Chapter Twenty.
w w w. breaktheicehg. blogspot. c o m
Cassia Roenisch
District Three, 15 Years Old
Cassia trekked through the snow, teeth chattering, fingers and toes numb. She squinted her eyes, her eyebrows furrowed, and dug her feet in the snow with every step. Her hands were gripped tightly around the straps of her backpack, a sponsor gift nestled inside.
She received it earlier that morning, and when the parachute got caught on a branch, she stared at it, reaching for the small box and holding it in the air. She contemplated opening it – it could be medicine, or food, or even a weapon, although that was expensive and rare – but after weighing her options, she decided to save it for later. She wasn't sure when later would come, but in that moment, she was well-fed, hydrated, and relatively awake and energetic. She was cold and lonely, but she was still surviving.
In previous Games, Cassia watched tributes eagerly tear open their sponsor gifts, tossing the parachute to the side, but she didn't need to do that. Her curiosity was piqued – Who was it from? What was inside? – but surprisingly, Cassia resisted the temptation.
Cassia wanted to play it smart. She wasn't in dire need of anything in particular, so she stuffed it inside of her backpack, keeping it in the back of her mind. Cassia was so close to the end, to being crowned the victor, and she didn't want to waste whatever was inside.
Five more tributes. Then, I'll be home.
Home. A word that started to lose meaning to Cassia. The memories of her and her family, both good and bad, started to drift away from her mind, feeling ever so distant. Cassia was in the arena for not even a week and already started to feel distant from her old District Three self. From her family and friends in District Three. Distant from even the strangers in District Three that simply knew her as the blonde girl that waved and smiled at everyone she passed.
Cassia wondered what it would be like to return to District Three as a victor. She anticipated that the drab buildings, the pot-hole ridden streets, the sparking wires, would be different. She would feel different.
"Cassia!" a voice called out. "Cassia, is that you?"
Cassia perked up at the sound of a familiar voice. She slowly turned around, gripping her hands more tightly around the backpack straps, and behind her stood Everett. Physically, he'd seen better days, and a joke nearly slipped out of Cassia's lips, but she resisted the temptation. If the Games taught her anything it was to not let her curiosity, the flippant side to her that never seemed to fade, guide her decisions.
"I won't hurt you," Everett called out, holding his hands up in the air. He plopped down, shimmying himself underneath a white blanket of snow. "I have nothing. No weapons, no food. It's nice to see you, though."
"Okay," Cassia replied, stepping to the side cautiously. "It's nice to see you too, Everett, but I can't help you."
"Nah, I get it," Everett said, tilting his head and looking up at her. Cassia's eyes trailed from his bloodshot eyes and bruised lip down to his scratched-up neck. "I wouldn't help you either."
Ouch. It looked like Everett didn't change all that much.
"I didn't see you at the feast," Cassia said in a shaky voice. She was weary of the situation, keeping her distance. "Why?"
"Everyone else went, right?" Everett asked, leaning his head back against a tree trunk. "Large crowds aren't my thing."
"Me neither," Cassia replied, relaxing her shoulders, chuckling faintly. She sat down across from Everett, several feet in between them. A small part of her wanted to run away, but her legs convinced her otherwise; she spent the whole day walking and she needed some rest. "Orion insisted we go, though. Apparently, a pouch of dried fruit wasn't sustainable."
"Orion?"
Cassia sighed. "I found him after Marcella was killed."
"You trusted him?" Everett asked brusquely. "Seems risky."
"I do. I mean, I did."
"I saw his face in the sky," Everett said, looking away for a moment, but then flicked his head back around. "I know you said you can't help me, but what about a tiny snack? I'm starving."
"I don't know," Cassia said, looking over her shoulders at the trees, contemplating standing up and leaving Everett, but there was something keeping her there. Perhaps it was how desperate he looked – tears in his clothes, his knuckles bruised and crusted with blood, a few scratches on his face and neck. "I shouldn't be here."
"Yet here you are," Everett retorted, swirling his hand around in the snow. "You don't have to leave. Like I said, I have nothing."
"Where are all of your supplies?"
"Gone," Everett said, patting his hand on his stomach. "Are you surprised I haven't received a single sponsor gift?"
Cassia was slightly shocked, since she always saw him as one of the strongest, most capable tributes, but only if she knew what Everett did in the arena. Beating Beau to a pulp in the bloodbath, arguing with Kit and Gunnar, watching Gunnar get killed, abandoning Kit when she needed him the most. Everett wasn't surprised that he wasn't a fan favorite in the Capitol.
Ignorance was bliss, though. If only Cassia knew what Everett's experience in the arena was.
"I got a sponsor gift," Cassia mumbled, clenching her backpack that was behind her. Everett winced and Cassia felt a twinge of satisfaction. Although she hated herself for it, she relished in getting a sponsor gift before Everett did. "I haven't opened it."
"What are you waiting for?" Everett quipped.
"For when I really need it."
Everett pressed his lips shut, not sharing what his genuine thoughts were. He always despised how starry-eyed Cassia was. How he thought she was outright stupid for wasting a sponsor gift like that. "Got it. So, what about that snack?"
"Uh," Cassia uttered, reaching for the zipper of her backpack. "Fine."
If only she knew what Everett was capable of.
As Cassia turned around to unzip the backpack, Everett slowly reached for the knife in his jacket, shifting to his knees and inching closer to Cassia. He slipped his hand in the pocket, and when Cassia was fully turned around, he promptly slid it out, plunging the blade into Cassia's lower back. Cassia gasped, her body swaying back and forth, and he ripped the backpack out of her hands, pushing her forward.
Cassia's blood curdling scream disturbed the owls perched in the nearby trees. At the sound of her scream, the owls squawked, the high-pitched sounds of their chirping and hoots piercing Everett's ears. He called back at them, and the owls closest to him flapped their wings, their squawks getting louder and louder.
"I need supplies, Cassia," Everett whispered, forcefully yanking the knife out of Cassia's back. She collapsed onto the ground, her face buried in the snow, and Everett jumped to his feet, scooping up her backpack. "I didn't want to do this, but I need to win."
Cassia lied face-down in the snow, eyes closed. Whimpering. Motionless.
Cassia couldn't fathom why someone would do something they said they didn't want to. Why weren't people as trusting, as reliable as she was? As transparent, as intentional? Cassia always saw the best in people, even when nothing was there. Cassia didn't believe people were as cruel as they led her to believe.
However, Everett was cruel. He always was – from him belittling her on the train rides to ignoring her in District Three's apartment – but instead of abiding by her initial perception of him, she instead remembered their laughter in the elevator before they boarded the hovercraft. She remembered the good side of Everett.
That wasn't who he really was, though.
Unlike Everett, Cassia was a good person, and she died a good person. She was going to help Everett by offering whatever she could to help him survive. She wasn't going to hurt him, but perhaps that's what her problem was. Cassia might have wanted to win, but she didn't have it in her. Cassia would rather die as a nice person than a cruel person like Everett.
Cassia didn't let the Hunger Games change who she really was; she would always be the nice, friendly girl from District Three. The girl that was a little too trusting. The goofy girl who always seemed to ask too many questions, to never understand social cues. The girl whose parents always wondered where she was when she left her house to roam around District Three.
The girl who was the light among the darkness in District Three.
Cassia hoped that's how Panem would remember her.
Everett Landry
District Three, 18 Years Old
Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!
"Will you shut the fuck up already?!"
As Everett shouted, he gripped his hands around a nearby tree and shook it forcefully. The owl flapped its wings, hopping down from the top of the tree to a lower branch. Everett swiped his hand at it, trying to grab it, but it flew out of the way, landing back on the top of the tree.
Hoot! Hoot! Hoot!
Everett swiped his hand again, his fingers latching onto the owl's wings, and he pulled it down onto the ground, and as the animal flailed its body, tossing and turning in the snow, Everett stepped on it. The owl squealed as Everett kicked it across the ground. Everett turned around to a few dozen beady eyes. Owls were perched on the trees, their claws gripped around branches, standing on the ground, watching him, and some ascended high into the sky, circling around Everett.
An owl nose-dived, its aim set on the backpack, and Everett jumped, trying to land on top of the bird, but the owl reached it first, clasping the backpack in its beak and flying onto a branch. The backpack dangled out of its mouth, and Everett turned around, his skin flushed red with anger.
He didn't kill his District partner for an owl to steal his backpack.
Everett wasn't stupid.
An owl's beak pierced through Everett's skin. It plucked at his neck, tearing through the flesh, and Everett attempted to swat it away by punching at the air. He spun in circles, but the owl's claws dug into Everett's arm, retracting its head in-and-out of Everett's neck. The owl's white feathers were covered in blood, and with his other arm, Everett dug his fingernails into the owl, throwing it to the ground.
High-pitched squawks came out of the owls as Everett repeatedly stabbed the vicious owl. Everett firmly pressed his hand on the neck, attempting to reduce the blood pouring out of the wound, and as he took one step towards the backpack, the owls inched closer and closer to him, hopping from branch to tree, descending from the sky.
Sluggishly, Everett picked up the backpack, shoving it under his armpit, and he released his hand from the wound, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see just how bad it was. Fresh, red blood covered his fingers, dripping from his neck down his jacket, seeping into his undershirt and pants. He stumbled in the snow, lightheaded at the sight of his own pink, bloody, exposed skin, and he held out his arms, trying to guide himself through the trees.
When the owl's beak pierced his lower back, Everett grunted, spinning around and flailing his hands. The owl was already back up in the sky, blood dripping from its beak, and Everett threw his backpack onto the ground, curling his fingers into a fist.
Everett threw a punch at the next owl that approached him. That challenged him.
He missed completely, swinging at the air, and the owl returned with two more, pecking at his head and legs. He spun around, thrashing out at the birds, but they didn't react. Everett screamed at them, spewing insults directed at birds, and he slammed his foot down on the ground. He gripped his hand around the body of an owl, his fingernails digging into its feathers and skin, and he smashed the owl into a tree.
Everett was soon overwhelmed by owls, but Everett didn't run. Instead, he fought them. He kept throwing punches at the air, occasionally knocking a bird or two to the ground, but it was futile. More and more owls swarmed around him, flying near him to dig their beaks into Everett, ripping away skin and hair or whatever else they could latch onto.
An owl dug its beak deep into the back of Everett's knee, and he buckled over, the owl pecking him over and over. He kicked out his leg, and while doing so, another owl dug its claws into Everett's shoulder. He fell to the ground, and he turned side-to-side, trying to rid himself of the owls, but more and more latched onto him, plucking away at his face and torso and back and feet.
Slowly, he stopped flailing. He stopped grunting at them. He stopped moving altogether. Slowly, his breathing relaxed as he bled out, the owls ripping and tearing at his skin and organs.
Why didn't he run? Why did he insist on fighting the muttations?
Everett discarded his morals early on in the arena because he knew they weren't going to save him. That, if he abided by his own moral code that he upheld in District Three, he'd end up dead, just another face in the sky. Everett never considered another part of himself that would get him killed, though.
For someone so hell-bent on avoiding stupid, careless mistakes, fighting those owls were exactly that. Everett's headstrong, unwavering ways were to his own detriment. The owls challenged him and he wasn't going to back down. Not to fucking owls.
Being a coward was stupid.
And Everett was anything but.
Avena Raiden
District Nine, 14 Years Old
In the distance, the squawks and screeches of owls intensified, getting closer and louder to Avena, and Avena jumped to her feet, instantly grabbing her belongings. Her pace started out as a light jog, but as an owl flew above her, its eyes staring down at her, she ran in between the trees, trying to conceal herself.
Then, another owl appeared. Then another. And another. Soon, owls were swarming around her, their wings and bodies colliding with the tree trunks and branches, but Avena pushed forward, zig-zagging through the trees.
An owl flew directly in front of her and she squinted her eyes, trying to follow the owls as they descended, flying in between the trees, and then flying back up towards the sky, circling above her. She focused on the owl's wings, on their feathers, that were tainted red. That were tainted with… blood?
Avena wasn't sure whose blood that was, nor did she plan on staying to find out. She clenched onto her backpack and knife, running in any and every direction, trying to put distance between her and the circling birds. She continued running – where, she wasn't sure, since all of the snow and trees and ice blended together by that point – and when she looked up to see where the owls were, something else caught her eye in the sky.
Is that… from a sponsor?
Avena's eyes trailed a parachute attached to a small, metallic white box floating down from the sky. She followed it, trying to predict its movement, but the owls collided into it, tearing the parachute, and it dropped to the ground, hitting a branch on the way down. It implanted into the snow, and Avena lunged forward, throwing her body over it, and she scrambled to open it.
"What is that?" Avena mumbled, brushing her hair out of her face. "An airhorn?"
An airhorn!
Avena spun around to over a dozen owls staring at her. She didn't even hesitate for a second before she pressed her finger down on the trigger, emitting a high-pitched, piercing sound. The owls screeched, rustling their wings and pecking at each other, and she kept her finger on the trigger for a few more seconds until the owls started to change positions. Avena stood there, the airhorn in her hand, and she spun around in circles, her finger trembling on the trigger. The owls slowly started to flea, while some remained perched on nearby trees, wings spread and claws digging into the branches.
She pressed her finger down on the trigger, and the air horn blared, scaring away the remaining owls. They squawked at her as she stood there, her hands shaking as she pressed her finger down as hard as she could. When all of the owls were gone, she dropped the air horn to the ground and wrapped her arms tightly around her backpack, bringing it close to her chest.
Avena closed her eyes, digging her feet deep into the snow, focusing on the sound of her heart beating rapidly. When she opened her eyes, she almost threw out her hand, but for what? For who? Aedan wasn't besides her. His arm wasn't there for her to latch onto.
Avena couldn't get used to the feeling of being… alone. Of not hearing Aedan snoring late at night, of him poking her to wake up, telling her that it's time to start the day. She couldn't get used to the feeling of not waking up to her mother's sweet, soothing voice, telling her that breakfast was ready. Of her father's hoarse voice reprimanding her when she didn't do her homework. She couldn't get used to not seeing her best friend, Lucia, jumping up and down as Avena's parents dropped her off at their house for dinner.
Avena couldn't get used to the silence, but, even though she was alone, Avena realized that it was only temporary. Aedan wasn't there – and he never would be again if she won, but Avena didn't want to consider the inevitability of him dying – and neither were her parents or friends, but that was okay. She was okay.
She was safe.
Soon, she'd be reunited with everyone.
Avena didn't think that was a possibility, but it was. She was one of the four remaining tributes. She was the youngest, the weakest, tribute left, but that meant nothing, clearly. There were only three other tributes left in the arena and Avena genuinely felt like she stood a chance. She could be the victor. That she – the fourteen year old from District Nine – could be next the victor.
The measly sponsor gift showed her that someone believed in her.
Avena started to believe in herself, too.
She believed that she could win.
Denali Felder
District Eight, 16 Years Old
Renour chomped on the bone of the fox, ripping each miniscule piece of meat away with his teeth and slurping it down. Denali shivered at how animalistic he was. Yet, there was something redeeming about him. It wasn't the muscles. It wasn't the jawline. It wasn't his big hands. There was something deeper to Renour that Denali was still trying to figure out, even six days into the arena.
Boys were much simpler in District Eight. Boys like Nero.
Denali wondered what Nero would think when he watched her and Renour in the arena, side-by-side in sleeping bags, huddling over a fire to stay warm. She figured Nero was relieved she was reaped – perhaps he would finally be able to live his truth – but not his parents. They loved their soon-to-be daughter-in-law too much.
Denali preferred boys like Nero. They were easier to twist around her little finger. Unlike Renour, who was different from what Denali was used to in District Eight; a good type of different – he was stronger, he could actually survive in the wild, unlike the boys from District Eight who typically died in the bloodbath, like her District partner – but at the same time, he was a bad type of different.
Renour wasn't as easy as Nero. That silly, naive boy that Denali called her boyfriend for four years. Denali wondered what he was doing in that moment; she figured he was probably lounging on his plush, leather couch that his parents imported from the Capitol. Denali really missed that couch.
Soon, she reminded herself. Soon I'll have a better couch than him.
Soon, Denali wouldn't have to worry about Nero anymore. As a victor, she could dump him and marry someone of a higher status in District Eight. Perhaps even a dapper man from Capitol. She would miss Nero's parents, though. They were much more bearable than their son. She wondered if they were responsible for some of the sponsor gifts Denali received, if they bragged to their socialiate friends at how strong she was. At how she would be the next District Eight victor.
Would Denali be able to remain friends with Nero's parents? Would that be weird?
What would Nero's parents think of me and Renour? What would they think if we... kissed?
Denali would never cheat on Nero, but she couldn't say the same about him. At the time, she pretended to not know, to look the other way at one of Nero's parents' hoity-toity dinners as Nero slipped out of the room to sneak a kiss with one of the victor's sons. She genuinely didn't care. She had him wrapped around her finger, too afraid to admit to himself and to his parents that he wasn't interested in Denali. They both knew it was all a front.
A chuckle slipped through Denali's lips.
"Did you say something?"
Denali shook her head, trembling with excitement. Soon.
If she learned anything from her time in the Capitol and in the arena, it was that there was more to life than a measly family portrait. Denali could be a victor. She could return to District Eight, a victor of the Hunger Games, and live a lavish life with a couch more comfortable, more expensive, than Nero's. She would be able to travel throughout the Districts, her face plastered on posters and television screens across Panem, and see all of the sights and hear all of the sounds Beau would tell her about.
Denali would live in District Eight's Victors' Village; she'd be able to comment on how outdated the curtains are, how repetitive her private chef's meals are, how the views in District Four are so much more picturesque.
She'd live the life she craved.
But, first, she had to deal with the matter at hand – Renour Malvigne. She saw a new side to him after she witnessed how easily he pursued Kit, how quickly and mercilessly he killed her. She didn't know how Renour killed Georgia, but he did. He saw a new side to herself too, when she 'killed' Orion.
"I think we should talk," Renour said, holding the bone towards the sky, a piece of fat dangling from it. Denali nearly gagged. "There's four of us left."
"What comes next?" Denali quipped, circumventing any small talk. "What do you want to do?"
"I'm not going to kill you, if that's what you're asking."
I would kill you, though. If I could. "I appreciate that."
"Can I be honest with you?"
I haven't been honest with you. "Sure."
"I didn't think we'd last this long," Renour replied. "I don't think anyone expected us to be here. Together, that is."
Together? Adorable. "I'm just as surprised as you are."
"Tomorrow might be the last day," Renour said. "Is there anything you want to tell me before then?"
Denali looked at him, obviously confused by the look on her face. Did he know that she was lying to him ever since the bloodbath? Was she going to kill her, after all?
"Woah. Calm down," Renour said. "It was a joke. I meant if you had a crush on me or something."
Absolutely not. "I have a boyfriend, Renour."
"I forgot about him," Renour replied. So do I. "I don't think we're compatible, anyway."
Denali rolled her eyes, spun herself around in the snow, and hoisted herself up with the help of a tree trunk. She shut down the rest of that conversation by walking away, her back facing Renour. Her facial expressions contorted as she felt everything all at once.
She was confused about what would happen between her and Renour; would he try to kill her? Would she try to kill him? Was she even capable of killing a trained Career? She was annoyed by Renour's apparent disregard, his flippancy, about their situation; did he have his own plan this whole time? Did he have Denali all figured out? She was scared. Terrified, even.
Denali shook her head. They would revisit that conversation in the morning. For now, the finale was settled, and the two of them would go into together.
Together, Denali scoffed. She started to detest that word. Nothing she ever did was together with anyone; she always did things on her own volition, usually at the expense of other people. Family, friends, even boyfriends, Denali didn't care. She wouldn't classify anything that she did with Beau or Renour, or Orion, for that matter, in the arena as something they did together.
Denali wasn't going to win together with anyone. She was going to win alone.
Denali could feel it. She swore she could smell it. Taste it.
Her name was going to be announced tomorrow.
Aedan Vidar
District Nine, 18 Years Old
Aedan lifted his arm up, wincing as the open wound rubbed against the jacket fabric as he tried to slip it off of him. He angled his arm towards him, closing his eyes at the sight of the bloody gash. He unzipped his backpack with his other hand, digging around inside of it, looking for the first aid kit he took from Cara. Aedan slipped out the kit, unzipped it, and to his disgruntlement, the bottle of whatever liquid he used the day before was gone. Aedan wasn't sure what he was pouring all over his skin, but it didn't matter to him; all that mattered was that it numbed the pain and made him think that he wasn't going to die from an infection.
He tossed the bottle away from him and scooped up snow in his hand, lightly patting it on the wound, wincing with every touch. Pain shot through his arm as the cold snow melted on his arm, seeping into the wound, but Aedan clenched his jaw and grit his teeth.
It hurt. A lot. But, he couldn't be mad at anyone. It was his fault and he took full responsibility for it. He should've ran the other way at the feast, letting Cara deal with whoever she found, but he couldn't. He just couldn't – it was as simple as that. If he didn't follow her, though, he would've never gotten injured.
If he didn't follow her, Avena would've died, too. But, she didn't, because of him; Aedan intervened before Cara could kill her, and although he was injured before he could kill Cara, Avena survived. That made him feel better about his injury.
Aedan shook his head. Why was he still thinking like that? Why was he so set on protecting his District partner? He found himself in the exact position he was worried about; him and Avena were alive. Not together, though. They weren't allies. They were both alone, navigating the Hunger Games on their own. It was clear that Avena wasn't concerned with him anymore, so, why did he still want to protect her? The Games were almost over and there he was, groaning and cursing at himself with an injured arm as he processed his own self-inflicted mental turmoil.
Was it worth it?
Before he could finish that thought, the national anthem of Panem rang throughout the arena, and he looked up at the sky, wrapping and taping bandages tightly around his arm. The first face to appear in the sky was the girl from District Three, and she smiled down at him, strands of her wavy blonde hair covering her face, and she stared back at her. The next face that appeared in the sky was the boy from District Three, and the angry look at his face made Aedan raise his eyebrow. He wondered what his face would look up in the sky and how Avena would react to it.
The two tributes from District Three were just another face to Aedan. They all started to blend together, and he focused not on who died, but how many. The more tributes that died in the day meant that many less tributes that could kill him or Avena. The more tributes that died in the day meant Aedan was that much closer to the end, to being victor.
The end.
If tomorrow was really the end, then Aedan didn't want to consider what tomorrow would be like. It was only him, Avena, and the boy from District Two and the girl from District Eight left. He knew they were allies, but he didn't know if they were going to take on the finale together, side-by-side. The thought of them outnumbering him and Avena frightened him, and he looked at his injury, discouraged.
It's almost the end.
Aedan was ready for it – dead or alive, he was ready for the end.
Cassia Roenisch, District Three – Placed 6th
Everett Landry, District Three – Placed 5th
Author's Note:
The final four: Renour/Denali, Aedan, and Avena. The next chapter is the finale and the victor will be crowned :O There's only two chapters left; the finale and then the epilogue. I still haven't decided if I want to do another SYOT or not... fml
Who do you think will be the victor? Who do you want to be the victor?