Disclaimer: I don't own The Hunger Games.
Note: Results of the "final eight" poll are up on the blog. There's a new poll up on my profile, this time asking who you think will be the Victor. (Wow, already?) Please note that this is not necessarily the same as who you want to see as the Victor. (That'll be the next poll.) As usual, read the chapter first, because anyone who dies here won't be included in the poll.
Day Four
Blood Will Have Blood
Harriet Bard
District Two Mentor
"They're still alive."
Harriet glanced up from the drink she'd been nursing ever since returning from District Five's quarters. Mortimer was glaring at the screen where District Two's tributes sat sifting through the pile of food at the cornucopia, trying to find something that hadn't been soaked through by the rain when the trap door had opened. They weren't having much luck, but that wasn't what Mortimer was upset about.
Harriet leaned back in her chair. "Is that a problem? Them still being alive?" She knew the answer, but sometimes it was better to let him vent, let him get it out of his system. She was going to end up having to listen to it anyway, so it was better to do it on her own terms.
"It's not that," Mortimer grumbled. "They haven't done anything – the three of them. Not really. Not since teaming up. Sure, they shot at the other group from the roof, but none of them even got a kill."
Harriet raised an eyebrow. "In the rain? In the dark? From that far away, without any real training? You really expected them to be able to shoot properly?"
"Me? No. But the audience will want to see them do something. There are only fourteen tributes left, and the girls haven't had a kill since the bloodbath – four days ago."
"Four days ago," Harriet repeated. "Four. That's it. How long were your Games, Mortimer?"
Mortimer sighed, as if he could already see the point she was trying to make and was waiting, just like she was. It was a conversation they'd had several times before, whenever the Career pack wasn't moving as quickly or decisively as Mortimer would have liked. "Seven days," Mortimer answered reluctantly. "And yours were eighteen. I know. I know. But this is different. They have weapons. They have supplies. They have everything they could want, and they're just sitting there."
"Catching their breath after a long trek up and down that tower," Harriet reasoned. "And they don't really have much of a concrete idea of where to go at the moment."
"Neither do Genevieve and Macauley, but at least they're moving," Mortimer pointed out.
"Moving in circles," Harriet countered. "One could argue that's not any better – and might even be worse. They're expending a lot of energy and accomplishing just as much as the ones who are sitting around at the cornucopia. The only thing they could hope to be doing is fooling the audience into thinking they're doing something. And trust me, after fifty years of this, the audience isn't fooled."
"Hence the three-headed dog," Mortimer sighed.
"Exactly. They were going somewhere, doing something, and it didn't help them. Sometimes the best thing to do is to wait. There are still fourteen tributes left, and three of ours are alive. I'd call that good odds."
Mortimer nodded, and turned his attention back to his drink. Harriet did the same. It was a good argument; she'd almost managed to convince herself. But the truth was, Mortimer was right. There was a big difference between this Games and hers. Her year, there had been no supplies at the cornucopia. Weapons and food had both been scarce, and in the tundra, it had made sense to conserve as much energy as possible. The Games had moved slowly, and the Careers had to hunt and forage for food just like the other tributes. So even when they hadn't been actively fighting, they had been doing something.
This year … this was different. There were still fourteen tributes left, but unlike her year, that was less than half of their starting number. After only four days. Things were moving quickly, and Careers who hadn't made a kill since the bloodbath wouldn't seem all that impressive to the audience when there were outer-district tributes with a kill or two. They would have to do something quickly if they wanted to survive.
But there was no point in agreeing with Mortimer about that. There was nothing they could do about it at the moment. This was something the three tributes would have to figure out for themselves, or it would mean nothing. She, Mortimer, and Balthasar could push them in one direction or another as much as they liked, but eventually, the tributes themselves would have to take the initiative and get to work.
She just hoped they figured that out in time.
Macauley Tierney, 17
District Five
She'd finally figured it out.
Macauley grinned as she made her way up the stairs. It had taken her a while to find a way back to the main level of the castle, and she was certain that this wasn't the way they had come. Which meant that she didn't really have any idea of where on the main level it might take her. She'd gotten quite turned around inside the tunnels. While she'd been running from the three-headed dog, keeping track of directions had been the last thing on her mind. By the time it had occurred to her that she would eventually need to find her way back to the surface, she'd taken too many turns to know where she was.
Even worse, there were no landmarks – nothing she could use to figure out which way she had come and which way she hadn't gone yet. There were candles, yes, but they seemed to be the same candles everywhere. The walls of the tunnels seemed to be identical. In short, it was clear the Gamemakers had intended it as a maze – the perfect place to trap and disorient tributes who happened to find their way down there.
But now she had found her way back up. A winding staircase led her up, up, up, until her hands pressed against what had to be a trap door. Macauley took a deep breath. Okay. She had no idea where the door might lead – or who it might lead to. There might be tributes right on the other side. Hell, there could be tributes standing on top of the trap door, and she would have no way of knowing. She couldn't hear anything, but that could just mean they were being quiet – or that the door was too thick to hear anything through.
Opening the door was a risk, but she didn't have much of a choice. It wasn't as if waiting would change the odds of there being someone on the other side of the door. Besides, if there was someone there, she had as good a chance of surprising them as they did of surprising her. She was armed; they might not be. This could be the chance she was waiting for.
Slowly, quietly, she lifted the trap door a little. Light came streaming in through the crack, but she still heard nothing. No one. Okay, then. She opened the door a little more. Then a little more. Still, there was nothing.
Finally, the door was open enough for her to crawl through. The room was empty, except for shards of broken glass and a few candles. It took her a moment to figure out where the glass had come from – and why the room was so bright compared to the dim light of the tunnels. The answer was the same: a giant, window-shaped hole in the wall where the glass had probably been. Carefully, she stepped around the larger shards. There was no one in the room, but she still wasn't sure if that was good or bad. Yes, it meant no one was going to ambush her, but it also meant there was no one here for her to attack. No one to kill.
The audience certainly wouldn't be impressed.
Then she heard voices coming from the next room. Macauley flattened herself against the wall near where the door should have been. Something had smashed through it – something big. Whatever it was, though, it was probably long gone, or the tributes on the other side wouldn't just be standing there talking. It was a boy and a girl, from the sound of their voices, chattering away as if they had no idea someone might be in the next room.
"I don't think it's going to fit," the boy's voice said. "It's too big."
"Better too big than too small," the girl reasoned. "Besides, it'll make you look more intimidating."
"What about you?"
"I'll try this one."
There was a bit of a pause, and then the boy continued. "Were these here last time we were in this room? I mean, I remember armor, but most of it looked way too big."
"I just figured it'd be too clunky to really use," the girl's voice answered. "But this seems to fit all right. And at the rate we're moving, I don't think we'll have much of an element of surprise anyway."
"Sorry." There was a hint of guilt in the boy's voice.
"Not your fault. I just hope that medicine keeps working."
So the boy was injured. That explained why they suddenly thought armor might be a good idea. It wouldn't keep his injury from hindering him in a fight, but it might hide it from anyone who was considering attacking them.
Anyone like her.
"So you think we should head to the cornucopia?" the boy asked. "You said you had a better idea, but … well, was this it? Get some armor first, and head back there now that we're a bit more prepared?"
Macauley hesitated. That meant there was someone at the cornucopia. If there was a group there, maybe it was better to let this group fight it out with that one, and pick off whoever survived, rather than throwing herself into the middle of a fight.
"We could do that…" The 'but' that went with the rest of the words hung in the air.
"You think we should go after someone else," the boy finished. "The ones who attacked us? They have a mutt. How are we going to—"
Before he could finish the sentence, however, a gentle pinging noise filled the air. Macauley risked a glance through the hole in the wall as a parachute drifted down towards the two. It was small – very small. The two of them opened it, not even glancing in her direction. She could strike now, while they were unaware, but if the sponsors were sending them something, that meant the Gamemakers had a plan.
"A whistle?" the boy asked, and gave it a blow. Nothing happened. No sound, at least. But there was something – almost a vibration, shaking through the floor. For a moment, she considered running, but there was nowhere to go. The window was too high. The only door led right into the other room. And the trap door … no. No, she wasn't going back down there. That was where everything had gone wrong.
She would just have to wait and see what happened.
Ronan Callaway, 18
District Four
They would just have to wait and see what happened.
Ronan glanced over at Shanali as the floor continued to shake. Whatever was going on, their chances of outrunning it seemed slim. Maybe Shanali would have been able to get away, if not for the armor they'd found. It seemed a little too bulky to run in, and he didn't feel up to running just yet, even without armor.
Besides, whatever was happening now, it was part of the Gamemakers' plan. Or someone's plan, at least. Imalia had sent him a whistle, of all things. Why? And why a whistle that didn't seem to be working?
Except … it was working. It had done something. Just not anything he'd expected. "Look," Shanali gasped, pointing at the wall to the left of where the griffin mutt had crashed through. How long ago had that been? It seemed like ages, but it couldn't have been more than a day or two. Enough time for him to make it to the cornucopia and back. Not that long at all, really.
It took him a moment to make out what Shanali was pointing at. It was a shadow, growing at the base of the wall. While the rest of the wall seemed to be shaking a little, vibrating back and forth, the shadow was doing nothing of the sort. It was steady, certain, and growing. It was beginning to take shape – a very large shape. A shape that, as he watched, grew and stretched and almost lunged out of the wall.
It was only once it had formed that he realized the shape had three heads.
Other than that, it looked like a perfectly ordinary dog – just much, much larger. The three heads were snarling, growling, chomping at the air. But not at them, or at anything in particular, it seemed. Shanali took a step back, but Ronan held his ground. If the mutt had wanted to kill them, it could have done so by now. If they ran, it could certainly catch them. And fighting something like this wouldn't do them any good.
So there had to be another option.
Slowly, carefully, Ronan brought the whistle back to his lips and blew. The dog turned towards him, sniffing, snapping at thin air. Ronan blew again, then took a step closer. Then another. Still, the dog didn't attack. It was as if it was waiting for something.
Waiting for him.
Okay.
Silently, Ronan lifted a hand, palm facing towards the dog, as close as he dared to get. The mutt stopped, and sniffed, and then its middle head grew calmer. With only a low growl, the mutt lowered its middle head and sniffed at Ronan's hand, then gave it a little nudge. "Okay," Ronan said at last, his voice a little shakier than he would have liked. "Okay. Let's get on."
"What." Shanali's voice was flat, but he knew without even glancing back that she would do it. That she was only protesting for show. She knew what they had to do – what the audience wanted them to do. That was why she had suggested going after the pair who had attacked them rather than heading back to the cornucopia to take on the Careers. As impressive as the Careers sometimes were, they didn't have a griffin mutt. She was right about which fight the audience would rather watch.
And now they had a chance.
More than a chance, really. Imalia had sent him the whistle, which meant this was what the audience wanted to see. They wanted the two of them to go after the tributes with the mutt, even in their condition. Shanali had known exactly what she was suggesting, and maybe she had even hoped that her suggestion might earn a little help from the sponsors.
So it didn't surprise him at all when she took a step towards the mutt, or when it crouched down, allowing her to climb on its back, clinging to one of its giant necks. Once she was up, she offered Ronan a hand, which he accepted, positioning himself behind the middle head. "All right, then," Shanali agreed. "Now what?"
Ronan shrugged. It wasn't as if he'd ever ridden a giant three-headed dog before. He had no idea how to make it go. But that wasn't really what mattered. He gave the mutt's neck a little pat. "Let's go, boy."
Part of him had expected the mutt to take off running. Instead, it straightened up and padded leisurely across the room and through the door. Maybe it was giving them a little time to get used to the idea. Maybe it was trying not to throw them from its back. Or maybe it was simply that they weren't going all that far, and the Gamemakers wanted to give the audience a bit of a show, anyway. Whatever the reason, it didn't particularly matter how fast they were going, or how long it would take them to get there.
There was no going back now.
Vashti Rii, 16
District Five
"I think that'll do for now."
Vashti raised an eyebrow, glancing down at Barlen's handiwork. He'd actually managed to stop the bleeding. Granted, it had only stopped because the younger boy had removed his armor and applied a tourniquet just above his knee to completely cut off the blood flow to his leg, which presented a whole new set of problems. But for now, he probably wasn't going to bleed to death. Not yet, at least.
Vashti shook his head. "How'd you know how to do that?" The tourniquet was nearly perfect, made from a long strip of fabric he'd cut from the girl from Two's shirt and the blowgun he'd taken off her body.
"Leo and I practiced during training," Barlen answered matter-of-factly.
Vashti rolled his eyes. "Not what I meant. How'd you remember how to do that when you completely forgot that I wasn't dead earlier?"
"I did?"
"Yeah."
"Sorry."
Vashti couldn't help a chuckle. It wasn't that funny, but he was feeling a little lightheaded. Shock. He recognized that feeling. Slowly, carefully, he lay down. "Muscle memory," he muttered, answering his own question.
"What?"
"Muscle memory. You said you and Leo practiced during training. You spent three days straight at that station. Maybe your muscles remember what you were doing, even if your mind doesn't." He shook his head. "Bodies are funny like that."
Barlen poked the dead body of the girl from Two. "She doesn't seem that funny," he grinned.
Vashti laughed, this time a little louder. "Don't … don't make me laugh," he managed between giggles. "It's not … not funny."
But now Barlen was laughing, too. "Sorry. It's just…"
"Just what?"
"She's dead. Mariska's dead. How many other tributes are dead?"
"Twenty-one." He was pretty sure he hadn't lost count, but he wasn't certain. Everything seemed a bit fuzzier. Was this how Barlen felt all the time? "Twenty-one, I think. Fourteen of us left."
"And don't you think it's funny? That we're still left?"
It was. It was funnier than he would have liked to admit. "And not only are we still alive," he chuckled. "I killed a Career. A Career."
Barlen's eyes grew wide. "You did?"
"I did." It felt good to say. "Take that, District Two." He shot a glance at the body nearby. "Look out for the hemophiliac and the kid who can't remember what he ate for breakfast this morning."
Barlen cocked his head. "We had breakfast this morning?"
Vashti burst out laughing. Shock. He was definitely going into shock. But for the moment, it didn't seem to matter. "You know, I'm not sure we did," he admitted. "But I bet she's got some food on her." He nodded towards the corpse. "See what she's got, would you? I'd do it myself, but…"
But he didn't dare move. He'd already lost too much blood. If the tourniquet slipped or even loosened a little, he was done for. Which meant they had to stay put until…
Until what? That was the question gnawing at the back of his mind. The longer they stayed here, the more likely it was that someone would find them. He certainly wasn't in a position to fight. And Barlen…
Vashti shook his head as he watched his young ally rifle through the dead girl's supplies. He'd underestimated Retro, and he'd paid the price for it. Maybe it was time to stop underestimating Barlen, too. As comical as it might be, he was still alive. Both of them were. Two tributes the audience had almost certainly dismissed at the start because of their conditions, and they were still alive.
But for how much longer? By his count, there were still fourteen of them left. How long had it been? A matter of days? A week? Longer? He couldn't be sure, but it felt like a long time. How much longer could they really hope to last?
Before he could come up with a satisfactory answer, however, Barlen handed him a loaf of bread and a bottle of water. "She's got plenty. Well, had plenty. And now we have plenty." He took a bite of his own loaf of bread. "Lucky one of the Careers found us, huh?"
Vashti chuckled. "Right. Lucky. You keep telling yourself that, kid."
"Lucky," Barlen echoed, beaming. Then, still smiling, he produced his pen and jotted it down on his arm. You're lucky. Then, abruptly, he scooted a little closer to the pit. "Do that again."
"Do what?"
"Laugh."
Vashti hesitated. Had he still been laughing? Maybe. "Why?"
"Just do it," Barlen insisted, then made a face.
It wasn't funny. Or at least, it wouldn't have been funny, if it weren't for the lightheaded giddiness that was creeping over him. As it was, Vashti chuckled a little, then burst into a laugh. Barlen practically giggled with glee, pointing at the pit. "What is it?" Vashti asked through gasps of laughter.
"It's bubbling!"
"What is?"
"Whatever's at the bottom of the pit. And I think … I think it's rising."
Vashti stopped laughing. Was that a good thing – the pit bubbling? Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe it didn't matter. Chances were, he would be dead soon enough anyway. Maybe he should just let Barlen have his fun.
Maybe there was no harm in it.
Merrik Haims, 15
District Three
Maybe there was no harm in just staying put for a while.
Merrik shook his head as Pigeon continued to pace around the room. The griffin was clearly still restless, but also hadn't shown any sign of wanting to leave. If something was coming, then maybe it was better to stay put and wait for it. Maybe they would be able to hear something, or maybe they would be able to ambush anyone who came in looking for a fight.
Right. As if they could really surprise anyone when there was a giant griffin pacing around in the middle of the room. No one who entered the room would be fooled into thinking there wasn't any danger. But what else were they supposed to do? Whatever was about to happen, it was going to happen no matter what they did.
Maybe that should have been comforting – knowing that things were likely to end the same way no matter what they did. It meant that there were no wrong choices, or maybe that there were no right ones. But he couldn't shake the feeling that something was coming. And if someone was coming after them deliberately, if they knew they had a griffin with them and decided to attack anyway, it meant they had a plan.
Or it meant they had support.
Oh.
Oh.
Merrik took a deep breath. They knew. The Gamemakers knew. They had to. They knew what he had during the private sessions, yes, but chances were good that they also knew what he had done back in District Three. If they were sending someone – or something – after him, it was only a matter of time before they got what they wanted.
It was only a matter of time before he would die.
"You should go," Merrik said quietly, barely loud enough for Skyton to hear.
Skyton raised an eyebrow. "Where do you want to go? We've been in most of the other rooms. I don't think we're going to find anywhere safer than here."
Merrik shook his head. Skyton didn't understand. "Not we. You. You should go. It's me the other tributes are after. I'm the one they let slip through their fingers. I'm the one they'll want revenge against. This doesn't have anything to do with you."
Of course, it didn't have anything to do with the other tributes, either. Not really. That was just the excuse the Gamemakers would use to get rid of him. But he didn't have time to explain to Skyton why the Gamemakers were after him. Besides, if he explained, it would mean telling the audience what he had done. About the babies he had hidden from the Capitol.
The babies he'd thought he had hidden.
What would happen to them, if he was right? If the Capitol had found out what he'd done? What would happen to the children he'd tried to save from the horrors of the Games, the children who were growing up in secret? What would happen to his mother? Did the Capitol realize that she hadn't had a clue what he was doing?
He hoped so. He hoped they would recognize that he'd acted alone. But there wasn't anything he could do about that right now. There was nothing he could do for his mother. There was something he could do for Skyton. He could make sure his ally, his friend, didn't get caught in the crossfire.
Skyton shook his head. "Who cares if they want revenge? Do you really think they're going to get it?" He patted Pigeon's feathers.
Yes. Yes, they were going to get it. Because it would make a good story. Because it was probably what the audience wanted. Because it was definitely what the Gamemakers wanted. But none of that would get through to Skyton.
So he put on a smile, instead. "No, but I don't want to take any chances. Pigeon and I can handle them ourselves. And just think of how impressive it'll be if I fend them off by myself, show them how wrong they were not to kill me when they had the chance. Don't you think the audience will be impressed?"
Skyton wavered. "You really think so?"
"Of course. And if I do need help, you can make sure to stay somewhere close by. Let's just say that stairwell there. If everything goes fine, you come out once it's safe. If not … then you'll be safe."
"I still don't think—"
"Please," Merrik insisted. "I don't think we have much—"
Before he finished the sentence, however, the door burst open. Well, burst to pieces. Merrik gripped the axe they'd taken from the boy from Eleven. The boy they'd killed.
The boy whose allies had just burst through the door, riding a … what was it? It looked like a dog, but it had three heads. Three large, ugly heads filled with razor-sharp teeth.
Immediately, Skyton leapt up on Pigeon's back, just as the dog charged at the griffin. Merrik clenched his fists. He wanted to run. He really wanted to run, to let the two mutts fight it out and hope that Skyton would be able to make it away.
But that wouldn't change what had to happen. And it wouldn't save his friend's life.
The dog was charging. The griffin was charging. Merrik took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think of.
He leapt in between them.
Shanali Theisen, 17
District Eleven
The boy from Three leapt in between the two mutts.
Shanali barely kept her grip on the dog's left neck as the two mutts collided, the boy from Three sandwiched between them. He sank his axe into one of the dog's necks, but another one of the dog's mouths clamped tightly around his chest. "Skyton!" the boy managed to shout. "Run!"
Shanali saw the boy from Ten roll off the griffin's back and take off running, but there was nothing she could do about it. It was all she could do to hang onto the dog's neck as it thrashed back and forth, dodging the griffin's teeth as the feathery mutt tried to save the other boy. Feathers flew. Fur flew. Shanali clung to the mutt's neck, doing her best not to be thrown off as the two mutts snarled and shrieked and bit and clawed.
It probably looked rather exciting from the outside, she realized as the mutt rocked back and forth, nearly causing her to vomit all over its fur. Two mutts fighting it out on behalf of the tributes they'd decided to help. That was how the audience would see it. But from where she sat on the mutt's back, she could tell it was all for show.
The battle was already decided.
Not the battle between the mutts, perhaps. But that wasn't what really mattered. The boy from Three was tightly clenched in the mutt's jaws. Even if it dropped him now, he would probably bleed to death in short order. The boy from Ten had gotten away. And she and Ronan would have the chance to exact their revenge, once the Gamemakers were convinced they'd given the audience a good enough show.
It didn't really seem fair.
Maybe it didn't matter what was fair. For whatever reason, the Gamemakers had taken their side, and they should be grateful for that. Finally, the mutt's thrashing slowed a little. With one last shriek, the griffin took off in a flurry of feathers, bursting through the door and out of the room. The dog let out a growl with two of its heads; the boy from Three was still clamped tightly in the third one's mouth.
Ronan slid off the dog's back, his mace in his hand. He was a little wobbly, but the mutt dropped the boy from Three to the floor by his feet. The boy was already bleeding badly. He'd already lost the axe he'd been holding at the start of the battle.
No. It wasn't a battle. It had never been a battle. This was an execution. The Gamemakers had as good as delivered the boy right to them. Why? Why had they decided to take sides? Where they still upset about the stunt the boy from Three had pulled during the private sessions? Maybe. Or maybe it was something else.
Or maybe there wasn't a reason at all.
The boy was shaking as Ronan raised his mace. "I'm sorry," he whispered, his voice trembling. "I'm sorry about your ally. I really am. The Gamemakers brought us right to you, and I … we didn't know who was in the next room. I'm just sorry it was you."
Ronan hesitated. But only for a moment. "Me, too," he agreed, bringing his mace down hard.
He didn't even need a second blow. The cannon fired almost as soon as Ronan's mace struck the boy's head. Ronan staggered a little, shaking as Shanali slid off the dog's back to join him. She took his arm and slid it around her shoulders, supporting him as the dog padded off, melting back into the floor of the arena, as if its job was done.
"The other one got away," Ronan muttered, but it was just for show. The boy from Three was the one they had spared before, the one who had repaid their kindness with death. And now they had returned the favor. It was over. She should have been happy. Or satisfied. Or at least proud that they'd managed to get revenge for their ally, their friend, her district partner.
Instead, it just felt empty. Hollow. They hadn't done anything to be proud of. The mutts had made a show of it, but it had never really been a fair fight. The boy from Three had been as good as dead the moment they'd burst into the room.
And she had no idea why.
Skyton Tate, 16
District Ten
He had no idea how Merrik had known.
Skyton stopped to catch his breath as he reached the other end of the room with the barrels. The room he, Connor, and Klaudia had run through when they'd fled the bloodbath. He knew what was in the next room, and even though he didn't want to, he knew it was probably the best place to go now. He'd left his supplies when he'd run. When Merrik had told him to run.
But he'd told him to run earlier, before the other tributes had arrived. How had he known they were coming? Sure, Pigeon had been a bit restless, but he couldn't have known that the other tributes would have a mutt with them.
Could he?
But it had certainly seemed like he had. Like he had been trying to save Skyton by sacrificing himself, as if he had known that he wasn't going to make it out of there alive, no matter what he did. But what would make him so certain? Surely the Gamemakers hadn't been displeased enough with what he'd done during the private sessions to decide that he was a threat to the Capitol and had to be dealt with.
No. No, it had to be something else. But chances were, he would never find out what. Even if he made it out of the Games alive, he had no way of figuring out why Merrik had died, why the Gamemakers had been so intent on targeting him. And that … that was almost worse than knowing exactly why the other tributes had wanted Merrik dead. At least they had a reason, even if it was a bit shaky.
After all, it wasn't as if Merrik had been their ally. He'd simply been a tribute they hadn't had the heart to kill. As guilty as Merrik had felt about not returning the favor, the truth was that he didn't owe them anything. No one in the Hunger Games owed anyone anything. In the end, each tribute's goal was to stay alive. That was it.
So why did he feel so terrible?
Skyton sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall. He was alive. That should have been enough. Even if he'd stayed, he wouldn't have been able to save Merrik. He'd done exactly what Merrik had been begging him to do. He'd saved himself. But the fact that it had been what Merrik wanted didn't make it any better. He hadn't wanted to die; he'd simply realized that it was inevitable, and decided to try to save his friend, instead.
His friend. Not his ally – his friend. Skyton closed his eyes. He took a deep breath. Then another. And another. His friend was dead, and he wasn't the only one. Merrik was dead. Connor and Klaudia were dead. Arabel was dead. It was just him now, and whoever the other twelve tributes in the arena were.
Well, he knew who two of them were, at least. The pair who had killed Merrik. But as hard as he tried, he still didn't feel what they'd apparently felt – a need for revenge. It hadn't been their choice to come after the pair of them. Not entirely, at least. The Gamemakers had arranged it all. They'd made sure that Pigeon ended up crashing back into the castle in the right room, positioning them near the other two. Then they'd sent the dog to help the other tributes track them down.
It didn't matter what they did. What any of them did. The Gamemakers were in control of the Games; they always had been. It wasn't fair. Merrik had never had the same chance as the others – not if the Gamemakers had been after him from the start. He'd never had a chance at all.
It wasn't fair.
Skyton clenched his fists. It wasn't fair. But it was the way things were. If he made it out of the Games, then maybe he could do something about it. Maybe if he was a Victor. But now? In here? Here, he was just a tribute. Just one of the ones who happened to be lucky enough to still be alive. And he wasn't about to waste that chance by doing something stupid, something defiant that would just make the Gamemakers target him, too.
He couldn't afford to. He wanted to. He wanted to lash out, to scream, to protest that all of this was unfair. But then he would never make it out of the arena alive, either. He had to play along. He had to. That was what Merrik would have wanted him to do.
Merrik would have wanted him to live.
Annemae Carty, 18
District Two
They'd managed to outlive one more tribute.
Mae turned her attention to the ceiling as the Capitol anthem began to play. Etora's face was the first to appear, followed by the boy from Three. "Huh," she muttered. "Wouldn't have guessed they were still alive in the first place." What were the odds that four of District Two's tributes would have lasted this long? Maybe in a normal year, where their district's tributes would have been fully trained Careers, it wouldn't be as surprising, but now…
Now the three of them were left, along with only ten other tributes in the arena. Mae saw Margo open her mouth as if to say something, but she stopped when she realized the anthem was still playing, and had started over again – a bit louder this time. When it finished the second time, a voice boomed through the room. "Attention, tributes! Attention! In honor of the courage and ingenuity demonstrated by the tributes so far, the hosts of the castle have prepared a feast, which will commence at sunrise in the dining hall. As honored guests, each of you is invited to attend the coming feast. Those who choose to accept this gracious invitation will find their efforts rewarded. May the odds be ever in your favor."
The music stopped. Mae, Margo, and Darian glanced at each other. Finally, it was Darian who said what they were all probably thinking. "Where the hell's the dining hall supposed to be, then?"
Mae breathed a silent sigh of relief. Part of her had been expecting a debate on whether they should accept the invitation, considering the three of them already had everything they needed. But the other two had clearly come to the same conclusion she had. Yes, they had food, water, and supplies, but there was one thing they were in desperate need of: the opportunity for a fight. And the Gamemakers had just provided that.
As long as they could figure out where the dining hall was.
"Not here, obviously," Margo reasoned. "They would've just said the cornucopia. Everyone knows where that is. Besides, no sense in inviting us someplace where we are already. And we know what's over there." She nodded in the direction of the stairs they had taken to the roof. "There was food, but it looked more like a storage area than a dining hall."
"Bird cages and the armory are that way," Mae added.
"That leaves three other directions out of this room," Darian pointed out. "Three options, three of us. Maybe we should split up and explore."
Mae held her tongue. She wanted to say that was a terrible idea. That if all the other tributes were going to be converging on the dining hall, they would need to stick together if they wanted to stand a chance of taking them down. But…
But maybe this was an opportunity. A chance to split away from the others without causing much of a fuss. Maybe that was why Darian had suggested it in the first place. After all, neither of them was the weakest link at the moment. Margo was the one who was hurt. She was the one who wouldn't be as much help in a fight.
Maybe Darian was even suggesting…
No. Probably not. But if there was a chance that he was suggesting they should ditch Margo and take their chances together, maybe it was worth playing along. Margo had taken quite a while to catch up with them on their way back from the stairs. Wherever this dining hall was, wherever they were going, the two of them would probably get there faster on their own.
But was Darian really thinking the same thing?
There was only one way to find out. Mae nodded her agreement. "Sounds good. I'll take that way." She nodded to the middle doorway. That way, she and Darian could head in the same direction without having to worry about Margo.
"I'll take that one." Darian nodded to the doorway to the left of the one Mae had claimed.
Margo's expression was unreadable. "I guess that one's mine, then." She gestured towards the remaining door. "Meet back here after the feast, then, whatever that is?"
Mae nodded. "Sounds good to me."
She wondered if Margo could tell she was lying.
Genevieve Odele, 17
District One
She wondered if the Gamemakers were having a good laugh.
Genevieve shook her head as she turned another corner. A feast. Of course they would be planning some sort of gathering to lure the tributes together. And of course they would want to hold it in the dining hall, wherever that was. Trouble was, of course, that 'wherever that was' was almost certainly on the main level of the castle. Who would put a dining hall in the maze she'd been trapped in for hours?
Hours? Days? She wasn't really sure anymore. Maybe it didn't really matter much. She still had plenty of food to last her a while. And if some of the other tributes picked each other off at the feast, wherever that was, maybe that was for the best. Still, she was supposed to be a Career. She was supposed to be the one picking off the other tributes. And yet she was the one who was stuck in a stupid maze of tunnels, probably as far away from the action as anyone could be. If it wasn't so frustrating, it might have been funny. She could practically hear the audience laughing at her.
Actually, she could hear someone, Genevieve realized as she stopped to listen. Someone real. Or, at least, she was fairly certain the sound was real and not coming from inside her own head. She couldn't be absolutely sure, of course. It wasn't unheard of for a tribute or two to completely lose their mind in the Games, but she felt perfectly normal. So it must be another tribute who had lost their mind and was now laughing at … something. It could be anything, really. If a tribute was far gone enough, anything could be funny.
Maybe that was why the Gamemakers hadn't shown her a way out of the tunnels yet. Maybe there was still something for her to do down here. Someone for her to take out. That was better than the alternative – that the Gamemakers, or the sponsors, or her mentor simply didn't care about getting her out of the tunnels and to the feast they were providing. There were still plenty of other tributes in the arena, after all. Maybe a larger group or two. They were probably the ones the Gamemakers were trying to drive together. But if she could find someone down here, instead...
Genevieve listened closely. It was hard to tell exactly where the sound was coming from. The laughter echoed off the tunnels, this way and that. It was a bit disorienting, really. But, finally, she set out in the direction she was fairly certain the sound was coming from. After a few minutes, there was still nothing to indicate that she was going the wrong direction. Nothing from the sponsors, no mutts, nothing to stop her from heading the same way.
But would there be, even if she was going the wrong way? Maybe. Maybe not. Genevieve turned her dagger over in her hands. She would just have to hope that she'd made the right choice. If there was someone down here, she couldn't afford to pass up the opportunity for a kill. It had been so long since any of the Careers had done something noteworthy – or, at least, since anyone in her group had.
No. No, they weren't her group. Not anymore. Most of them were dead, and Macauley was long gone. She didn't have to worry about what any of the other Careers were doing, whether they seemed like a Career pack or not. There was no hope of that anymore. All she could do was try to make sure that the audience saw her as a contender, as a Career. And if the Gamemakers weren't going to help her make her way to their stupid feast, she would have to figure out these tunnels on her own.
Genevieve turned another corner, listening carefully. The sound seemed a bit louder. She just hoped that wasn't her imagination making it seem louder than it was. At least the laughter didn't sound familiar. Whoever she was trying to find, it wasn't likely to be anyone she knew. Certainly it didn't sound like Macauley.
Not that it mattered at this point. There were only thirteen of them left. At this point, any tribute she found would count as an opponent – regardless of whether they had once been an ally or not. Once the pack split, it split for good. Not that they'd been a particularly effective pack in the first place. Now she just had to prove she could do better on her own.
Everything depended on it.
Aleyn Tillens, 15
District Four
Everything depended on whether they stayed put or not.
Aleyn shared a knowing look with Consus as the voice faded, along with the anthem. The dining hall. Clearly, that was where they were now. The giant table made that obvious, at least. But how many of the other tributes knew where the dining hall was?
Maybe it didn't matter. Even if they didn't know where it was, it would be easy enough for the Gamemakers to lead them here. They wouldn't have instructed the tributes to meet in the dining hall if they didn't intend to lead at least some of them there. It was just a matter of whether or not she and Consus would still be there when the others arrived.
Part of her wanted to run. Quite a large part, if she was being honest with herself. She and Consus might stand a chance against one tribute, but there were thirteen of them left. If even half of the tributes accepted the Gamemakers' invitation to come to the feast, she and Consus would have their hands full. More than full. It would be easier to leave, to run away, or maybe to set up camp a little ways away and wait – wait for stragglers to come from the fight, wait until the supplies that were probably coming had been raided. There would probably be some left, just like there were always supplies left at the cornucopia. The first to arrive would get their pick, of course, but they couldn't carry everything. It would be easier to wait. It would be safer to wait.
But…
Aleyn shifted a little as that 'but' shifted around in the back of her mind, snaking its way towards the front. The audience would be expecting them to make the easier choice. The smarter choice. Two of their allies were gone, they were still exhausted from running from the Careers, and they had finally found somewhere safe to rest for a little while. But nowhere in the Games was safe for long. The Gamemakers had chosen their room for a reason. There was always a reason.
The Gamemakers wanted them to make a move.
Consus stood up. For a moment, Aleyn was certain he was going to suggest leaving. Part of her was surprised he hadn't just walked out the door the second he realized the other tributes would be coming their way. That was certainly what she'd wanted to do. But he didn't leave. He didn't suggest leaving. Because this wasn't about what either of them wanted to do.
It was about staying alive.
And in order to stay alive, they needed a plan. So instead of leaving, Consus paced. This way. That way. Then he looked up. He took a few steps back and looked up again, towards the top of the table. At last, he turned to Aleyn. "If we climb up there…"
He didn't have to finish the thought. If they could find a way to climb up on top of the table, the other tributes wouldn't be able to see them – not at first, at least. That would give them the element of surprise. But then what? Were they supposed to jump down from way up there? And how were they supposed to get up there in the first place?
But she didn't say any of that, because he was right. Or at least, the audience would want him to be right. It was what they would want to see – the two of them finding a way to turn the situation to their advantage, to ambush the tributes who showed up expecting a fight. Aleyn stood up, her leg protesting, but she managed not to wince too much as she avoided putting too much weight on it. "All right," she agreed, even though Consus hadn't voiced any part of a plan beyond climbing up on top of the table. It wasn't much of a plan, but she didn't have any better ideas. She took a step back, joining him in staring up at the table.
"I guess we'd better get started."
Retro Liu, 12
District Five
He was glad he'd gotten a head start.
Retro stopped to catch his breath again as he rounded another corner. Laughter was still coming from behind him. Or at least, he was pretty sure it was behind him. He hadn't turned much, and it was definitely Vashti and the boy from Nine laughing. Why they were laughing, he wasn't sure, but it was a sign that he'd made the right choice, after all, not asking to join them. The two of them were going to get themselves killed.
Retro held his breath, ducking behind the corner as soon as he heard another sound. Footsteps in the distance, coming in his direction. Retro pressed himself flat against the wall, but the girl from One didn't even turn in his direction as she hurried along the passageway in the direction of the sound. Was that what Vashti was trying to do? Draw in the rest of the Careers so that he could handle them the same way he'd handled Etora?
If so, it wasn't a great plan. It had only worked last time because a cannon had just happened to sound at exactly the right time for him to pretend to be dead. He couldn't count on that happening again. But why else would he be laughing? Unless…
Unless he'd simply lost it. It wasn't unheard of for a tribute to go mad in the Games, and Vashti had always seemed a bit odd to begin with. Or maybe he was simply trying to keep the boy from Nine happy. He couldn't help wondering how the two of them had ended up together.
Retro shook the thought from his head. It wasn't any of his concern. If Vashti wanted to try to take out another Career or two, all the better. He didn't want to be anywhere near that fight. Just like he didn't want to be anywhere near this 'feast' the Gamemakers apparently had planned. Wherever the dining hall was, Retro was perfectly happy knowing he probably wasn't anywhere near it. Who would put a dining hall down here in a maze of tunnels, after all?
Maybe they had meant the room with all the food – the room that he and Ti had found towards the start of the Games. It seemed like so long ago, but it could only have been a few days, at the most. Surely it couldn't have been more than that, could it? How were they supposed to know how long it had been? Come to think of it, the Gamemakers had said that their feast was going to start at sunrise. How were they supposed to know when sunrise was, especially the tributes who happened to be down in the tunnels?
Retro clenched his fists. Not his problem. It wasn't as if he was planning on going, anyway. And clearly, Vashti and his ally weren't. And the girl from One who had just passed by seemed more interested in finding where the laughing was coming from than finding were any dining hall might be.
That was four tributes accounted for, out of the thirteen who were left. At least, he was pretty sure it was thirteen. That left nine tributes who might actually accept the Gamemakers' invitation. With any luck, a few of them would pick each other off, and that number would dwindle even more. He would just have to play it smart while the others killed each other off, and then…
And then what? That was the real question. Once some of the other tributes had picked each other off, what was he supposed to do then? Yes, he had managed to kill the girl from Eight, but that had been a lucky shot from a relatively safe distance away. What was he supposed to do if it came down to a real fight?
No, not if. When. It almost always came down to a real fight. Especially because this year was a Quarter Quell. He hadn't been alive to see the last one, but he remembered the footage from the end of the Games. It had come down to a girl from his district and the boy from Twelve. They'd ended up losing their weapons and had resorted to choking the life out of each other. The boy had simply ended up lasting a little longer than the girl. If it came down to a fight like that, how much of a chance did he really have?
More of a chance than Vashti had, he tried to tell himself. At least he wasn't certain to bleed out if he got the slightest injury – which, considering the pounding he'd taken from the boy from Nine, was definitely a good thing. His face still ached, but he was alive, and he wasn't in any danger from the injuries. His face probably didn't look pretty, but it was nothing he couldn't deal with. If that had happened to Vashti, he would be dead.
So that was one tribute he might be able to beat in a fight. Maybe the boy from Nine, as well. If he'd actually fought back rather than trying to draw the girl from Two in, he could certainly have made a fight out of it. Still, that was only two. Two tributes he might be able to beat in a fight. And if the Career girl was heading their way, what were the chances that either of them would really be in the picture long enough for him to face them?
Other than them, of course, he had no way of knowing exactly who else might be left. Whoever it was, they had managed to survive this long. But on the other hand, so was he. He was still alive, despite everything. And he even had a kill. Maybe not a particularly impressive kill, but he had helped Vashti and his ally kill a Career, too. Not too shabby for a twelve-year-old kid from Five.
But "not too shabby" wasn't going to be enough. "Not too shabby" didn't win the Games. Eventually, he would have to do better than just scraping by.
Eventually, he would have to make a move.
Stellar Floren
District One Mentor
At least they seemed to be making a move.
Stellar nodded her approval as Consus finally managed to climb his way to the top of the table. It had taken several tries and nearly broken the handle off one of their knives, but getting one of them up there was quite an accomplishment. And now that Consus had reached the top, he could help Aleyn up. Sure enough, he was already constructing a crude rope out of their clothes to help her up behind him.
It wasn't much of a plan, really. At least, neither of them had said anything about what their plan was once the other tributes showed up. But that was probably a good thing. After all, whatever plan they had would have to be flexible enough to change based on the number of tributes who actually showed up. Ambushing a lone tribute was certainly different than ambushing three.
Except that there wasn't likely to be a group of three tributes – unless more than one group arrived at the same time. Mae, Margo, and Darian had split up, heading away from the cornucopia through different doors. Skyton was alone. Ronan and Shanali were together, but the three-headed dog had vanished back into the shadows as quickly as it had appeared. There was no sign of the griffin, either. Macauley had been following the two of them, but at a careful distance. Maybe she would be less cautious once she figured out the dog was gone, but for now, she was staying away, perhaps trying to decide whether the supplies promised at the feast might be enough to help her take on the mutt she probably assumed was still with them.
And that accounted for the tributes on the main floor of the castle. There were nine of them, including Aleyn and Consus. But Skyton wasn't likely to head to the dining hall, even if he figured out where it was. Ronan and Shanali had just killed a tribute, so the audience wouldn't be too disappointed if they decided not to accept the invitation. Macauley would probably accept, but if she arrived at the same time as some of the District Two tributes, Aleyn and Consus were probably better off waiting and letting them fight it out, then attacking whoever survived.
"They have options," Jade offered reassuringly, echoing her own thoughts. "And time to figure out what they're doing. There are at least a few hours left before dawn."
Stellar nodded. It was hard to judge exactly what time dawn would come in the arena, but it was almost four in the morning now. Some of the mentors – especially those whose tributes were already out of the running – were taking the opportunity to sleep, but a lot of them generally chose to do so in the bar, anyway. Here and there, mentors were sprawled out on the couches, none of them sleeping particularly soundly, in case something happened.
District One, at least, still seemed to have pretty good odds. Neither Genevieve nor Consus was seriously injured. Both of them were tired and more than a little frustrated, but anyone who wasn't at this point in the Games was the exception, not the norm. Everyone was tired. Everyone was on edge. And at this point, that was almost an advantage. Being on edge meant that they were more alert. They were more likely to be startled by something that wasn't important, yes, but they were also less likely to miss something that was.
On top of that, District One still had two tributes left – something that only a handful of districts could say at this point. One, Two, Four, and Five, actually, she realized. Despite the fact that their tributes weren't actually Careers, there were still more of them left than in the non-Career districts. Maybe that was just simple math, of course. They'd started with more tributes in the first place, after all. And in the end, it didn't really make much of a difference.
Because no matter how long their district partners lasted, only one tribute came out on top. If someone from District One was going to win, it could only be Consus or Genevieve – not both. At least they were nowhere near each other. Chances were, one of the other tributes would kill one of them before it came down to the pair of them.
Not always. Occasionally, a pair of district partners were the last ones left. It didn't happen often, but that didn't mean it was impossible by any means. Only two years before her, Harakuise's last opponent had been his district partner. The same thing had happened a few times since. A pair from District Nine had been the final two during the 18th Games, District One during the 23rd Games, District Two during the 32nd Games, and technically, District Three during the 41st Games.
But as impressive as those sort of numbers might look, only one of them could come out alive. There was no reward for taking second place in the Hunger Games.
And there never would be.
"It will have blood; they say, blood will have blood."