Heyooo we've got our interludes! A look at how the mentors fared in their Games and a better impression of how they were shaped from them. I'll be uploading the second part of this intermission in a few hours, definitely under a day's time, so enjoy!
13 - Odds
Atticus Clarke, 12, District 1 - The 75th Games
The cannon fires as another opponent falls. More blood on his hands, on his blade. One less Tribute to worry about.
When Atticus volunteered, he never expected it to be this easy. No one has more experience than him, no one will be taller or stronger than him. He's a star among the sponsors. Soon he'll be making history as the youngest victor of any Hunger Games—for now and forever. It's all so easy.
He wipes the blade of the scimitar along the sleeve of his jacket. He's not fond of the design—too form-fitting, too restrictive—but at least it's dark enough to hide blood. No one would know if he was injured. No one would know how much blood is on his hands by now. The body of the girl from 7 just sinks slowly into the mud, almost ready to be consumed by the waters of the swamp. She won't vanish, though; as soon as Atticus leaves, the Capitol will retrieve her.
So he turns on his heel and smiles to himself. He'll only get in the way of the staff if he stays, and he has much better things to think about.
The cornucopia isn't far, easy enough to return to when he follows the stone path he'd made for himself after the bloodbath. It's been a good four days since he constructed the path and made fakes to trick anyone hoping to sneak up on him—but it seems that the remaining seven Tributes are smarter than he'd anticipated. No one's dared to test a path, even as they witness him use the stones himself. It brings a light, easygoing feeling to Atticus's stomach. At least he knows he'll be safe atop his castle—the cornucopia—while the peasants dispose of each other beneath him.
He climbs up the rope dangling from one side just as a hover plane enters the arena. Atticus is halfway up the cornucopia when he looks over his shoulder at the girl from 7; the large shovel lowers to the ground, scooping her up with a simultaneously delicate and rough heave. Swamp water and mud drips off of the shovel and her arms as they dangle freely in the air, and then within a mere minute she and the hover place disappear into the distance.
Atticus whistles to himself once he's comfortably atop the cornucopia once more. That's three kills under his belt—a bit of an underperformance for a District 1 volunteer, but there's still plenty of time to rectify that. It's not like having the most kills even matters, too. All this time he'd assumed all a Tribute needed was a good weapon and extraordinary wits, maybe even an alliance to solidify their survival after the first few days. But the Third Quell has definitely been an eye-opener.
All a Tribute really needs is sponsors. Lots and lots of sponsors.
Bat your eyelids and smile sweetly into the camera, and the Capitol will be putty in your hands. As much as they love this bloodsport, it's always going to be the most appealing Tribute who comes out victorious. The boy from 2 looked like a good contender to win during training sessions, but he'd fallen flat when it came to his interview and looking good during the Tribute Parade. Now that Atticus knows the real trick to winning the Games, he isn't at all surprised that the boy from 2 died on the second day.
He lays back against the warmth of the cornucopia. Scattered about the rest of the roof are opened canisters, each one containing a gift he has yet to use. Things like the jacket and ropes were easy to find uses for, but Atticus has still yet to figure out how a foothold trap is going to help him in a swamp. Won't it rust if he puts it in the mud? And worse yet, won't the kids hiding among the vines see where he puts it?
At least the food they send him is useful. It saves him from leaving the safety of the cornucopia and hunting for his own rations. The crackers may be bland and the water may be too bubbly for his tastes, but he's doing a whole world better than the fools hiding from him.
Atticus reaches for a cracker, nibbling on it lazily as he stares up at the sky. If the Quell keeps going the way it has been, he's going to win. No one else has received sponsorships—hell, the only canisters that drop from the sky go in his direction—and it'll only be a matter of time before that makeshift alliance in the trees turns against itself.
He may as well have won on the first day.
Synthia Quanta, 15, District 3 - The 96th Games
"Is she going to fall for it?"
"I don't know. But what choice do we have?"
Fern inhales deeply. He fixes his grip on his axe, gaze unwavering as he watches the clearing ahead of them.
Synthia was lucky to find the grotto when she did. The girl from 4 was relentless with tracking them down, and with only an axe, a dagger, and some rope to make a snare trap, the duo were really starting to run out of options. But now they have a chance—it's just the final three, and the only thing standing between Synthia and a one-way ticket home is that damned fish girl and her spear.
It's completely silent on the other side of the opening, the water still even as Synthia and Fern tremble in the ankle-deep shallows. It's freezing once anyone leaves the water on the outside. Why they didn't stay submerged while they waited in the cave, Synthia will never know.
(She does know. But thinking about it will make her expression betray her intentions. She can't afford that now, not when she's so close.)
As the sun begins to dip under the horizon, its orange glow no longer reaching within the grotto, Synthia and Fern hold their breaths. Once night falls the water seems to almost glow; anything within is basically invisible to anyone outside, but the duo had figured out quickly that the outside is still clear as day to those submerged. Irma will be able to sneak up on them like the predator she is in the water.
And Fern seems to know this as well. "Did we conceal it well enough?" he asks shakily. The brave, knightly persona he's tried to keep up for the past week is starting to crumble. Synthia had thought at first that he was excited, but it turns out Fern is just as scared as the rest of them. All the talk about defending his allies no matter what and being capable of winning the Games, and he's already shaking in his boots over the idea of improvising off of a failed plan.
So Synthia plays along. That's been the whole point of keeping Fern around—if he thinks she's even more scared than he is, his hero complex will kick in and keep both of them alive just a few hours longer. "I don't know," she chokes. "I can't see it anymore."
Fern shakes his head. He gets into a battle stance, axe held partially over his shoulder in preparation to strike. "Stand closer to the edge. If she gets past me, you'll have time to run while she pulls herself out."
She doesn't argue. Boy has a point, after all.
The light from the moon illuminates the opening as the stars appear one by one. Synthia purses her lips tightly and clutches at her dagger. It can't end here. She's come so far for a scrawny girl from 3. She's meant to make history for her District. The timing has to be just right; the plan has to go just so. There's no room for error. Any mistakes now will kill her.
The water shifts. Both she and Fern inhale sharply, the sounds echoing in the grotto as the ripples move closer. It has to be Irma. It has to be. The last of the mutts released into the ocean have fled or been killed off—it's Irma, she knows it!
A larger ripple breaks through the water. Irma's tracks are halted, splashes of water suddenly flying up into the air as thick, heavy ropes slowly lift her just a breath away from the surface. Irma struggles inside the net, desperately trying to pull herself up for air.
Synthia smirks. The net will only weigh her down more and more and eventually tangle her to the point of immobility. The plan is going just as she'd hoped. She's not dead yet.
A relieved laugh comes from Fern. He lowers his axe and wipes at his brow with the back of his hand. There's a dumb grin on his face, the kind of grin Synthia used to make whenever her dad's stunts actually succeeded.
And just as Fern turns to celebrate with her, she plunges her dagger through his neck.
He's still for a second, shocked but unable to process why. Synthia tries to yank the dagger out in one swift movement, but it's stuck fast thanks to the suction between blade and flesh. Synthia rolls her eyes. "For fuck's sake," she mutters. She grabs the hilt of the dagger with both hands and kicks violently out at Fern's stomach. The dagger comes free with great reluctance, and Fern topples like a pile of bricks.
As he floats over towards the still-struggling Irma, Fern finally begins to choke on his own blood and clutch at his throat. It's leaking everywhere, staining the water and casting a crimson glow against the walls of the grotto. It's a rather nice colour. Synthia hopes she can remember it vividly enough to recreate it when she gets home.
She sits down at the edge of the water and dunks her feet in, releasing quite possibly the most contented sigh she's ever felt. The only thing ruining this moment of calm is the thrashing and the gurgling in front of her, but they'll die down soon. It'll take ten minutes for Irma to drown in the salt water, and Fern will be lucky to bleed out before then. She doubts it, though.
Synthia kicks at the water, smiling at the red that slithers between her toes. "I think I might get a bird with my victors' allowance," she muses. Fern lets out a confused gurgle in response. He tries to float in her direction, but Synthia deftly kicks him back towards Irma. "I've always wanted a bird."
Adam Jackson, 17, District 5 - The 58th Games
Amazing. Absolutely amazing. He never thought he'd see a day where the dead came back to greet him, especially not here. Not in this beautiful garden, not as he climbs atop the hedges and surveys the surrounding area.
Adam grins from ear to ear at the sight. The first one, back from the dead to try and exact revenge. Adam thinks he might squeal at the thought!
He stumbles over his own feet as he hobbles along the hedge. Twice his ankle slips into the bush, but he's quick enough to recover and keep his gaze on that beautiful, beautiful mutt. It's not every year that they release them upon the Tributes and broadcast the havoc. It's not every year that they use Tribute DNA, either. To have his cake and eat it, only to have another—better than the last—put before him? Adam is positively euphoric.
It hasn't noticed him yet, too busy tearing into the leg of the 10 girl. Little Lulu Banks struggles and screams, kicking at the mutt with her free foot to no avail. She's called out to Adam twice now, but he's not interested in her. Too scrawny and tiny, too easy to overpower—it'd be just as boring as Mica from 12. But the mutt, on the other hand…
It growls and shakes its head about like a dog trying to pull a toy from its owner. Adam chuckles to himself at the sight of it. It thinks Lulu's leg is a toy. How cute! He lofts his mace over his shoulder and grins down at the sight with glee.
"Please!" Lulu screeches. "Please, help me!"
"Shush," Adam hisses. The mutt snarls and growls even more, finally tearing into Lulu's skin and splattering blood on the both of them. Adam covers his mouth with his hand, moved almost to tears by the sight. It's really, truly playing with her!
Adam wants to take it with him if he wins. Such a beautiful creature, born from the remains of Sam Corduroy and given the form of a sadistic, spiteful beast. It's a match made in heaven, and he will not have such a perfect pet be taken from him.
With a deep breath, Adam cups a hand around his mouth and shouts up to the sky, "I want that mutt as a pet!"
Seconds pass, filled only by Lulu's screams and the mutt's snarling, before a response comes over the speakers. "We cannot allow that, Adam Jackson. Please resume the Games."
Adam clicks his tongue. He'll have to find a way around it. One way or another, he was leaving this arena with the Sam Corduroy muttation.
He slides over the edge of the hedge before dropping gracefully onto the ground, just a good few feet away from Lulu and her backpack. Some of its contents had spilled over when the mutt latched onto her. Adam can definitely see the use in taking a few of those rations after this.
Lulu reaches for him. Adam just shrugs at her and picks up her bag. He may as well take the whole thing with him instead of sifting through it. It'll save him some time, at least, and he'll be able to focus more on the mutt with that free time. He zips up the bag and slings it over his shoulder, still ignoring Lulu's sobs as the mutt drags her further away.
He looks the mutt up and down for a moment. He really does want to keep it alive and take it out with him, but the officials definitely won't let him. Maybe he can take a piece of it from its corpse and sneak it out? That'd be pretty fun, but those stylists would probably smell it and throw it away. Damn perfectionists…
With a heavy sigh, Adam raises his mace above his head. He takes one, two steps towards Lulu and wastes no time swinging the weapon down against her head. The screams cease abruptly, the mace now slick with blood as he yanks it out of her caved-in skull. The mutt drags the now limp body away from Adam somewhat, snarling territorially. He just laughs in response.
"Another time, Sam," he says affectionately. "I'll definitely bring you home with me."
And he launches himself at the mutt. It rears back in shock, releasing Lulu's leg and baring its teeth at Adam instead. Adam just laughs as he swings the mace again, smashing the mutt's midsection and sending it flying across the field of flowers. Petals and pollen fly into the air as it lands with a pained whine. Adam stalks over, mace raised above his head again.
The mutt looks up at him for a second, and Adam swears he sees something in those bright blue eyes. Recognition. Fear. Despair. Like Sam Corduroy is here more than just in genetics, but also in memory. Like this mutt knows just what bloody fate awaits it when Adam brings down that mace.
"We deserve this," Adam says finally. He brings down the mace onto the mutt's head, smashing it in one blow and staining the field of violets with red.
There's silence for a few seconds before Adam hears it: The howling of another mutt, followed by the screams of another Tribute. He runs a hand over his face as he laughs to himself, shaking his head in disbelief.
"I'm going to bring all of you home with me."
Magnolia Hammond, 15, District 7 - The 95th Games
The screams are too much. They're coming from all around, suffocating her and making her knees weaker by the second. She thought she could handle the bloodbath. She thought she'd be fine if she established herself with the Careers. She thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to stomach those first few minutes.
But Maggie can't leave her pedestal. She just sinks to her knees, hands clamped over her ears as the blood flies in all direction. Maggie wasn't prepared for this. No matter what Yarne had said, there was nothing he could do to prepare her properly for this.
A head flies across the cornucopia, knocking over a small backpack that one of the outer District kids had been reaching for. He recoils with a screech, kicking the head and trying to crawl away. And then Antigone Pierce is hurtling over another body, stabbing him through the chest with her sword. Tiggs makes it look easy, the way she kicks him to the ground and snatches the backpack. The way she just turns on her heel and throws a dagger at the girl from District 3, piercing her throat with ease. Tiggs makes it look so, so easy.
About seven people have died so far—three of them thanks to Tiggs. Only fifteen and she's leading the pack, her battle strategy working miracles for them. The Careers who excel with speed and nimbleness are quickly throwing off the taller Tributes, while the ones with cutthroat precision dispatch them. Maggie's supposed to be in there, taking down the physically stronger Tributes. That was her role—the tank, Tiggs called her.
Funny how the "special" outer District Tribute had become the weakest link. But at least Tiggs prepared backup plans.
An eighth falls, half of his face torn apart. The boy from 1 stands over him with a tiger's claw tucked snugly around his fingers. What was the boy's name again? Maggie had never really associated much with them—well, more like they never associated with her. Tiggs had been the only one to see her worth and invite her to the pack. Everyone else just avoided her.
She thinks his name might be Ermine, like those fancy coats. It was something to do with clothing, but she never paid much attention to what some of them were called. She wouldn't be surprised if it is Ermine, though; District 1 always did love those pretentious names.
Ermine looks over at her and shakes his head. There's clearly disappointment in his expression. A quick glance to Tiggs makes it known that she too is on the receiving end of that disdain. He gives the boy on the ground an extra tear along his face for good measure, and then with no hesitation whatsoever Ermine turns for Tiggs.
Panic bubbles in Maggie's chest. He's not going to turn on Tiggs, is he? She's helped them make it this far! He can't be! But soon that panic turns to dread as Ermine suckerpunches Tiggs square in the jaw, catching her off-guard and knocking the poor girl to the ground. Tiggs yells something to Ermine, only to stop and stare up at him in horror. That horror soon turns into anger.
Tiggs tries to fight back, but Ermine swipes down at her with his tiger's claws. Maggie watches hopelessly as the claws skim over Tiggs's throat, cutting it open and leaving the girl curled up on the floor of the cornucopia in an attempt to top her bleeding.
Maggie doesn't know when she started running, but she's all too aware of when she tackles Ermine to the ground and slams her fist hard into his nose. His arms flail about as his nose, his cheekbones, his jaw start to break with each blow. Maggie's screaming hoarsely at him—how dare he turn on Tiggs like that!—even as Ermine stops moving altogether. Even as his face becomes unrecognisable to even the other Careers who pull her off him, she still demands blood.
She's sobbing when they throw her in Tiggs's direction. They all want to help, but they know Tiggs is a goner. Instead, the remaining three members of their pack pull Ermine out from the cornucopia and leave him where the Gamemakers can collect him. Maggie refuses to look over at him. Instead she pulls Tiggs into her arms and presses down against her wounds. There has to be a way to help.
Tiggs convulses helplessly. Her fingers dig through Maggie's shirt, an almost resigned look on her face as the seconds pass. No fifteen-year-old should have that expression. No child should be so accepting of death like this.
"You're gonna be okay, Tiggs," Maggie says hurriedly. Tiggs shakes her head. More blood seeps out between Maggie's fingers, making her hand too slick to keep in place.
"Keep—" Tiggs tries. Her voice is weak, blood just spurting out with every attempt at talking. "C—Control—"
Maggie tries to smile. It hurts so much to pretend. "You'll keep leading us, don't worry!"
Tiggs shakes her head again. "Control an—" She coughs loudly enough to attract attention from the rest of the pack. Blood flies from her mouth and lands just shy of Maggie's eyes. "Anger."
"Tiggs, I can't—"
"D—Don't f—f—feel." Tiggs's fingers feel like tight clamps, numbing Maggie's arm. "Act."
Tiggs doesn't say anything else after that. The pack gathers around, patting Maggie's shoulder as the slow, painful minutes leading up to Tiggs's death pass. Tiggs's District partner offers to carry her outside the cornucopia. It's obviously hard for him to accept her death too—Tiggs was a prodigy in their District, after all.
Eventually it's the duo from 4 who take her outside. Maggie's left sitting in the same spot, Tiggs's blood all over her hands, her face, her clothes. It's too much. She was never prepared for this.
The boy from 2 inhales deeply. He's sitting on one of the crates deeper within the cornucopia, tapping his heel anxiously against the ground.
"I didn't think he'd do it," he mutters. "I thought he was just trying to impress everyone. I didn't think he'd…"
Maggie didn't act soon enough. It's all because of Maggie that Tiggs is dead—Ermine probably wanted to stage a mutiny against Tiggs if Maggie couldn't handle the Games. It's all Maggie's fault.
"I'm sorry, Tiggs." Her lip trembles. Her fingers feel sticky as she clenches her hands into fists. "Please forgive me, Tiggs."
Rye Coven, 16, District 9 - The 99th Games
"How're you holding up, kiddo?" Rye pulls him along reassuringly.
Chia sniffs as he wipes at his eyes. "'M fine," he mumbles.
"You're not." She stops, pushing him behind her as she checks around the corner. They've been lucky to make it this far, but now that they're in the final four they can't afford mistakes. District 9's never had both Tributes survive for this long in one year. With some luck, maybe Malvolia will let them both go home.
"What do you want me to say, Rye?" Chia snaps. She squeezes his hands tightly, eliciting a squeak of pain from the twelve-year-old. He needs to keep it down, for crying out loud! "How can anyone be okay after all this?" he adds in a whisper.
"Bliss from One certainly looks okay," Rye mutters.
"She's a monster. Of course she'd be okay."
Rye stifles a laugh. "Monster" is a new one. Definitely a tamer insult compared to what this year's Tributes have called Bliss Hartshorn. She's been a dead ringer to win this year, and yet nobody—not even her partner—likes her from even a distance.
There's no movement ahead of them. Rye exhales softly and pulls Chia along. This maze is going to be the end of them, but at least they won't be the only ones who get lost here.
"Rye?"
"Hm?"
"What're you gonna do when you get home?"
Rye considers her answer for a second. She's never really had a lot of things she's wanted, but with the status of victor and that handsome allowance… Well, she could get into all sorts of mischief. Maybe even lobby a protest against those Avox replacement plans the President loves so much. That'd definitely solidify her place in District 9's history.
"Dunno," she mutters. "You?"
"I want a giant chocolate tart," Chia whispers. "The good kind. With the Belgian chocolate they make in the Capitol and a strawberry on top."
She chuckles softly. "Ambitious."
"I like chocolate tarts."
Loud footsteps come from a short distance away—the next corner? A little beyond? Rye's mind goes into overdrive. Wherever they're coming from, they're heading right for the duo. Are there any corners the two can hide in? Can she try hoist Chia up atop the maze walls? No, he's too short to reach even if she could hold him up that long.
Rye takes short, quick breaths. She's screwed. She's screwed, she's screwed, she's screwed. She can't just leave Chia behind and save herself—not when their entire home is watching—and she knows she can't fight off the Tributes left behind. How is she supposed to take down a boy from 7 and a Career?
More footsteps. "Who's there?" someone yells—definitely the 7. Rye squeezes Chia's hand tightly. Of course it's the boy from 7 who approaches. At least he was stupid enough to give away how far away he is. If Rye's correct, he'll be around the corner after this one, close to the path that leads to the cornucopia.
A cannon fires. Chia squeaks in surprise, while Rye coughs as she chokes on her own breaths. Was that the cannon for the Career? Did the boy from 7 take them out? The footsteps turn into hard, thundering stomps. He's sprinting to them, probably ready to take them down and win the 99th Games.
Rye shakes her head. She'll have to make do with making history the bad way. District 9 will get over it eventually.
Rye hauls Chia forward and shoves him in front of her. The two careen around the corner, Chia's confused yelps drowning out the boy from 7 for just a second. He tries to turn around and face her, demanding to know what's wrong and why they're running towards their predator. Rye just hisses at him to shut up.
She snatches the spear from his hand and throws him around the corner. She watches as the axe lands in his shoulder, his screams distracting the 7 for just long enough. Rye whirls around the corner and shoves the spear through Chia's neck—and keeps pushing until it pierces the 7 boy's eye, digging further and further into his head.
Chia, stuck to the now dead boy, falls to the ground with him once Rye releases the spear. All he can do is stare up at her and sob grossly. Were Rye actually concerned, she'd comfort him in his dying moments.
But she's always hated kids his age.
"Suck it!" she yells up at the sky. "'A surefire bloodbath,' my ass!"
If the Districts had the ability to send voice messages into the arena, she knows exactly what they'd say to her. They'd call her any number of names, shun her and treat her like crap. But she's done them some good today. She's kept them from becoming even poorer than they already are.
With a deep breath, she lifts her head up high and shrieks, "Now keep those godforsaken tongueless slaves out of my District!"
Barley Tanton, 13, District 11 - The 97th Games
He wishes there were trees like this in District 11. Large, beautiful, and helpful to those who take take of it. A tree with a conscience.
Normally Barley would think himself doomed in a situation like this. A large underground escape, with its own ecosystem and a huge tree at the heart of it? The cornucopia just below him with Careers scouring the area for easy prey? He'd be dead by now under normal circumstances. Probably even a bloodbath.
But luck must be on his side. He was lucky enough to go unnoticed during all the chaos. He was lucky enough to have experience climbing trees back home. He was lucky enough to discover this… sentient tree's secret.
Not even his partner figured it out. The way the leaves would change colour, like an indicator of mood. The way fruit would grow overnight, as though offering its bounty to those in need. The way those vines snake around Barley as he sleeps, holding him safely in place and warding off Careers who remember his existence. It took only two days to figure it out—by accident, albeit—and now he's at day nine, a potential for the top eight. All thanks to his fumble with a water canteen.
Chaff had been right about kids from 11 being the children of the trees. Barley just never thought it could be counted so literally.
He nibbles silently at the peach in his hand as the day goes on. It's been quiet so far, the Careers having left the cornucopia to hunt, but Barley still doesn't want to make too much noise. Even the fourteen-year-old in the pack seems to notice the slightest of sounds, the smallest of changes. There's no telling how quickly they'll find him if they hear him slurp the juice from the peach or shift around on the branch. Barley can't complain about the restraint over the amount of noise he can make; compared to what Constance does to him when he stutters, he feels a lot more safer in this arena with nature to protect him.
A soft breeze rustles the leaves around him. They glow a gorgeous, calm blue, shimmering like scales on a fish as they weave about. Barley watches with a smile. It's soothing, looking at the leaves. There's just something aesthetically pleasing about them despite how unnatural they are. Obviously the tree was cultivated over time and had genes spliced over and over into it—Miss Amos made sure to brag about that when Barley asked about the arenas in his interview. But it feels like the one nice thing the Capitol has cooked up in a lab since the Hunger Games began. No mutt would coddle and calm him like this; no mutt would have a grasp of giving and taking in equal amounts.
Once he finishes the peach, he stuffs the pit into the small opening in front of him. For the past few days that opening has been where he gets and gives food. The tree would tightly wrap the seeds of a finished fruit in its vines, waiting for Barley to share his water with it, and then the next morning another one would be ready for consumption. He watches as small brown vines snake around the pit, tightly grasping it before loosening enough to let in some air. Barley hums with interest at the sight. He shuffles about on the branch, trying to reach his water canteen from his bag.
"Hey!"
Barley freezes. He knows that voice—it's one of the Careers. Why are they back so soon? How did he not hear them giggling about like they always do? Barley looks down in a panic, clinging to the trunk of the tree as he searches for the Career.
It's the fourteen-year-old, already stuffing the blade of his dagger between his teeth as he starts to climb the cornucopia. It won't take long for him to reach the low-hanging branch Barley climbed up on. If Barley doesn't move soon, he'll be dead for sure.
As he scurries with a squeak, the leaves around him slowly start to dim. From sky blue to navy, and then pitch black—the colour of the tree's rage. He's seen the leaves turn black once before, when the boy from District 7 tried to chop off one of its branches for firewood. He knows what's going to happen if the tree intervenes in this chase.
"Get down here, coward!" the Career grunts. He's already closing the distance between himself and Barley, climbing faster than Barley had anticipated. Barley's foot slips on the groove he'd stuffed it into, crashing onto the branch beneath him with only his arms holding him up. His chest hurts, there's no air in his lungs, and he thinks he may have bruised something—and more than that, the Career is within an arm's reach of his dangling feet.
He feels the hand latch onto his ankle and starts to sob. He doesn't want to die—he just wants to go back to being by his brother's side, Constance or no, and just forget the year he turned thirteen ever existed.
"I've got you—"
"P—Please!" Barley sobs. He shakes his feet as hard as he can, but the Career's grip remains. "G—Go aw—way!"
He kicks down once, twice, sobbing harder and harder with each blow. After the fifth kick, the Career's grip loosens. The tree shifts, the branches and bark groaning as the vines snake around Barley's arms and waist and try to hoist him up.
"What the hell—?" is all the Career can get in before Barley kicks him off entirely. He falls, screaming as he descends upon the cornucopia. Barley expects to hear a loud crash, bones cracking and snapping.
But all he hears is a branch nearby groan, a vine cracking like a whip, and the sounds of desperate choking from the Career as he hangs from his noose.
And that's the odd-numbered District mentors! Like I said earlier, the second half will come up later in the day. So here's our Quell Question for this chapter till then!
QQ #8: Which of this batch of mentors is your favourite and why?
And as promised, I'll also give out the answer to last chapter's QQ: All of the escorts are named after either a brand or type of cheese!