Chapter Eighteen.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Cassia Roenisch
District Three, 15 Years Old
Cassia and Orion stayed awake all night. They sat across from one another in the snow, legs crossed, leaning their heads on their hands, simply listening to each other speak. Breathe. Exist in the limited ways they could in the arena. Instead of running the other way, they talked, rekindling their initial encounter in the training center, as if chaos wasn't ensuing around them. Lucky for Orion, talking and listening was what Cassia did best.
They talked about their home lives, about their Districts, about what some of their funniest experiences in the Capitol were. Cassia vividly remembered the meet-and-greet, where a Capitol citizen told her that they wanted to get surgery on their nose to look like Cassia's. Orion told Cassia about the time that he caught his Avox picking their nose. They laughed uncontrollably, slapping their knees, their bellies cramping from laughing so much.
They also talked about Orion's dead ally. About Cassia's dead ally. They had a lot in common, apparently.
"Not having Marcella here is weird," Cassia said, raising her eyebrow at her use of the word weird. Witnessing her death was weird. Weird seemed like such a simple word. "That's not the right word."
"It is weird," Orion replied. "All of this."
Cassia nodded.
"The weirdness makes me feel so confused. So helpless, you know?" Orion said, sighing. This was Orion's opportunity to vent, to express what he was feeling, and as the conversation shifted to wherever Orion was taking it, Cassia listened more attentively. "I don't know what to do."
"Why?" Cassia asked, and Orion shrugged. Cassia had a tendency to ask intrusive, complicated questions that were seemingly simple to her. "I don't know what to do, either, but that's what the Games are about. We're all trying to figure it out."
"But, what if I don't want to figure it out?" Orion retorted.
"That's silly," Cassia replied. "Are you saying you want to die? Why make this far, then?"
"I don't know."
Cassia and Orion had inherently different mindsets. Cassia wanted to survive for the sake of being, well, not dead. She wanted to be alive, while Orion wasn't sure what he wanted. Was it better to be dead in a society that has treated him like filth his whole life or alive in a society where mobility, where change, was possible as a victor? Would winning placate Orion? The other injustices against the common-folk of Panem wouldn't go away. He'd be complicit as a victor. Complicit in a system that was exacerbated by the Hunger Games, by victors.
Cassia was there to stay alive. To be able to see her family, her friends, her District again. To live the life of a victor. Clearly, Orion was still figuring things out, despite his objections.
Crunch.
When they heard the sound of crunching snow behind them, they both tensed up. Orion instinctively grabbed Cassia's hand, gripping his fingers around it tightly, and when they heard the pitter-patter of light footsteps approaching them, they both flicked their heads around.
"Aw!" Cassia chirped, relaxing her shoulders. "Cute!"
A white fox jumped out from behind the tree, planting its paws into the snow in front of them, and although Cassia wanted to pet it, she knew better. It could've been a rabid, vicious muttation, despite how cute it was. The Gamemakers had a tendency of ruining the good things in life.
The fox appeared harmless, and Cassia tried to pull her hand away, but Orion didn't release his grip, still staring at the fox. Cassia took her other hand and picked up Orion's draped hand, giving it back to him. Orion blushed and Cassia smiled, reaching for her backpack.
"Snack time," Cassia said, the fox still perched in front of them. Cassia rummaged through her backpack and pulled out a pouch of dried fruit. "Apples it is!"
Cassia bit into the shriveled piece of fruit, tugging it with her teeth, munching through the chewiness. She remembered apples in the Capitol being much sweeter. She looked at Orion nibbling on his piece, imagining the two of them in her school's cafeteria in District Three. Orion reminded her of the boys in her classes that would interrupt the teacher, that would walk out in the middle of a lesson. The ones that would throw paper planes at their friends.
But, she liked him for those reasons. He was a different type of person than who she normally spent her time with. He was different than Marcella, too. Marcella was an ally, but she didn't speak to Cassia much, while Orion was more chatty and friendly. There was a clear difference between the two, and although Cassia felt herself regressing, returning to her old, clueless, gung-ho ways by trusting Orion, she followed her gut anyway. The number of tributes remaining were dwindling down and the majority of the other tributes had an ally still, so really, she was at a disadvantage by not allying with Orion.
"In another world, Orion, we'd be good friends," Cassia said, leaning back against a tree. "Not in the arena, though."
"It's hard to make friends in here, eh?" Orion replied, and he pointed to the sky. "Maybe when we're, you know, dead, and our spirits are somewhere up there, we can visit each other's homes."
Cassia nodded, the existential nature of Orion's response going over her head. She didn't quite understand what he meant – Cassia never thought about where she would go after she died, but apparently, Orion gave it some thought – but it sounded nice. She'd like to see where he grew up. Despite how she felt about him, like she said, they couldn't be friends. Not in the arena. Here, he was her competitor, and while Orion wasn't sure what he wanted, Cassia knew exactly what she wanted. She wanted to win.
Friend or not, she couldn't let him get in her way.
Everett Landry
District Three, 18 Years Old
"Everett?"
"What?"
"We're out of water."
"And food, and bandages," Everett babbled. "And our blades are dull, and we're probably going to die because we have absolutely nothing."
"That was unnecessary," Kit mumbled. "I just wanted to let you know that there's no more water."
"What do you want me to do about it?" Everett snapped, raising his voice. Kit turned away from him, screwing the cap back on her canister, and when Kit didn't respond, Everett felt himself getting more frustrated. "Why tell me that we have no more water if there's nothing I can do about it?"
"Why are you so angry?" Kit asked in a hushed voice, gesturing with her hand for him to lower his voice. "People are going to hear you."
"Let them!" Everett shouted, cupping his hands over his mouth. As his voice got louder, the owls perched on trees squawked back at him, flapping their wings. "We have no water, anyway, so we might as well get killed!"
"Everett, please," Kit implored. "Please, please, please be quiet."
"I don't care, Kit!" Everett screamed, his voice cracking. "I want everyone to hear us!"
Crunch.
"You should've listened to her, Everett."
Ah, shit.
Kit and Everett's heads shot up, looking at each other, and when they turned their heads, they saw the boy from District Two and the girl from District Eight standing there, weapons in their hands. Everett eyed the multiple backpacks they had; they had all of the supplies him and Kit desperately needed. They probably have fucking water.
"So –"
Before Renour could finish his sentence, Kit squealed, grabbed her backpack, and ran away, heading into the trees. Everett could hear her screams as she pranced through the trees, and Renour chased after the frolicking girl. Kit only made it a few feet away from them before Renour caught up to her, tackling her to the ground, their bodies slamming into the ground.
"We have supplies! You can take them all!" Kit exclaimed, trying to wiggle free from the immense weight of Renour's body on top of her. "We can be allies!"
Shut up, Kit. They're going to kill you regardless.
As Everett and Denali watched Renour's pursuit, Denali threw her body into Everett's – it was clear that she didn't know what she was doing or what her plan was – and they fell to the ground, clawing at each other and trying to push the other swiped at Everett, only grazing the bottom of Everett's leg, and he thrashed his legs, kicking her. In pain, Denali toppled over, a knife still in her hand, while Everett had nothing, his fingernails digging into the snow.
The image of Beau falling on top of him before he pulverized his face flashed across his mind, and Denali used Everett's hesitation to pin his arms to his side with her knees, bringing the blade of the knife closer to his face.
"Everett!" Kit screamed, but it was cut short by the sound of Renour impaling her stomach with his sword, and at the sound of her blood-curdling scream, Denali was temporarily distracted by Renour and Kit, and Everett mustered up the strength, the courage, to push Denali off of him.
Denali fell backwards, aimlessly swiping the knife in front of her, but Everett dodged her attacks, pushing her to the side as he ran past her. Everett looked over his shoulder, surprised to see the girl from District Eight not chasing after him, and behind her was the boy from District Two, standing firmly in the snow with beads of sweat on his forehead and a bloody sword in his hand. He had a disapproving look on his face.
"Denali! What are you doing?!" Renour screamed. "Why are you letting him run away?"
Denali had nothing to say to Renour.
"Denali!"
Denali, Denali! Everett internally mocked. Why'd you let the freak from Three run away?
Everett ran as fast as he could and as far away from them as he could. Everett didn't regret yelling at Kit. At attracting Renour and Denali. Her voice – her endless questions, her unwarranted advice – started to grate on Everett. Ever since they lost Gunnar, their alliance startled to crumble, and by a certain point, he didn't even consider Kit an ally anymore. He never should have allied with them in the first place. Their whole concocted alliance was a mistake.
And Everett wouldn't make another mistake again.
Avena Raiden
District Nine, 14 Years Old
Avena's knees buckled and she hunched over, wrapping her arms around her growling stomach. Cramping pains shot throughout her abdomen, and she fell to her knees, scooping up snow in her hands. She stuffed her mouth full of the cold snow, swallowing it immediately, but she wasn't satisfied. She needed to find real sustenance. For a moment, she regretted not stealing more of Aedan's supplies, but she stopped herself there. He killed to protect her, he was the reason she was still alive. She couldn't have done that to him.
In the snow, she saw tiny paw-prints, and she hoisted herself up with the help of a tree trunk, and followed them. They wound around a few of the trees, taking her left and then right, and when the fox she was trailing hopped out from behind a tree, its tiny, circular white eyes eyes staring at her, Avena slipped off her backpack.
Avena reached for the knife that was clipped on it, and slowly, she slid it out of its sleeve, staring back at the fox. She thought of her dog back home, of how she wouldn't be able to kill him, but there she was, contemplating killing the animal because she was starving. If she were hungry in District Nine, would she kill her dog too? Was that a thing people always had to do in other Districts? How animalistic.
Avena felt sick to her stomach at the sheer thought of slaughtering the poor, helpless animal, but she couldn't live off of random berries she found hanging off of tree branches. She couldn't survive off of water from the streams, off handfuls of snow. She needed real food. Quick, before it was too late.
Avena crept forwards, lightly placing her feet on the ground so she didn't scare it away, and when she was close enough, she leaped, plunging the knife into the fox's back, and with a high-pitched yelp, the fox fell flat onto the ground.
Is raw meat even edible?
Avena wasn't in the type of situation where she could cook it, where she could properly skin it and season the meat like her mother used to do. Her hands trembled as she picked the fox up in her hands, its blood running down her jacket sleeve, and she inhaled and closed her eyes. She really needed to eat.
What now?
If she could barely kill a fox, could she kill a living, breathing person?
She wasn't so sure she could.
Cleo Halston
District One, 18 Years Old
Cleo flinched at the sound of a cannon.
Georgia was unfazed, going back to stacking metal crates on top of each other, creating a barrier around the mouth of the Cornucopia. She organized all of the supplies, putting the weapons in one corner, the food in another, and all of the medical and other miscellaneous supplies in the center. Cleo sat hunched over and cross-legged on the ice, gaping at Georgia, a blank expression on her face.
Cleo's hair was disheveled, strands of her blonde hair draped over her face, and she didn't even bother to pin it up. To brush it out of her face, to wipe the snow off of her face. To be so unkempt, so uncouth, was unlike her. She didn't feel like herself, though. Not after Caspian and Nereida's death. Not after killing Hardy. Not after she realized that Georgia was in charge now.
"Cleo?" Georgia shouted and Cleo flinched once again. "I called your name three fucking times. Wake up."
"Sorry," Cleo replied, her voice croaking. "What do you need?"
"I found more arrows for you," Georgia said, tilting her head, a smile on her face. Cleo's facial features twitched from the pure rage, the pure disdain, she felt. She hated Georgia's smile. "I thought you'd like them."
"No," Cleo deadpanned. "I don't want them."
"No?" Georgia said, more voice more stern, the smile on her face fading. "Take the arrows, Cleo."
Cleo shook her head. "I said I don't want them."
"Take them!" Georgia shouted, slamming her foot down on the ice, throwing the quiver of arrows at Cleo. They slid on the ice, inching closer to her, and Cleo looked the other way. "You ungrateful brat."
"I don't want your arrows," Cleo snapped. It was such a petty, meaningless argument, but Cleo didn't want anything from Georgia. She didn't want any help from her. Georgia was supposed to be dead, yet there she was. "Shove them up your –"
When Georgia slammed her foot on the ice again, a cracking sound grumbled underneath them. Cleo locked eyes with Georgia, eyes widening as the sounds of cracking ice grew louder and louder.
"What was that?" Georgia asked, frantically scanning the trees lining the lake. Cleo looked down at her lap, seeing water seeping through the cracks, and as she gently and slowly stood up, a crack shot right under her feet. "Cleo, move!"
Cleo jumped out of the way as a gaping hole emerged, shattering the ice and swallowing Cleo's bow. Cleo jogged to the side, the cracks following her, splitting the ice as she ran towards the Cornucopia. When Cleo approached Georgia in the mouth of the Cornucopia, a fish-looking creature jumped out of the water, landing at their feet. It was a large fish with razor sharp teeth hanging out of its mouth. The gills and fins were lit up, a bright white light shining from around the edges. Georgia stomped her foot on the fish, a mucus-type liquid spewing out of its mouth, and with her foot, she swept it back into the water.
Cleo had grown to really, really hate fish in the arena.
The ice underneath them continued to shift, more and more pieces of the ice breaking off, drifting away from the Cornucopia. Suddenly, ice directly under them cracked and quickly separated, both of them slipping and falling into the water. As Cleo fell, she grabbed the edge of the ice, holding it as she attempted to pull herself up. Georgia flailed her arms and legs, trying to swim upwards as the illuminating fish beelined to her underwater. Georgia bobbed her head above the water, her skin and muscles twitching from the frigid temperature of the water, and Cleo started to pull herself out of the water when Georgia called after her.
"Help!" Georgia shouted, splashing her arms trying to reach Cleo. Cleo didn't want to help her – she didn't deserve it – but Cleo instinctively reached out her hand, and Georgia interlocked her fingers with Cleo, and as Cleo pulled her in, Georgia saw this as an opportunity. Georgia glared into Cleo's eyes, but Cleo was too distracted to see the sinister look on her ally's face.
If only Cleo was as forward-thinking, as opportunistic, as Georgia was – if only Cleo didn't give her such an attitude over arrows – perhaps this situation would've ended differently for the both of them.
Georgia wrapped her arms around Cleo, using her to hurl herself upwards, and in doing so, gripped Cleo's shoulders, pushing her down in the water. Cleo flailed her legs and arms, trying to swim upwards towards the surface, and Georgia hoisted herself onto the sheet of ice, keeping a foot down on Cleo's head under the water. Cleo was pulled downwards, her head submerged in water, and waved her hand upwards, reaching for Georgia, the fish swarming to her, nipping at her legs. She bobbed her head up and caught a glimpse of Georgia standing there, her saturated hair sticking to her face, and Georgia leaned on a stack of crates, panting, catching her breath.
"Georgia!" Cleo shouted. "Help me!"
But, when Georgia didn't even move an inch, Cleo knew she messed up. Again.
Georgia lowered her body, reached for Cleo's hand, and slipped out an ice pick from her belt. When her fingers interlocked with Cleo's, she pushed her hand down onto the ice, holding her down, and stabbed the pick through the back of her hand. Cleo yelped in pain, her head popping out from the water, and pain shot through her hand, rippling throughout the rest of her body. In the meantime, Georgia slipped out an arrow out of a quiver, and she flipped it around in her hand, impaling the tip deep into Cleo's shoulder.
Next time, take the arrows.
Cleo stared cross-eyed at the bottom of Georgia's incoming boot. Georgia forcefully kicked Cleo in the face, sending her backwards into the water, the flesh and bones of her hand tearing along the blade. She was submerged in the water, getting one last glimpse of Georgia looming over her, straight-faced.
Cleo should've killed her when she had the chance, like Georgia was about to do. Georgia saw the opportunity to kill Cleo and took it.
As she sank lower and lower, deeper and deeper, into the water, the fish muttations swarmed her, nipping at her arms and legs. She relaxed, letting her body be overwhelmed by the pain from the fish bites, the freezing water, the wounds in her hand and her shoulder, her pounding head.
This was the end of Cleo Halston and she thought of her impending cannon. It would be how Panem remembered her – not as Cleo Halston the victor, but Cleo Halston the dead tribute. Everyone would forget her name, who she was. She'd be like the twenty-other cannons in that Games. She wouldn't be so special, so important, after all; Cleo was just another body to bury. Somewhere in District One, her father turned off his television, disappointed in his daughter, ignoring his weeping wife.
Cleo was a disgrace to the Halston family name.
A cannon suited her.
Cara Waycrest
District Eleven, 16 Years Old
Cara sauntered along the edges of the arena, carving thin lines into the blocks of ice as she dragged the blade across it, unfazed as the national anthem of Panem rang throughout the arena. Cara rolled her eyes; she was used to the sound by now. She looked up at the sky as the face of the Head Gamemaker appeared. He stared down at her with his sharp-cut facial hair and slicked black hair, smiling.
"Good evening, tributes!" the Head Gamemaker exclaimed. "Winter's my favorite season and I hope it is yours as well."
"It's not," Cara mumbled. "I hate it."
"For your hard work and dedication to the Hunger Games and to Panem," the Head Gamemaker continued, "tomorrow morning, we will host a feast at the Cornucopia."
Cara perked up at the mention of a feast. She's watched them before in past Games, and as a result of luring tributes with food and other supplies that were needed, it usually resulted in quite a few deaths. Cara looked down at her backpack, weighing her options; her supplies were running low and she could use an extra layer of clothing. If she managed to hide behind the trees, run when the coast was clear, grab a backpack or two, she would be able to survive for another couple of days.
Cara's stamina, and her patience, were also running low, and she hoped that the Games wouldn't last too much longer. There will be tributes there. I could make the Games even shorter. Cara caught herself thinking like a real victor – a victor who was not only prepared to kill, but also would take the initiative to kill.
"Bundle up and stay warm, tributes!" the voice boomed. "May the odds be ever in your favor."
Cara gritted her teeth, anger boiling inside of her at the Gamemakers' callousness. She gripped the knife in her hand and tried to stab the block of ice, but the blade slipped, her fist slamming into it. This was a game to them, where the tributes were meaningless. This was just another Hunger Games, where another twenty-three children would die.
She couldn't be just another dead tribute from District Eleven.
Aedan Vidar
District Nine, 18 Years Old
Aedan nearly gave up looking for Avena. He circled the exterior of the arena, walking along the large blocks of ice that towered over him. He trailed his finger along them, the warmth of his fingertips leaving a streak on the ice.
Aedan was close. So close. To what, he wasn't sure. To finding Avena? To the finale? To the victor's interview? He only had to push himself for two, maybe three or four, more days to achieve whatever he was close to. He only had to suffer through the hunger pains, the dehydration cramps, for a few more days. He focused not on his frost-bitten nose, not on his numb fingers, but his will to live.
The Hunger Games were daunting, but that didn't scare Aedan. He was used to hardship and he wouldn't let himself get rattled or distracted by his competitors. He was so close and nerves, anxiety, or any qualms could get him killed. He bottled up everything that scared him, that worried him, deep down inside of him. He would revisit those thoughts at a later date – hopefully as a victor. He would do anything to secure a spot in the finale. To kill the final remaining tribute and return to District Nine.
Aedan smirked at his thoughts. He started to think like Avena; wishful and optimistic. He missed hearing her voice, the way she would wake up and ask him random questions about what his side of town was like in District Nine. About what his sisters were like and what school they went to. They might've even been in the same class.
"Stay where you are."
Aedan froze at the sound of the deep, deadpan voice. Oh, no.
"Don't move," the voice said, and in front of him, the girl from District Eleven, Cara, jumped out from behind a tree, a knife poised in her hand. Aedan stepped to the side and she held the knife out in front of her. "I said, don't move."
"Okay," Aedan said, balling his fingers into fists. His weapon was in his backpack, and if he tried to reach for it, Cara could lunge at him. "I'm not going to hurt you."
Aedan had to think of something, of a reason why Cara shouldn't attack him. Of why they should leave each other alone and pretend the encounter never happened, or maybe a reason why they should work together. Either way, he had to think of something quick. He bit his lip, looking at his surroundings, and then up at the sky, and he recalled the sound of the booming voice that they both just heard. The feast.
"The feast is tomorrow and from the looks of it, we both need supplies," Aedan said, his voice gradually getting louder, more confident, as he pieced together his argument. "Plus, the remaining Careers are probably at the Cornucopia."
"The girl from One's dead," Cara countered. "Who else is left?"
"The pair from Two," Aedan replied. "And, based on the faces in the sky yesterday and today, someone's on a killing rampage."
"It isn't me," Cara replied.
"It isn't me, either."
"Why should I trust you?" Cara asked.
"You don't need to," Aedan replied. "We don't even need to work together. Tomorrow morning, we will walk to the feast together. Nothing else."
"This isn't an alliance," Cara confirmed, lowering the knife in her hand. "We'll go to the feast and then that's it."
"Okay."
Cara reached for her backpack, unclipping the sleeping bag, and rolled it out on the snow. Aedan took a step towards her, and she snapped her head around, pointing to a tree further away. Aedan nodded, putting some distance between them, and unrolled his own sleeping bag. He lied down, still weary of Cara, watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Cara wasn't an ally. She wasn't sure what she was; a strategic partner? Potentially a waste of time or a bad idea? Aedan didn't dwell on it. She survived this long for a reason, and if she wasn't going to betray him, he wouldn't betray her, either. He wasn't sure what their arrangement was, but he justified it with both of their physical and mental fatigue. Neither of them wanted to fight the night before the feast. They would need all of their strength and wits for the feast.
A small part of Aedan hoped he'd see Aven at the feast, but he knew that was too risky for her. He didn't think she'd take such a risk, especially not when the remaining tributes were all older than her. Especially not when she's alone.
Aedan didn't know if, or when, he'd give up looking for her. Eventually, he would have to focus solely on himself, no matter how much he cared about Avena. If he wanted to win, she would have to die, and wouldn't it be better for it to happen without Aedan there? He wouldn't have to witness her death that way.
Even if Aedan didn't want to, he had to let Avena go.
Kit Kaur, District Five – Placed 11th
Cleo Halston, District One – Placed 10th
Author's Note:
Hello! Hi. Two more deaths and a ~feast~ is happening in the next chapter. Nine tributes left… dun dun dun.
There are some SYOTs that are accepting submissions: Quadrophenia by Da Member Hogwarts 2.0 and A Song for Snakes and Rats by mangesboy01. Submit!
this chapter is dedicated to kevin's mom 3