A/N: SHAZAM! I told you I wouldn't wait another eight months to get this chapter out, and I delivered. It looks like my suspicions are correct, however- Most of my old reviewers are no longer reading/reviewing this story. I cannot actually blame them- it's just disappointing. If you are reading this still, please drop a review. Every time I get one I squeal and do the snoopy dance from peanuts. Every review makes my day, so please be considerate and drop one off! Now, without further ado, let's move on to the chapter!
Mason Dowry, District 1 Male
My entire body is tingling. My nerve endings are alight, my skin prickling with goose bumps, my breath short and chest heaving. I've never felt so excited in my entire life, and I seriously doubt I'll ever feel so enthused again. Kai's here to see me off, give me some final parting words- as if I need them. Kai's been robbed of talent for ages, all of his skills and prestige sloughing off him as the years ticked on. That trick with my paints was just that. A trick. A dirty move. And it won't happen again.
I can't kill Kai. But the next person who tries to confuse or aggravate me will be very, very eligible for death. And I am ready, ready ready to rain it down upon them.
Kai exhales. "I'd tell you to do your best, and keep yourself contained, but I actually don't give a flying spangled fuck. Just go kill something. Maybe it will soothe your temper."
I shoot him a sardonic smile, and nothing else. Actions speak louder than words, and axes are practically howls.
I enter the tube and inhale as the glass slides shut. The last thing I see before I glide up and reach my peak is Kai's solemn, heavy face peering up at me, flawless and sad.
What's he so melancholy about? Doesn't he realize he's going to get to watch me win the Hunger Games?
Selfish bastard.
Venie Hadley, District 2 Female
My stomach cramps as I lean my head against the cold glass. It settles me only slightly, the pressure and temperature just barely anchoring me. The chasm is so visible, and I'm so, so close to it.
No, no, fuck that. I'm Lady Nightshade, (yeah, I've begun to embrace the nickname, so what) a fighter, a killer, a thinker and tinkerer and revamper and rehasher. My job isn't to pull out my own old wounds and study them in the dark, it's to fuck with everyone else's. I have no time to think about myself in anything but the positives.
Self love is hard, but, amazingly, I can find myself inching ever so near to that unattainable goal.
My relentless preening and philosophizing- seriously, Venie, get a grip, you're trying to be tactical here- is interrupted by Pompone, who's speaking softly and carrying a big stick. Literally. She likes to take her mantras really seriously.
"Remember what you came here to do. And remember that you have the spine to do it. You've got nerves of steel, girl, even if you yourself like to deny it in favor of wallowing in self pity."
I nod, stone-faced, dry-eyed, and ready to enter- but before I get the chance, she swings the cane and it hits my thigh with a dry thwack. I don't hiss, or scream, or even bite at my lips. The first time I did that, Pompone fell upon me with all the fury and disgusting self-righteousness of a battalion of angels. The less pain you show, the longer your break. Until that vengeful glorified-twig strikes again.
My scalp itches and crawls.
The space where my hair touches my neck is coated in sweat.
My mouth is dry.
I smile. "You just couldn't help but get in another swat, could you?"
Pompone waves her hand dismissively. "You're a pesky bug! Maybe this one'll get rid of you for good." She says, a mischief-filled grin spreading across her face slowly, like spilled milk. "No peskier than you. Always bugging and fussing and meddling." I shoot back. Pompone laughs, a strange and care-free sound that catches me off guard, to say the least, and pushes my inside my gilded glass cage.
She's still laughing when I touch the surface, blinking like a naked mole rat, fat tongue tasting the air, not that I know that.
Tesla Lumen, District 3 Male
My fear envelops me like a hugely uncomfortable blanket. Despite my plans, despite my intellect, despite my odds, I can feel all of my meager, nigh-nonexistant confidence shedding from me and flying away on the wind.
I'm not one to draw things out. But the careers are, and the gamemakers are, and Panem as a whole is, so I can see a long, painful, drawn-out ordeal in my future. And I'm not even the oracle destined to fulfill some prophecy- that title goes to the partners from six. No, I'm just an analyst. Just a talented little wind-up toy, but I no longer have any praises to sing.
Time to be honest with myself. Get down to the nitty-gritty. Give my psyche a good, stern talking to.
I can see death looming, and the shadow it casts is bigger than any shadow I ever have.
I think I know something about the Games no other tribute fully understands. Maybe Chablis, but the delusional quasi-career is barely scraping the surface if the whole truth.
It all comes down to simplicity, even if the process is hardly mundane in itself. The only thing the Careers have over us is a lifetime of careful conditioning allowing them to project a consistent, simplistic image of themselves. That's why they win so often- not because of their incessant bloodthirstiness or their cache of sponsors, or their endless drive and training. It's their straightforward, simplistic selves. The way they've stifled anything that might make them hard to comprehend, their actions difficult to expect.
Nobody wants an enigma as Panem's pet.
I entered the room with the slightest chance, and I enter the tube without it.
Serena Melenese, District 4 Female
Crescent smiles widely at me. It's a crocodile grin, and being from four, I can usually recognize those. It's not the teeth. You can pull off a crocodile smile without canines. It's the lips. When someone is smiling like a croc, the tips of their lips nearly split.
It's not predatory. Just fake. Waiting.
I know what she's waiting for.
If Crescent Wade had smiled this smile at me a week earlier, I wouldn't have noticed it for what it was, not like I do now. Most likely I would be in awe. It's Crescent Wave, after all. Every second I've spent as the District Four Tribute I've been learning. Becoming more proficient with my weapon, of course, intimidation (although that's one I'm still hardly good at,) camouflage and all that. But what I've become the best at is noticing. Noticing that the 10 girl and the 8 girl are attached at the hip, and possible weaknesses for eachother. Noticing the subtle clues about the arena, like the excess of mirrors I've seen decorating the Capitol, that keep me anxious and on my toes. And noticing when something is very clearly wrong.
I don't respond to her smile, or return it in kind. I don't have the lips for it anyways.
I just comfort myself with the notion that that it's not kind of smile Elvira would send me, and it's comforting in a fucked-up kind of way.
It's sad, that. That only in the 11th hour do I begin to value my mother over my mentor.
That smile is a specific variety of art, a difficult kind of art to master. Elvira would want nothing to do with it.
And, surprisingly, neither do I.
Hesiodia Trince, District 5 Female
I'm going to blow all of those morons away. There's no time to throw a pity party for myself, after all. I just need to get in there and show them what I've got. My all is infinite. I'm a spitfire- Togo Sharler agrees! If I just keep up the pep talk constantly I'll live.
Ohfucki'mgonnadiei'mgonnadiesohardi'mgonnafailanddiepepperandcleoyouawfulfuckspepppppppeeeercleeeeeosaaaavemeeeeeee-
My internal monologue ends suddenly when my mentor pushes me in the tube. I guess she's just as impatient as I am.
To begin these games and bash some heads! I mean, die painfully, of course.
Quinn Jennings, District 6 Female
I think about the tapestry as I sit inside my tube.
The color red it uses is the most unnerving thing about it, I think. The frayed, bloodstained gold thread? The brutal deceptions of death and murder? Yeah, no biggie. It's the red that throws me off.
It's not blood red or burgundy. Not cherry, magenta, or wine. Not auburn, or any other synonyms for various shades of red blah blah blah.
The more I ponder it, the more convinced I am that the red isn't on the spectrum entirely. I can barely comprehend it, really- the exact shade is just out of my vision, hovering at the corner of my eye. I don't want to think about it ever again. If I think too hard, I might find something that can make it so I'll never think again.
Honestly, I really like my sanity! I'm sure it'll come in handy during the games. So I turn my attention from the tapestry and to the goosebumps on my skin, cold and erect flesh that knows better than I do.
I peer up through a haze of heavy glass. My mentor looks at me sadly. I never learned her name. I regret that now. I regret a lot of things. I spent a lot of time goofing off. And now I'm going to die.
But just because I regret it doesn't mean I wouldn't do it again if I had the chance.
It's just like the shade of red on that tapestry, really, the not-burgundy not-cherry mystery. Focusing on the games too hard, just like focusing on the color too hard, would undoubtedly drive me stark raving bonkers. I'd rather be at a rave than do it myself.
My mentor reaches out a single delicate hand, too delicate for hands who've probably killed. She presses it against the glass, fingers splayed in a starburst of skin. My head aches, and the sound of a pendulum knocking reverberates in it.
I press my hand against hers as well, and it gives me warmth.
Just for a second, though. Then we disconnect, and the tube rises into a deranged new world.
59… 58… 57…
Heavenly Aquarius, District 7 Female
Mirrors. Our Arena is a hall of mirrors. Silver and reflective and stretching every which way, red leather coating the ground. A regular funhouse. I can't imagine much fun will be had.
The Cornucopia is reflective too. I can see my face inside it, white and pinched. I look like I'm already dead.
Maybe I am.
47… 46… 48
Cajsa Varis, District 8 Female
I can barely see the exits. It looks like there are a thousand of them, spiraling into fractals in the distance, but it's just the mirrors. The bloodbath will be even harder to escape now.
A strong, harshly maternal feeling washes over me. It's not warm, or loving, the way it is with Ronja. It hurts. Ronja was never really in danger, after all, despite her scraps. I was always overreacting, always exaggerating. And now real danger has come to find my allies.
Maybe it's karma. Or maybe it's just an absence of love.
Rodrick Olivier, District 9 Male
I am going to kill all you fuckers. I am more lucid than I've ever been. I'm sane. But I'm going to kill all you pathetic asswipes anyways. Just in a sane way, like every murderer.
Do you know who I am, pipsqueak?
Pipe down!
Blair Harcourt, District 10 Male
Why do I have to be next to Venie?
Finlay Ardun, District 11 Female
I'm a songbird. Ready, ready, ready to fly away. Hardly ethereal, not infallible, but unnoticeable.
Ready, ready, ready to escape.
I can here my mother's screams in my head, and I think I understand now why she ran.
And I feel that urge to rebel harsher than ever before.
Richard Sherman, District 11 Male
Alicia's face is Penny's face. Henry's face is Penny's face. Everyone is wearing Penny masks, from those who deserve it, to those who don't.
I can't help but see victims everywhere I look.
Guilt springs eternal.
Henry Wade, District 12 Male
My foot and heart both hurt. I see Alicia just three platforms down, and I reach for her. There are so many places beyond Panem, so many worlds to explore. Please just let us explore them.
I still don't know what an oyster is.
Let the 148th Hunger Games… Begin!
A/N: Just realized I never gave Hesiodia a loner's POV, which is fine because she's obnoxious & irrelevant overall. However, I didn't give Finlay or Richard that either, which is an oversight. Sorry guys. :( I gave them both a POV here to make up for it.
Bloodbath predictions? Victor predictions? Give me your best shot! And review ;3~