of being pampered. She would let her do it for only a few more seconds. "It gets so messy, you know? It'll be a shame if you get mud or something on it."
Or blood.
"How nice of them to provide gloves!" Kitsey exclaimed, clasping the gloves between her pointer finger and thumb, holding them up in the air. "They're so cute!"
"None of this is cute," Cara snapped, taking a step forward, pulling her head away from Kitsey's hands. There was a chance that she would never see Kitsey again and Cara didn't care how she treated her anymore. "They're not being nice. I could die."
"Don't be so negative, sweetie," Kitsey replied. "There's a victor every year, right? It could be you!"
Cara stared at Kitsey, speechless. The words that were coming out of Kitsey's mouth. How inconsiderate, how dismissive, she was being. People from the Capitol would never know what it's like to be from the Districts, to live in constant fear as a child about being reaped. To worry that, if you have children, they could be reaped too. Citizens in the Capitol, including stylists and escorts, would never be able to empathize with their tribute.
"Good luck, Cara," Kitsey said, trying to wrap her arms around Cara, but she stepped out of the way. "I wish you the best. Really, I do."
There was something ingenuine about her stylist's words that Cara found off-putting. She didn't mean it. Cara was another tribute for Kitsey to do whatever she wanted to, as if she was her mannequin, her canvas. Kitsey lathered makeup all over Cara's face and body, dressed her up in whatever Kitsey wanted, not considering what Cara wanted. Cara thought that stylists might be the worst, most cruel part of the Hunger Games.
Good luck. Cara scoffed. Good luck to you, Kitsey.
Cara didn't need luck. She wouldn't survive based on luck. Survival wasn't about how fortunate, how lucky, she was. It would come down to skill, strength, and smarts.
Cara stepped into the tube, and the glass slid shut in front of her, encircling her in the tube. She crossed her arms over her chest, wrapping her hands around her upper-arms and rubbing them to make her hands warmer. The air was frigid; she breathed out and her warm breath hit the cold air, creating a small, misty cloud.
"It's cold," she said, pressing her hand against the glass, but Kitsey couldn't hear her. She waved her hand and blew a kiss to Cara, as if she wanted to have a heartwarming moment. "I said it's cold!"
The metal plate beneath her shifted, starting to slowly rise, and Cara stared upwards, stretching out her fingers and slipping on the pair of gloves. She balled her fingers into fists, getting into a running stance, and focused on what would soon be in front of her. This was her life now and whether or not she would have a life beyond the Hunger Games was up to her.
Cara would make sure she saw District Eleven again. Her mother, her brother. The fields she had grown to appreciate. She would return to the farm that she spent grueling hours in on hot, humid days.
She would win.
And luck would have nothing to do with it.
Author's Note:
So, here we are… one chapter away from the arena! Every tribute has now had two POVs, so I added a poll, asking who your favorite characters are (you can choose 4). Please vote! Voting in this poll might even be more important than Americans voting in the presidential election!
Who do you think will die in the bloodbath? Who do you want to die in the bloodbath?