"In a few hours," he says, and then passes out for a good 12 hours. At least we're done with the mentor intermission, which means the Capitol is next!
14 - Evens
Felix Brough, 18, District 2 - The 77th Games
Temptation is going to ruin him.
Of all the things to become his shortcoming, it had to be survival skills. He'd been so certain that he wouldn't need to worry about it—hell, even Camille had said he didn't need to worry about how to hunt—and now it's going to kill him. Everything's going wrong this year, and it's all leading up to his lack of hunting experience.
Felix despises it.
First he loses the cornucopia to a split faction in his pack. Stupid Constance and her stupid charismatic bullshit. He hopes all of those mutinous little shits suffer when she makes a mistake. And then he gets chased by a small group of outer kids, left to hole up in a trench and cower in fear—Felix, District 2's shining example of power! And after the last four days of hunger and thirst, no sponsorship packages in sight, he's hitting his wits end.
One of the kids accidentally discovered him, and he'd been quick to silence him to keep the others off his trail. The body's yet to be collected—perhaps a malfunction in the kid's tracking chip?—and the raw flesh peeking through his skin is tempting Felix.
He doesn't know how those kids in 11 and 12 do it. How do they not riot and eat each other? How do they not go wild and raid the Peacekeeper food supplies? How do they just accept all the pain and exhaustion? Felix doesn't know if he can last another day of going without food, and yet these… peasants do it for years at a time!
A spark of pain lights up in his stomach again, and this time he can feel a churning beneath the ache. He's heard stories about the stomach consuming itself after a period without food, but he's never actually found out if it's true. It'd be such a painful way to go, wasting away as you're consumed by yourself from the inside out. A messed up, real example of the snake that consumed its own tail.
But Felix could avoid it. They still haven't collected the boy in front of him, and there's still time to make use of the meat. He's put up with raw meat before—he even prefers his meat to be medium-rare, bordering on just plain rare—but he's never entertained how eating human meat would go down. He could curb the hunger for just a few hours, maybe a day if he's lucky. He wouldn't have to find out whether or not the stomach really does consume itself after a time.
Wait. He breathes heavily through his nose as he stares down the body. Wasn't this a situation another Tribute was put in recently? Someone from 6, right? Felix's hands start to tremble. Titus Lionhart, right? The notorious cannibal who was offed by the Gamemakers?
He shakes his head. Titus died because he attacked the people who collected the bodies, Felix reminds himself. Surely in a killing game like this, eating each other wasn't vetoed. But as the seconds pass and his stomach hurts more and more, thoughts of Titus's gruesome death flood his mind. What if Titus died because of the cannibalism? What if they try to off Felix for doing the same? He's stuck in this trench with no way out by up, so it'd be easy for them to take him down.
Felix doesn't want to die here. He's worked too hard to get this far, to prove his parents proud and bring another victory home for his District. He won't be taken down by temptation.
With an angry huff, he hoists the body over his shoulder and slides it over the edge of the trench. The boy dangles haphazardly over Felix, looking ready to fall in at a moment's notice. But he stays in place, and Felix is given just long enough to start crawling away to a new hiding spot.
Those Gamemakers had better collect that body, because he'll be pissed if his one chance at food was just given up over mere concern.
Melvin Pike, 18, District 4 - The 86th Games
"This is horrendous."
Melvin breathes out a laugh, the fog in his breath obscuring his vision. "You're telling me."
"I wish they'd at least given us one of those natural hot springs," Mason says. "You know those ones heated by magma or whatever?"
"Yes, God." Blake wraps her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "Just shut up and stop making me feel colder than I already am."
"Sorry…"
Despite being given somewhat warm clothing, complete with underclothes fit for a mountain climb, none of Melvin's alliance could've picked this happening. Maybe a mild frost, he'd thought when his stylist sent him up. Probably a little snow to go with it.
But instead they get hit with a blizzard, instantly snow blinding Mason and leaving Melvin and Blake to struggle over keeping a fire lit for more than an hour at a time. Despite how odd the alliance had been—initially consisting of kids from 4, 5, 7 and 12—the mix-matched group served to keep them going longer. Mason's knowledge on how to light a fire from just stones had helped immensely, while Yew's knowledge of which kinds of wood burn for longer kept the fire going easier. Melvin knew how to hunt with a spear, even if no water was to be found, and the brief moments without the blizzard throwing them off course helped with gathering food. And Blake, reliable as always and holding the group together, did her best to keep them warm and healthy with her medical knowledge.
But they can only last for so long with their low expectations. They don't have enough blankets, enough animal skins from successful hunts. Yew had already perished in the snow after their last search for wood, and it's becoming apparent that the rest will follow suit soon. Blake barely had enough time to take Yew's jacket and blankets from their body before the Gamemakers took them, which left the rest of them in the same miserable situation they'd started in.
Wherever all their sponsors went after that first wave of gifts, Melvin knows they won't be coming back to help the ragtag team.
Blake shifts around, teeth chattering loudly. The tips of her fingers are turning blue, but she refuses to take the gloves Melvin had offered her. He needs his hands for hunting, she'd reasoned. She'll manage just fine with frostbite compared to him. Blake clears her throat as she watches Mason cautiously. "Do you want me to check your eyes?"
Mason looks almost uncomfortable as he hides his face in his jacket. Part of his blanket had been torn up to create a makeshift cover for his eyes, but apparently the pain hasn't gone away much yet. "It's fine," he mumbles. "It'll just hurt again if we rush it."
"They'll send us something to treat it," Melvin chimes in. "Tributes with sponsors never get left with injuries for long."
Dim green eyes look down at frostbitten fingers. Blake shakes her head. "I doubt it, Mel," she sighs. "They'd have sent something for at least one of us by now."
She has a point. But Melvin doesn't want to look away from the bright side. "M—Maybe they can't see us in here? We're pretty deep in the cave, y'know."
Blake just points above them—to the faded red light above. She doesn't need to say anything, proving everything Melvin wants to believe wrong with just one little camera.
"We're a lost cause." Mason covers his whole head with his jacket now. It's a habit Melvin noticed he has, covering his head with something when he becomes anxious. "After Yew died, they gave up on us. You should've stayed with the other Careers."
The words sting, but Mason has a point. Melvin should've stayed with the other Careers, been a good fighter like the Academy trained him to be. But after meeting all these wonderful Tributes—all these actual people—staying with the Careers lost all its appeal. Why go into a game of life or death with what's essentially your bloodthirsty colleagues, when you can go out with the people you grew to care about? Why give up a friendship of a lifetime—no matter how short that lifetime may be—to take a one in five chance of being the top dog?
No. He shouldn't have stayed with the Careers. Despite how much pain they're all in from the cold, he's helped keep everyone here alive just a little bit longer—just as they've helped him with their own skills.
"Fuck the Careers," he says. "What good's a group that always wants to compensate for everything, anyway?"
Mason snorts out a chuckle. Blake smiles.
"I'd rather die with you guys, anyway." Melvin smiles at them. "At least I know neither of you will turn on each other for 'glory'. We're friends, not allies. Not working under a temporary peace treaty."
Mason slowly lowers his jacket. "Friends?"
"If only the Capitol liked the 'prince and the pauper' angle," Blake jokes.
There's a small jingle in the distance, a soft glow of green descending through the snow and coming to a stop just a short distance from the cave entrance. They watch it for a few moments, half expecting someone outside to claim it. But when it just sits there, waiting for its recipient to come forward, Melvin grins.
It's a gift. They haven't been abandoned yet.
"Looks like they do, after all."
Barbara Thisbe, 16, District 6 - The 76th Games
Too heavy. She can't hold on. Her eye hurts too much. Palms are sweating. Slipping, slipping. Why won't Lucy hold on?
Barbara grunts as she tries to pull Lucy up, but the older girl just smiles up at her with guilt. "Lucy, please," Barbara begs. "Don't be stupid—just grab my wrist."
Lucy just shakes her head. "It's not going to work, Barb."
Everything they'd done, all of their accomplishments—it should have worked! Barbara grips Lucy's hand tighter and makes an attempt to pull herself up, but the fingers slip slowly from her grasp. Barbara shrieks and shakes her head.
They did everything Katniss and Peeta did. They played up the star-crossed lovers angle from the moment they met in training. They made it look like they were smitten with each other in their interviews—Caesar even invited Lucy back onstage when Barbara "confessed"! They played it up for the sponsors, even sewed the idea of two victors into their minds and had a petition started in their name. A petition!
So why won't they let them both win now?
Barbara and Lucy never wanted to kill. They just wanted to leave without any blood on their hands, and then the Gamemakers flat out refuse to let them win. If Katniss and Peeta hadn't been taken down by Cato, Barbara and Lucy might've had a chance.
And now look at them. Barbara has the blood of someone's child on her hands, the battle scars to prove it, and Lucy's throwing her own life over a cliff. Both of them deserve to leave. Even the Capitol agrees with that much.
"Lucy," Barbara whines. Lucy's smile falters just for a second, her free hand twitching as though considering grabbing on. But then it goes limp, her content mask back in place.
"I'm scared, too," Lucy says softly. "I've been scared this whole time."
Her fingers slip even more. Barbara can feel the tears breaking through her slashed eye, stinging against her wounds.
"You'd be a better victor than me, anyway. District Two would never appreciate someone who chose to win with love rather than bloodshed."
"We could go to my District." Barbara's arm is starting to hurt, but she won't let go. They'll announce the two of them as winners any minute now. They'll let them both win. "Astrid would love you—"
"She loves you more." Lucy laughs weakly.
Lucy's thumb slips free of her grip. Barbara screams for Lucy to grab her hand, reduced to begging as the pain becomes too much to bear. They may not have actually loved each other the way the Capitol thought they did, but Barbara couldn't live with herself if she let go of Lucy after all they went through. She's not sure what it is, but all the affectionate smiles and reassurance after the trauma of the Games—something other than romance was there. Something good was born in this hellhole.
No one's coming. They're going to either wait for Barbara to let go, or pick up the girl who suffers less fatal injuries if they fall together. All of this was for nothing, no matter how much Barbara wants them both to leave.
And Lucy knows this as well. She's known since the last Tribute attacked them, long before the awaited announcement never came. She was already planning to get Barbara home, too selfless for District 2 and its horde of killers.
Lucy reaches up. Hope flutters in Barbara's heart. "Just grab hold," Barbara gasps. Her chest hurts now, the pain in her arm spreading to her lungs. "I'll pull you up and—"
Lucy gently caresses Barbara's hand. "It's okay to let go, Barb. I want you to."
The hope dies immediately as Lucy's finger and thumb pinch at Barbara's knuckles. Sharp pain shoots through her hand, her fingers flinching against her will, and suddenly Lucy is gone. Down into the depths of the cliff's domain, no longer by Barbara's side.
She can't even pull herself back up, half-dangling over the edge as she waits for Lucy to reappear. Moments pass, all filled with silence. And then it comes, echoing through the air like an alarm.
"Your victor of the Seventy-Sixth Hunger Games: Barbara Thisbe of District Six!"
Charlotte Harper, 18, District 8 - The 94th Games
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Guard the base. Kill intruders.
Charlotte can feel her heartbeat slow to a calm rhythm, easy enough to follow with her count. Absolute calm is a necessity for what she has to do. She can't afford a misstep when so much is riding on this plan.
She lets the wind hit her back as she pulls a bow from her quiver. Her finger, calloused and sore, plucks at the bowstring experimentally. It's moving a little to the left, lightly yet strong enough to throw a lethal shot off course. Charlotte exhales deeply.
She pulls back the bowstring and watches the trees for movement. There's no doubt they'll see her aiming at them, waiting for a signal of where to aim. She knows already. But unnerving them and making them slip up just makes things easier for her.
Her fingers ache as Charlotte waits patiently. She could very easily lose focus here, if not for the mantra she'd forced herself to learn. It's helped her take down six of them so far, with just three more left trying to take her stronghold. There's nowhere else in this arena that has a better viewpoint, nor a more ideal area to snipe Tributes.
They told her to guard the base, so she is. She's guarding her base. Not theirs. Not the alliance's. Hers.
It stopped being a shared base when they left to hunt down other Tributes.
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Incapacitate. Aim for the eye.
There's movement behind her—loud huffs, someone running towards the cornucopia with the stealth of a bull. Charlotte whirls on her feet and lets the arrow loose, praying that her instincts let it fly true.
The girl from 4 flies back onto the ground as the arrow protrudes from her mouth. It's possibly pierced something vital, Charlotte thinks, because she doesn't even get up or make a sound afterwards.
More movement. Charlotte pulls an arrow from her quiver and aims it hurriedly over her shoulder. The boy from 2 zigzags across the field, trying to throw off her aim. Charlotte scowls at him. Her frustration only grows when she hears her original target start to move.
She swears loudly and lets the arrow fly. It hits the boy from 2 in the leg, tripping him to the point of falling over his own feet. Charlotte pulls out two more arrows. She returns to her original target—the girl from 1—and takes aim with a sneer.
The arrow goes through her eye, like she'd intended, but the victory is short-lived when she hears thumps against the cornucopia.
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Keep your cool. Take your time.
She stalks over to the edge and looks down at the boy. He stares back up at her with a mixture of determination and fear in his eyes. He knows he's not likely to make it up before she strikes, but part of him hopes to regardless.
Charlotte takes another bow. She slowly pulls back the bowstring and takes her time finding an ideal body part to shoot. He just remains frozen in place, almost waiting for her to strike him down.
Straight through the eye again, sending him falling to the ground with a slump. Charlotte releases the breath she didn't even know she was holding. She leans her hands on her knees as she tries to recompose herself.
That leaves her with four arrows and one target. There's no point in fetching the rest unless the Gamemakers push her off of the cornucopia. She can go back to the waiting game.
In. Out. In. Out. One. Two. One. Two. Don't overexert. Let them come to you.
Dianne Atreus, 16, District 10 - The 88th Games
Dianne's lucky no one else is around to hear her. She's sure her distressed sobs and grunts would attract attention and get her killed, especially so soon after dodging quite possibly the worst kind of mutt imaginable. If she could just push it off of her and crawl away from its body, she'd be great.
She groans, makes eye contact with eight beady, black eyes, and gags loudly. This is gross, this is gross, this is GROSS.
"Oh geez," Dianne heaves. "Oh geez, ohh geez."
It's all hairy and lanky at the legs, and then that bulbous body—God, Dianne's scared her foot is going to be lodged between its spinnerets and tangled in silk. Why did she have to be attacked by one of these disgusting things? Why did they have to choose spiders to put in the arena? Why did they have to make them the size of cows?
At least she was only attacked by one. From what she's heard further in the arena, someone was attacked by a whole group of them. There'd been hissing at some point, though Dianne isn't sure if it came from the spiders or not. For all she knows there could be other mutts in the arena.
She finally, finally pulls herself out from under the spider. It sags down on the ground as she scuttles backwards, beady eyes still boring into her like it's still alive. Dianne groans and gags again, shaking her hands, her legs, her entire body in an attempt to be rid of the disgusting feeling. If she never lays eyes on a spider ever again in her life, it'll be too soon. Dianne is quick to reach for her bag and take a deep breath to steady herself. She isn't looking at the spider now, hoping to at least keep yesterday's breakfast down for a few hours longer. She can't afford to throw up when there's so little food in the area to eat—and she'll be damned if she eats her own vomit.
There's lines Dianne would be willing to cross, but that is far from one of them.
There's more screams in the distance, abruptly cutting off as more hissing follows. A cannon goes off, signalling the fall of a tribute. Dianne coughs hoarsely. That saves her the trouble of going towards the other mutts, at least.
But now she has the issue of the spider behind her. It's not like the Tributes, who are collected post-mortem; the spiders will be left behind for scavengers or for the elements, waiting to become useful in more ways that killing. Dianne's done her best to stick to her roots—"waste not, want not" killing of livestock—but she's never considered the idea of a giant arachnid being added to that list of livestock. Sure, spiders can be milked for their venom and whatever. No different from a cow or a snake being milked. But it's still unexpected.
She burps, bile threatening to rise as she faces the spider again. It looks like it might be a tarantula, which could work out in her favour. People eat those sometimes. Fry them up and whatnot. It's not ideal, but it's doable.
Dianne inhales deeply. She pulls her knife from her bag and exhales shakily. She'll be okay. It's just a dead spider. No different from a sheep or a cow.
She starts with its legs, and immediately she begins dry heaving again. Clear liquid oozes out from the cuts, coating her hand and making it sticky. The fine hairs along its leg don't make it any easier, and once the section comes off a steady stream of the liquid pours out. It starts to pool around the body, a puddle separating her from the spider. Dianne chokes out a sob. Waste not, want not, she reminds herself.
Her hands shake as she piles some sticks together for a fire. There's plenty around that are dry enough, and she can use some branches to skewer the legs. It starts out as small sparks, barely spreading along the wood as she desperately blows at the embers. Once a small fire starts, she returns to the spider's corpse.
Three legs and a section of the abdomen later, Dianne sits in front of the fire with only a sense of numbness. Her hands are sticky and wrinkled, the slowly cooking limbs almost mocking her as they continue to drip the clear liquid. She did wind up throwing up yesterday's breakfast, though she's proud to have held it in for as long as she did. It was the unfortunate slip through the liquid that sent her head-first into the chunk of opened abdomen that pushed her over the edge. She would've been fine if that hadn't happened.
The firewood pops and crackles, casting embers up into the night sky. Dianne watches them tiredly. She doesn't want to start a forest fire if she can help it. All of this would be worth nothing if she wound up taken down by smoke inhalation and burns.
Dianne's not sure how long she's supposed to cook the limbs for, but she bases her judgement on how much liquid is still oozing out as time passes. The first leg is almost dry and free of the liquid, finally reduced to what she hopes is a jerky-like state. It was bad enough smelling it and touching it—she doesn't want to taste and consume that stuff as well. She yanks the branch out of the ground and stares grimly down at the leg. Hairy, lanky, hairy, lanky; she can't stop chanting the words in her head.
Waste not, want not, she reminds herself. With a trembling lip and hands, she opens her mouth and sinks her teeth into the leg.
Nirav Cashile, 17, District 12 - The 93rd Games
If someone asked Nirav how he made it this far, he'd bring both hands up to his mouth and wave his index fingers about. He'd be laughed at, told that no one speaks "Avox", and then he'd continue on to garble, "'Pi'eh." They'd laugh more and more, but he'll have answered their question by then: He's alive because of spite, and spite alone.
Everything about the past two years has fueled that spite for Nirav. He goes from a budding investigative journalist in the Capitol, looking into some of the more lucrative sides of things to get a headstart, to the label of rebel and having his tongue removed. He's treated like trash, made the slave of the very man he'd tried to expose to the public—and then they send him to the Districts, a slap in the face to both himself and the citizens that "welcomed" him. He replaced then people in District 12, much to the District's disgust, and his loosened leash has granted him zero freedom.
Nirav is still trash to the people. Nirav is still less than dirt to the Capitol. Nirav is worth less to the citizens of District 12. All because he dug his nose too deep at sixteen. It's only natural that he gets things done nowadays through spite.
Even being moved to the Districts and keeping his Avox rights didn't save him from the Hunger Games. He'd hoped that he'd be moved straight into the mines to work—and he was, after a time—but it seems being of Reaping age applies to everyone who enters the Districts. They pull out his name this year, no one volunteers, and he's farewelled by cheers over being sent away.
At least Haymitch tried to treat him like any other Tribute—callously and half-drunk, half-heartedly giving advice. It's a big improvement from the escort remarking, "Only one Tribute from Twelve this year!"
But now his frustration is hitting its tipping point. He's put up with so much in this arena, from the Gamemakers targeting him specifically to Tributes seeking to take out their rage on him. He's just like a mutt to everyone here, an unideal winner to those in the Capitol.
He's tired of it all.
Nirav was lucky enough to snag a crossbow before he fled the cornucopia, though he only succeeded in grabbing three bolts for it in his rush. He's used one already to test the crossbow, quickly losing it in the lake by the edge of the arena. Nirav isn't sure how he'll use the last two, but he's been counting the cannons as they go off. It's just three people left, including himself. He might get lucky again and taken down his opponents with just one bolt each.
He follows the cobblestone path towards the cornucopia, intent on running into someone in the midst of a feast. Nirav wasn't given anything when it was hosted—why would he be?—but everyone else seems to be occupied with their own packages. He could just walk up to one of them and just shoot. They'd be none the wiser, and he wouldn't have to be hunted down by them anymore.
The clearing is coming up, leading to what might possibly be the most insulting thing Nirav's ever seen in an arena. He's seen the garden that looked too beautiful to be murdered in, the sewage system that haunts the dreams of Avoxes like himself. But this wedding reception, the white uniforms they're given—even the bouquets lining the cornucopia—is disgusting. He passes a trellis covered with fabric and flowers, lingers by the long banquet table the feast had been held on. He sneers at it all, until he catches sight of the unfinished champagne resting at one of the seats.
Nirav's never drank before, but he might as well try now if he's going to die. And there's nothing better to start off with than a celebratory drink.
He carries the coupe in one hand, his crossbow still loaded in the other. Just on the other side of the cornucopia should be the wedding arch—and judging by the struggle he can hear nearby, so are the other Tributes. Nirav casually makes his way around, sipping at the champagne experimentally. It tastes dry, for sure, but it's a flavour he doesn't seem to mind. Better than the rations handed out in 12, better than the scraps he was given in the Capitol.
Once he makes it around the corner, he spots the two struggling against each other. The one with the upper hand—the girl from 8, her wedding dress torn and tattered with blood and dirt coating her skirt—is holding down the poor young boy from 2, whose face is slowly turning blue as she continues to strangle him. Nirav hums and leans against the cornucopia, watching blankly as he takes another sip of the champagne.
"Hey, Tongueless," the girl greets him. He nods in acknowledgement, watching the pleading look in the boy's eyes as he spots Nirav. "You're just in time to witness me win. Didn't think I'd make it this far, y'know?"
Nirav shrugs. The life is slowly fading from the boy's eyes, slipping into the depths.
"Sorry they didn't want to let you win, by the way." The girl grunts as she presses down harder. "You'd totally be a hit with the Capitol if it weren't for the whole rebel thing."
He doubts that.
"At least we had fun, yeah?"
Nirav shrugs. He keeps his gaze on the boy, watching as the struggling hands start to go limp and fall to his sides. Soon enough the cannon fires, and the girl lets him go with a relieved grin.
"The victor of the Ninety-Third—"
He raises the crossbow and fires the bolt. With a loud thunk, the bolt hits the girl in the back of the head and throws her violently to the ground. She doesn't get up again, the announcers left speechless as the seconds pass.
Nirav downs the rest of his champagne in one go. He throws the coupe to the ground, shattering it, and wipes his mouth with his sleeve. They're not going to announce his victory. If anything, they'll mourn the tragic death of their "true" victor, shunning Nirav further. He doesn't care, though. He knows the truth, just like he always has.
Nirav Cashile, the unrecognised winner of the 93rd Games. It has a ring to it.
And that's the mentors! We'll be moving on to the Capitol now, and luckily those reapings will only be six chapters. Who's excited to get closer to the Games? Because I sure am!
QQ #9: Which mentor was your favourite from this batch, and why?
I'll see you all in the Capitol, where our first two Tributes await!