Chapter Fifty: The Ragged Edge

Still Night Two

Odysea Davos, District Eleven Female

Thomiah offered to guard for the rest of the night so I could get some sleep, but I know I'm not sleeping. Not tonight. Possibly not ever again.

I just killed someone. Indirectly, but still.

I didn't know them very well, but they were my ally. They had a voice, hopes, dreams, and people who cared about whether they lived or died. And all that's been taken away because of one mistake on my part.

Will I forgive myself? Maybe. It's the unfortunate truth of these Games that she had to die if I was making it out alive. But I played a part in her death, there's no denying that. And it was far too early from both an emotional and strategic standpoint. Now, everything's become that much harder for the two of us that remain.

Screw it. There's no point to lying in this stupid bed if I'm not going to sleep in it. Might as well see if Thomiah's faring any better.

I slink outside with only a knife on hand, hoping Thomiah isn't facing some kind of threat I'm unaware of. Fortunately for me, he's not, and he doesn't stab me on reflex when he sees me. We're off to a great start.

"Can't sleep?"

"Of course not," I reply. "I think I'm just going to tough this one out. You okay with that?"

"Why would I have a problem with that? Deal with this in a way that works for you."

The only problem with that is I'm not sure how in the hell I'm supposed to deal with something like this. With an involuntary shudder, I remember that if I have to win, I'm going to have to deal with this again. Several times more, even. No wonder just about every victor gets screwed up after they leave. If they have to deal with shit like this, or even worse…

I don't want to think about it right now. Maybe I'm better off ditching the arrows for now and trying to work with something that doesn't require great aim to use. I'll go look inside for something: we have just about every weapon known to man in there, something will fit the bill.

I hurry back inside, then begin searching the various hidey-holes that we stored everything in just in case we get raided or something. Sure, at the end of the day if some other tribute wants to find stuff, they'll find stuff, but at the very least we can make it very inconvenient for them. That'll put a damper on anyone who just wants to run in and get an easy score.

I pick up and try a few weapons as I search. The twin to the sickle Thomiah wields stowed behind the shower curtain reminds me of home, but it's a little bigger and heavier than I'd like and the last thing I need is to miss an attack due to bad depth perception. The scythe on top of the cabinets feels a lot better; it's lighter and faster even if its range is smaller, so I'll probably be more effective utilizing that. Still, I keep looking, just in the event that I find something that works even better than that. Two knives hidden under Thomiah's mattress look tempting, but I end up leaving them where they are, the scythe has better range.

Then I move the mattress where Artesia used to sleep. And that's when I find it.

It's a simple enough notebook: solid black exterior, no bells, no whistles. "My Journal, The Third," is written on the front in neat penmanship. A single black pen lies next to it, the cheap kind my school provides us to write with, should the need arise. The journal's closed now, but considering where I found it, I don't think it would take a genius to figure out who it belonged to.

For a single, sickening moment, I'm tempted to look at it. Thankfully, I choke it back. Artesia might not be around to stop me—

And my brain has come to a screeching halt once more. "Just. Stop. Okay?"

If she hid it under the bed, chances were she didn't want anyone else to see it. Only problem then is, why wasn't it taken with her body? Especially for something like this, shouldn't it have been sent back to her family? Or at the very least, shipped off to the Capitol to be stored in a museum or something equally unpleasant?

Maybe I should tell Thomiah about this. I doubt he knows what to do about it, but one can hope.

Back outside again. The night's still somewhat warm, Thomiah still doing the same rounds as before. Once more, it doesn't take long for him to notice me. "Anything you need to tell me?"

"Kind of," I say. "Apparently, Artesia kept a journal of some kind. And the Gamemakers didn't collect it with her corpse, so…"

I'm cut off by the beginning of the Capitol Anthem, as its logo lights up the sky. The two of us look up anyway, even though we know half of the people on it already.

Before Artesia gets shown, the boy from Seven's face fills the sky. Well, that means he was the cannon this afternoon. I can't remember that much about him, but he wasn't a Career nor part of the other big alliance, so I don't think I really needed to. Then, even though both of us knew it was coming, Artesia's face in the sky hurts once more. It hovers there for a few agonizing seconds, then the Capitol's logo replaces it and everything goes silent and dark once more.

"We'll remember her, just like we'll remember Faolan," Thomiah said. "It's okay. If one of us lives, she won't be forgotten."

"I'll make sure of that," I say. The latter, of course, not the former. I wish I could guarantee the former part for one of us, but nothing even close to that is a given in the Hunger Games. But the latter part's enough for now.

I'm sorry for what happened, Artesia. When we meet again, I hope you can forgive me.

Toren Laris, District Nine Female

I'm feeling nothing and everything all at once.

The last two days have been little more than a blur of fear and nightmares. Every sound's a Career out to kill me, every slumber an exercise in terror. I've gotten precious little sponsored to me and don't have much to my name. It feels like all the good luck I've ever had throughout my life has been coming back to haunt me right now, maybe the universe feels like evening things out.

I managed to get a few hours of fitful sleep so far tonight, but that's about it. I can't expect much more, not when the ground's so uncomfortable and my brain's being racked with horrific thoughts of my untimely demise. Moving now doesn't seem like a good idea either, though. I'm not sure what direction the Cornucopia's in, it'd be too easy to stumble into their camp without realizing it.

Time to sit and wait for morning. At least then I'll be able to see what I'm doing, and maybe whatever freaky thoughts that have been racing through me for the past I don't know will leak out.

So I wait. And I wait. And I wait some more.

Except for a slight breeze, nothing makes any noise, and I don't see any other tributes, either. I guess I'm the only nocturnal one around here. Wait, what would you call something that stays up at all hours? I'm sure there's a name for that, and thinking about it might be so boring that it puts me to sleep!

Except it doesn't, and I can't think of a name for it either. A failure on both accounts. If there exists a better metaphor for my performance thus far, I don't know about it.

Maybe I shouldn't be so negative. I am alive, after all, and that can at least be considered a success in some form. Eight other tributes didn't make it this far. I might be one of the lucky ones.

Never mind, I recant that. I'm fine with being a cynic, at least for now. It fits the Games.

That's something I never hoped to say, but as usual, hope has no place in the Hunger Games.

Catarina Lynn, District Five Female

When I wake before sunrise, the moon sinking towards the peaceful horizon, I get my first concrete evidence that Spark's gone.

Not gone in the physical sense: he's still here, still carrying a weapon, and can even still talk to some extent. Unfortunately, that doesn't cancel out the fact that right now, he's engaged in an intense conversation with what I'm pretty confident is a bush. On top of that, he shifts voices at least once during that conversation (maybe he's simulating the bush talking back, but the odds of him being willing to or even capable of sharing his intentions are slim) and what little bits and pieces I can glean from said conversation make about as much sense as a hat made of pancakes (which my siblings have tried to make more than once, unfortunately).

I'm not sure if trying to talk with him will just fuel his delusions further, so I just take the simplest option and tap him on the shoulder. He whirls around in an almost cartoonish manner, then changes his expression into a smile so big it looks primed to rip his face wide open.

"Wow! I didn't expect to see you awake at this early hour, Catarina," Spark says, the statement surprisingly normal. Unfortunately, things degenerate quickly from there. "For you see, there aren't any alarm clocks here because we don't have the supplies to build them, though I'm guessing we had them back in District Five considering what we make and all that. Funny story, there was this one girl in class whose dad owned a factory for something like that and our class took a tour of it one day, and we saw one of the workers burn his hand with corrosive acid. Painful, right? Although, I guess pain is relative so painful isn't exactly a great term to describe it…" He just goes on and on and on, his rambling incoherent but at least sane for now. He's not going off about how the world's secretly being ruled by a trio of capitalism-hating unicorns from Neptune or that I've been etched with a demonic symbol that'll drag me down to hell when I die, just trivial nonsense. But still, I'm seriously worried that if I listen to this for too long my brain might overload and I'll die from spontaneous combustion.

Is it bad that that might actually be preferable to what I think might happen to me?

Calm down, Catarina. Being a cynic isn't helping anyone. Don't be reactive, be proactive. Maybe spend some time figuring out what's making him tick!

"Oh, Spark," I say with extra emphasis on each syllable, not caring that it's probably irrelevant to whatever he was saying. "Do you have any opinions on District Five that you'd like to share?"

Spark, surprisingly, complies. At first, anyway. "Well, the air's kind of hard to breathe sometimes and I'm constantly stressed because getting a job is really hard, but it is home. Home is where the heart is, isn't that how the statement goes? I think so. I've never been the best with sayings, I can barely memorize those tiny poems I needed for English class, although the really weird and complex words I had to know to get that working probably didn't help. English has never been my strongest subject, anyway…"

Well, that's a start. Time for test two. "Well, in that case, what is your favorite subject?"

"There was this one weird engineering class last year that I really hated at the start but loved at the end, but overall, I kind of have to say math. Numbers just kind of work for me. I doubt that's how it goes for everyone, though, because there were way too many instances of someone breaking down crying and leaving the room during the exam in my last class. I've always been fine with tests, but I get why people aren't, it's a stressful experience! Then again, just living is a stressful experience if you think about it too hard, oh wait, wouldn't thinking too hard also cause stress? That kind of seems like a really vicious cycle…"

He's still going on, but at the very least, I think I got what I came for. I can't control much about Spark's output anymore, but there's enough of him left that I can steer him in the right direction. As long as I cut him off before he falls down the rabbit hole when I have questions for him, I should be relatively fine. Good to know.

I'm not going back to sleep with the chatterbox next to me going on and on, not when every tribute within a five-mile radius can probably hear his monologuing. Might as well get up and get moving. Maybe I can find something useful that way.

"Spark, come on. I'm moving, let's go."

Then comes the noise. It's not a loud noise, or even something that would really merit attention back home. Just this weird, faint buzzing that reminds me somewhat of the hum of a radio on static. Probably something I should fear, but considering the state I'm in, it might be better if I just face it now.

But then it fades. That's good. I'd rather face problems on my terms, at least if I can.

And then Spark breaks into the most off-key singing that I have ever heard in my life, and the time has come to get the hell out of here. I think the Careers will actually avoid us now because they'll think we're doing that to lure them into some kind of trap, but the slightly lower-power, more desperate tributes? If a single one of them gets here, we might be screwed.

On that cheerful note, I'm off to the races, marching through the darkened woods with Spark tailing me, horrendous singing filling the air.

Rhaemyr North, District Three Male

The sun lies just below the horizon when I begin to hear the buzzing.

At first, I discounted the noise as nothing more than an odd-sounding breeze. But then it started getting louder and the breeze stopped altogether, and I began taking notice of it.

Without a doubt, the time has come to leave this area. Whatever that buzzing can be attributed to likely isn't something I want to face right now.

Hefting my bag of stolen Cornucopia supplies over my shoulder, I begin to move at a brisk walk. Fast enough that I can cover some distance, but slow enough that I might be less likely to catch the attention of something looking for motion. The buzzing begins to lower in volume for a while as I walk, then picks up again for a few seconds before the process starts to repeat.

Keep walking. The noise follows the same loop, only when it picks up this time, I swear it's coming from more than one direction. I whirl around to try and figure out its source, but it's still too dark to see properly.

Now I walk more slowly, trying to subtly shift my bag so I can reach into it for a weapon. The odds of me skewering my hand in the process are nonzero, but I'd rather be armed if there's a mutt or two about to break down the door.

I fumble through the bag as I walk, somehow managing to close my hand around the handle of what I think is a sword before yanking it out of the bag, unfortunately letting it drop to the floor in the process. It makes a loud banging noise that I'm sure every nearby tribute can hear, and the last thing I need right now is to attract attention when I have so much on me.

Keeping the sword at my side becomes a requirement in a hurry. While calling it radiant is a ridiculous overstatement, it still reflects enough light that it might as well be a beacon in the middle of the woods. If I was trying to lure people over, that'd be fine. Unfortunately…

More buzzing. From more directions. And somehow it's overhead now. It's pretty obvious right now I'm being surrounded by… something, I don't really want to imagine what at the moment, but it's getting me worried. I'm half-tempted to scream at these things to just face me head-on already, but again, I don't want to lure someone else over here. Just because I have weapons now doesn't mean I know anything about how to use them, that was always Frenzy's job back home.

I swing the sword at nothing a few times, trying to get a feel for the weight so I'll be able to aim the thing a little better when the time inevitably comes.

Shit. I just saw movement in front of me, but it was so fast I can't even begin to guess what it came from. I back up, extend the sword in front of me, ready to attack...

Then the first rays of sunlight reach me, starting to change the world's monochrome hue into something a bit more vibrant, and allowing me to catch just enough of the creatures harassing me to realize that there is no way in hell I'm fucking fighting these things. I'm running like hell and hoping for the best. And don't call me a coward, you would have run too.

Nothing should be covered in that much blood.

Author's Notes:

-I'm back with a new chapter. Shorter one this time because I was having trouble filling up space and the last thing I needed was to have a chapter feel like pointless filler. Although, I wonder what that new threat could be?

-Hope you enjoyed this chapter, and see you next chapter!