Chapter Thirty-Four

Thomas knew he'd switch places in a heartbeat. The thought of Newt suffering made it hard to breathe, made their fight feel a little more pointless. He was holding him as close as Newt would let him, murmuring softly to him when he jerked and groaned, brushing his hair from his face as it grew damp and heavy with sweat. He ignored the way Minho was glancing at him, the worried side looks Aris was giving him.

He stood and he murmured and he worried for what felt like forever as they stared off across the Arena and listened as the screaming began dying down, as the blood-chilling clicking and snapping seemed to fade. They could see no more figures, hear no more running.

They were silent and still for forever, saving the strength they had in case one of those things decided it really did want to come in to the water. One had passed by, the last one they'd seen come from the trees, and it had moved at their awful slap-crawl, clicking and whirring. They didn't seem to have faces yet it still seemed that the thing looked over at them in the darkness.

It didn't leave the solid grass, not even to move onto the softer soil that led to the sand that led to the water. But it felt like it stared them down for every long minute as it passed, sending dark chills up Thomas's spine and making him feel like something terrible was coming.

He could only hope that they hadn't ticked the Capitol off themselves.

But how could they have?

They'd participated as little as possible so far, and while that would be a reason to target them later on it didn't mean anything in the beginning days.

Right?

Maybe someone had found a weakness in something the Capitol had sent. Maybe someone had managed to get something through from their sponsors that shouldn't have gotten through.

Maybe someone had found an outer edge and used it to their advantage. They didn't like seeing people use the aggressive forcefield to their own ends, no matter how entertaining the results may be.

Maybe it was a paranoia because they'd sent one of their monsters into the Arena so quickly.

Maybe it was because his best friend was beginning the most horrific process the GameMakers had ever devised.

Whatever it was it made the Arena seem even more dangerous now, as if such a thing were even possible.

Thomas was reminded forcefully that there were worse things that could happen to a tribute than death.

"OoooowWW!"

Thomas felt his heart twisting.

"Hey, Newt, it's okay. I'm here man. I'm here."

"T-Tommy it- it- aaarghh!"

He held him in a hug, as careful as he could be of that awful wound while giving him as much comfort as he could. Newt groaned and sobbed into the crook of his neck. He had no idea what they were going to do when the screaming started. How did you keep that quiet?

He looked at Minho and Minho looked back.

He didn't expect sympathy, he didn't expect Minho to care. Of course not. That'd be ridiculous and incredibly unhelpful anyway. But Thomas began to feel the least confident he had since he'd stepped into that glass tube. So far everything had been geared towards keeping Newt safe. They'd been doing okay, for Gladers.

Hadn't they?

They'd had a system worked out. They had access to food, access to water. They'd had two allies and a bow and the trees to hide in. They'd been surviving without as much of the horror he had seen year after year.

He had seen Games where the Arena was practically barren, a sun-scorched sandy expanse with few water sources and less food. To say that year's viewing had been brief was an understatement. The Gladers hadn't even bothered running. One had entered the BloodBath and fought, the other had simply sat down on his platform circle and awaited their attentions.

Thomas had watched with everyone else and a part of him had been unable to be as angry as his district felt, how much they felt like their immediate surrender was a slight to the district, to their families.

Because he'd looked at it all and wondered what point there could have been to doing so.

It had been agonising to be be forced to sit there, day after day.
Most of the tributes who died after the BloodBath were from exposure and dehydration.
Starvation nearly took out the Victor.

And he had been plagued by nightmares.

Because if watching them die in there was an ordeal, could anybody truly imagine what it had felt like to be there?

He didn't expect Minho to understand. He knew the boy wouldn't be able to. They'd known him so briefly, a sum total of hours that just didn't cut it.

But he felt helpless. And although he'd been terrified and in an almost perpetual state of panic and worry since they had arrived at least he'd had a solid plan in his head to cling to. Newt's survival. He'd had the blonde to look at, catching his eye and passing him a smile that was reassuring. Rolling his eyes at him and calling him out on his softened disposition when it came to the blonde. He been able to leave Newt in the tree and… and neutralise the threats to his life.

He'd been able to do something.

And now?

Now he was going to have to watch Newt fall apart under the influence of that horrid blue venom. He was going to have to watch it tear apart his best friend, the boy that he'd die for, the boy that he loved.

How would he prevent Newt from bringing other tributes running when he screamed in pain?

How was he going to make sure Newt didn't hurt himself when it took proper hold?

How was he going to be strong enough to watch Newt forget who he was, forget who Thomas was, and still keep him from the clutches of the other tributes? From himself?

He'd seen tributes take out opponents who had been stung, and it wasn't always because they were a threat. He'd seen years with tributes like themselves, who weren't Careers, weren't in it for the glory of the kill and the triumph of the win, who were there because they had been unlucky enough to be sacrificed. He'd seen them give poisonous substances over, seen them try to find a way to kill them and save them from the pain.

He'd watched the Games every year of his life and it wasn't the victorious kills or vicious triumphs he remembered most.

It was the mercy.

He'd seen a girl die because she had put herself in danger to give a TrackerJack victim the easiest way out. She had witnessed the stinging. Had seen it because he'd been hunting her when it happened. He'd had two - or it might have been three - wounds just like the one Newt had now. She had escaped the attack, had been doing okay avoiding her opponents. They were down to just a meagre handful. It was looking like it might be three days and it would be over. It even looked like it could be sooner than that.

She'd been called Ella, he remembered. A tiny thing from the Fishing district who had spent her free hours as a child perfecting how to shoot fish with a bow because it was a trick her father had been able to do to entertain her. The little things you learned about a tribute as you watched them in the Arena could be such painful reminders of their lives, of the fact that they were just children still.

She hadn't been the youngest in the Arena but she'd been the smallest by miles, and had stayed safe by flitting about and hiding in places the larger tributes wouldn't fit.

And she had heard his screaming, and she had given him the poison her sponsors had sent her for tipping her arrows. She had kept hold of him while he spasmed and died, so much quicker than he would have from the venom. She had held him until he died, crying all the while.

A perfect stranger.
An opponent who had tried to kill her.
A boy she didn't know, a boy she had been sent into the Arena to kill and triumph over.

And she had ended it for him when he was past the point of being able to do it himself.

And she had been found and killed by Careers for her trouble.

Her death had been a tragedy just like so many others he had seen on that screen. And yet Ella had stuck with Thomas, and others like her, so few and far between.

Because moments like that were proof the proud tradition of the Hunger Games was a sham, a vicious and cruel punishment for something nobody alive had even witnessed happen.

He looked down at Newt's face. He pushed his soaking fringe from his eyes with gentle fingers and he watched the pained grimace as it squirmed on his features. He felt his weight against him. He felt the grip of Newt's fingers digging into his back, clutching at him as he whimpered and burned up. He saw the sweat rolling off of him, could see the dark, frightening patch growing on his shirt from the monster's cruel strike and he could feel the strength they had both been clinging to ebb away.

He'd stand watch when the screaming started and alerted the others.

He'd kill for him.

He'd die for him.

But would he have Ella's strength, would he be able to show that same mercy when it was past the point of no return?