Chapter Seventeen

The sun had all but set by the time the three boys felt they were perched high enough, and the temperature in the Arena was definitely dropping at an unnatural rate. Minho had drawn an identical sleeping bag to Thomas's from his own pack and had already ensconced himself in it. He was propped against the trunk of the tree two over from Thomas and Newt, just within line of sight. Not that they could guarantee that would be the case once darkness truly fell.

The light was fading much slower than the temperature, probably designed to allow the tributes the greatest length of time possible to slaughter each other before night fell. It made Thomas feel both incredibly angry and a little helpless, and if he spent a little too long checking Newt was secure in the tree beside him then who could blame him?

He twisted this way and that to remove everything he was carrying from his, taking a bit of a gamble by hooking his bow and quiver on a shorter branch near his head. He should have plenty of time to reach it if they were found, and he'd have a pretty good chance of using it, unless the attacker was an archer, in which case he'd be at a disadvantage anyway. He could only hope that Teresa didn't come across them. She was the only archer he knew of, none of the others had gone near a bow on the Training Days. Not that that meant they couldn't use one. Thomas sighed as he opened his rucksack. Thinking of all the different ways they could die, and all the different tributes who looked like they could kill him was just too much for his head. He was tiring already, and they hadn't even made it to nightfall just yet. Stifling a yawn, he pulled the rolled-up sleeping bag from the pack, handing it to the quiet blonde beside him. Newt looked at him with his familiar frown, and Thomas sighed. Newt was going to argue, of course.

"This is yours." he whispered predictably.

Thomas shot him a half-smile and tipped his chin towards the bundle of thin material.

"It's ours," he corrected with a smile. "and anyway, you're the one who gets cold in the Summer."

"But Tommy-"

"Just get in it, shuck-face."

Newt rolled his eyes at being cut off but surprisingly did as he was told. It was a slow and awkward process and Thomas helped him, both of them growing bizarrely amused and stifling giggles. By the time they had him cocooned in the weird camouflage material it was getting cold and the sun was truly gone. Newt wriggled dangerously, tucking himself up against Thomas's side. They had used the odd hook-ended ropes to wrap around their waists and secure themselves to the branches beneath them, and although it restricted movement quite substantially it made the clawing fear in Thomas's stomach abate somewhat.

Thomas had his back against the trunk, his rucksack hooked over his chest instead. Newt's smaller pack was zipped into his sleeping bag with him, at his feet. Thomas had teased Newt about the length of sleeping bag still left once he was inside and Newt had huffed. It wasn't his fault he was slight, and Thomas had ruffled his hair to make up for it. Although Newt had batted at him and called him a girl, Thomas hadn't missed the way those amber-brown eyes warmed, or the slight pink in his cheeks. He had smiled at Newt as the blonde squirmed, looking like a boy-sized caterpillar. Newt shot him an unamused glare when he sniggered, deliberately banging his head against the soft part under Thomas's arm.

Eventually they were settled, the bout of mirth gone. The evening was coming to life around them. Thomas had his arm around Newt, holding him to his side and telling himself it was only so that the blonde wouldn't fall from their little nest. Newt had twisted to his side and now lay with his head on Thomas's lower stomach, curls in the crease where Thomas's body folded as he sat. The forest was quiet around them, the only sounds in the following hours gentle birdsong and the scuffle of unknown animals in the brush. Dusk was fading into true night as Thomas drifted into a light, unsettled sleep. He jerked awake every ten minutes or so with the faux feeling of falling. Still, even cat naps were better than no naps, right?

Newt was asleep, the gentle rise and fall of his chest soothing Thomas. His shallow breaths puffed against Thomas's hand where it lay near Newt's face, and Thomas's thumb absently brushed the pale cheek as he dozed. One pale hand had escaped the edge of the sleeping bag and the fingers curled gently in the material of Thomas's jacket, making Thomas feel warm and fond, a feeling that fought the growing coldness in his limbs.

His legs were numb when he was forced awake by the booming sound and for a second of pure terror Thomas had no idea where he was. He blinked awake in the darkness knowing Mary would kill him if she knew he'd been in the forest after sunset. He could see the faint white of his breaths in the air and shivered, waking properly. And then Newt was stirring against him, trying to sit up, and it all came back and for a dizzying moment he wanted to cry. The cannon boomed again and this time he knew what it was, looking up at the blank sky as the red lights flickered and feel across the surface like fireworks.

"We made it to Midnight." Newt murmured softly, covering a yawn with his hand.

Thomas didn't reply, just squeezing Newt gently in a one-armed hug and keeping his gaze on the sky. How many of them had died today? He tried counting the bangs but was almost sure he'd missed count somewhere.

15? 16?

The rectangle he was waiting for flickered to life, a small female face filling one half. The other had text. The image wavered in the sky like a flag in a gentle breeze and somehow made it even more awful as the faces of the dead appeared and the haunting Capitol anthem began to play.

With horror in his heart Thomas watched.

The Tech-Science district had lost a girl called Sasha who looked fifteen and sweet, her hair in two short braids that twisted Thomas's stomach.

A boy with a mop of black curls called Ethan had died too.

Left with two.

The Textiles&Clothing district had almost been killed off already.

Two boys and a girl dead.

That makes three.

Luxury Foods&Items.

A boy and a girl, both looking thirteen at most.

Five.

Their own district of Agriculture, as it was officially called, skipped past without mention.

No deaths.

Teresa and Brenda are still alive out there.

The thought was comforting and saddening at the same time.

The Masonry district, also known for Athletics and Strength was skipped too.

Minho's district.

No deaths.

The Lumber district had lost both girls, both around eighteen and their expressions empty in the blank sky.

Fifteen left.

The Fishing district had lost two tributes, again a boy and a girl.

The dead boy had had a thin scar down his cheek and an ancient, rugged look even though he could only have been sixteen. The girl was lean and her eyes were fiery in her neutral face.

Seventeen left.

Both female tributes from the Mining district dead, sallow skinned girls with blank eyes for whom life had always been hard.

Nineteen.

The same went for the Medical district. Two more girls dead. The Arena was dominated by a male population this year. It seemed more uneven than usual, but not unheard of.

Twenty-One tributes.

The Power district had met the same fate as Textiles, with a single male tribute surviving so far.

Twenty-Two.

Livestock was the same, two dead girls around seventeen and a boy who looked as mean as shuck and must have been twelve even though he looked ten.

Twenty-Three.

Transport lost a girl and a boy.

Twenty-Five.

The girl made Thomas's heart stop. Even though he'd been waiting for it he wasn't prepared for the forceful surge of guilt, the sting of grief.

Melody.

Her name had been Melody.

Thomas balked as the last face faded the closing anthem played and the rectangle faded back into the blank midnight sky. Quiet settled like a possessive blanket, filling their ears as they breathed it in.

He felt her face burning behind his eyelids when he blinked, her pale blue eyes staring into his head, into his soul as his heart hammered awfully in his chest.

He'd killed her.

He'd done it.

He'd put her face up there just as surely as the GameMakers had and he felt sick all over again.

A rush of anger burned amongst the guilt like a fire amongst oil.

Forty-eight teenagers had come up in those glass tubes, several barely old enough to be in the corrals at all.

Forty-eight.

And now there were twenty-five left.

Twenty-shucking-five.

Forty-eight kids - for that's they were when it came down to it, wasn't it? - had stepped off their little platform circles when the Cannon for the BloodBath rang out and twenty-three of them were already dead.

Because of some stupid Capitol decree made by people who were long dead to punish other people who were long dead for the crime of speaking up when they were treated unfairly.

Twenty-three sons and daughters who wouldn't be going home ever again. Twenty-three families had lost a child. And he had taken one of them away from the family who waited for her, who watched over her.

Melody.

Thomas closed his eyes as the sky faded, tears falling unbidden. Newt looked up when one landed in his hair, his face troubled and then upset when he found the source. He drew nearer as Thomas cried, his own eyes gleaming with a wet sheen. He pressed close and comforted Thomas as the younger boy sat there, tears falling silently.

He knew, of course, why Thomas was crying. The same reasons his own eyes were wet. But he hadn't had to take a life yet. Thomas had. Thomas was the reason one of those girls had her face flickering in the sky, one of the Hovercraft claiming her body. He murmured as softly as he could into Thomas's jacket, not really paying attention to what he was saying, only that it was calming Thomas. The brunette gripped him tightly and Newt let him.

Eventually they both fell asleep, restless and unhappy, plagued by the nightmare of seeing their own faces in the night sky, each other's.

They weren't disturbed until the pink pre-dawn was warming the sky.

Newt heard them first.