Nothing makes sense any more. There are people talking around me, the buzzing, droning of their words like strange insects, but I can't understand it. The strange warmth, the unfamiliar smell of the person holding me as my body shakes uncontrollably, heaving and sobbing for an unfathomable time. Twice, the old panic swells and I try again to fight my way free of the restraints, clawing and biting and kicking, though the strong arms don't budge and I subside to my shaking, trying to rationalize what I have seen, begging for the monster to come crawling out of the shadows of my mind to take control and let my weaker side rest. For once it doesn't come when bidden.
Silver lights float in front of my eyes and I try to reach out a hand to grab them. Maybe they can lead me to where Balia has gone. More humming words and the pressure behind me eases, leaves me free to move again, though the weight is still there, supporting my body. Smaller hands clasp my own from the front, squeezing gently, the buzzing words slowly but surely resolving themselves as I recognize the face. Beetee. I let him pull me forward, holding me while I cry as the warmth disappears behind me. The strong arms return to pull me to my feet and I turn to find Glory Winchester, his arms and face streaked with bloody wounds from my teeth and nails. He doesn't seem to notice them as he helps support me and Beetee both to the nearest couch. Someone tries to give me a drink but my hands are shaking too much to grasp it. Someone else holds it to my mouth and helps me take a sip, then another, though I choke on the third and end up coughing it back up.
Seeder wipes my face with her sleeve and returns the glass to my lips, her hand gently resting on my head, forcing it back slightly as I drink again. Behind me I can hear laughter, raised voices, loud and angry, a sharp crack and a whining yell that fades into the distance. More faces come into view, Diya and Cupros, Mags, who is rubbing her hand. Even Terentius from Two, who offers to help Glory and Beetee carry me to the lift. Someone gives me a tablet and I swallow it, a part of me hoping that it's poison. Unfortunately I wake up in my own bed some hours later, though not alone judging by the nasal snoring coming from the chair.
Cupros grunts awake when I accidentally knock the water glass off the bedside table with a crash. He offers me a pull of his hip flask, which I wave away, then drains the last of it himself before helping me out of bed.
"It's the last thing you want to do, I know," he says as I sit back down on the smooth silk sheets, shaking my head at his urgent tugging. "Beetee was able to chase them off for a bit, but we've been told you have to face up as soon as possible."
I try to reply that I'm not sure I can, but even these simple words are too much to cross the rebuilt barrier in my mind. Shaking my head again, this time trying to clear it, I try even single words, but they too are stuck. Finally I get out "Red."
With some gestures I get the message through and he rummages through my belongings until he finds the little red case that holds the last three tablets of that dissociative drug. I feel some of the weight slipping away from my mind as it takes effect, though I'm still limited to two-to-three word runs. Even my usual trick of writing my words out, memorizing them and reciting them back as though reading fails, blocking any hope of holding a semi-coherent conversation.
They put me in front of the cameras on the Training Center steps anyway. I reply to the throng of questions with one word answers, completely ignoring the ones asking about where I think my sister's strategy went wrong or who I'm rooting for to win now that she is dead. To my surprise Gloria chases them all away after a quarter hour and leads me back inside, summoning helpers to bring me food and water and something to wipe my face. She stands over me, forcing me to eat and even speaks to the Games production staff on my behalf, who grudgingly allow Beetee to 'assist' me for my outgoing interview with Caesar Flickerman, which is postponed until the next morning.
I sleep another night of dreamless sleep and in the morning I let the two men get on with the talking, adding appropriate head nods or shakes where necessary, still in my drugged haze of apathy. On the large screen behind them I can see the Games still going on. Somehow the pair from Twelve have managed to force their way through the supposedly impenetrable hedge and are peering over a steep cliff. After a brief discussion they agree to split their alliance, presumably because they don't want to end up fighting each other, though Maysilee mutters mutinously under her breath as she stalks away. Something about her district partner missing the point of what they were trying to achieve, though the microphones which usually detect every whisper seem oddly muted. Haymitch apparently ignores her, kicking absently at pebbles while scratching his head as the split screen shows her throwing one last longing glance over her shoulder.
Out of nowhere a flock of birds descend, batting at her face with their large pink wings and jabbing at her exposed skin with long, pointed beaks. She tries to swat them away with her blowpipe until the tube cracks and she flails madly with her arms, screaming desperately to Haymitch for help as she tries to shield her face and neck. She brings down two of them that go after her unprotected legs with solid kicks and grabs another two by their heads and swings them sharply to the side, cracking their necks. The remaining two flit upwards momentarily, then drop to flank her as her former ally appears on the edge of the screen, running full pelt to save her despite their agreed ending of their alliance.
The bird behind her buffets her ear with its wings and the moment she turns to snatch it and twist its neck the other darts forward, ramming its long, pointed beak through the side of her neck. I clench my fists, dimly remembering the feeling of my knife as it sunk into Jasper's neck to cause a nearly identical wound. Beside me Caesar Flickerman gasps as Haymitch futilely throws his knife at the killing bird then drops to his knees, trying in vain to stem the bleeding with his bare hands.
Our interview is pronounced over and we are quickly ushered from the stage as Caesar prepares to discuss this newest and more interesting development. I must doze off in the car because I wake in my bed in the Training Centre, mouth dry and head throbbing. As I blink awake, sporadic memories of the previous morning flood in, the sharp pain of them no longer dulled by the drugs. For a while I debate whether there's a point in getting up at all. The brightest light in my life is now gone and nothing I ever do will be as important as she was to me. If I just stay in this bed I won't have to go out and face the thousands of people who are likely cheering for my sister's murderer. I won't have to face my family back in Three, won't have to tell them how my own stupidity got their baby girl hacked into ten separate pieces, her face so brutally mutilated that it's not even recognizable as human. Won't have to go back to a little brother who adored my sister even more than I did. Until two years ago Balia was Malcy's entire life. Even now the rest of us that crept into his awareness were still on the edges of his world that revolved around our sister. How can I possibly look into those innocent seven-year-old eyes and tell him that Balia is never coming back to sing with him again.
I've firmly decided on living out the rest of my life under these blankets when the TV flicks on. Mandatory viewing, which is dealt with here by pre-programming the units to broadcast. I try to turn away, eyes closed, facing the wall but that darker part of me finally swims back to the surface, too curious to know and I give in and roll over. The disjointed sounds which piqued my curiosity resolve into two separate parallel storylines—the soon-to-be meeting between the remaining tributes from District One, and the steady migration of a pack of those carnivorous squirrels from the northern end of the forest towards Ytter's tree-fort near the south-western edge.
The fight happens first, the sudden brawl erupting as Garnet tries to sneak up on his former district partner but crunches a twig underfoot when he's five feet away. The flurry of blows leaves Amber bleeding from narrow scratches along her jaw and upper arm and Garnet gurgling through the gaping wound in his chest. He gasps out a slurred word that might be "please", his eyes begging her to end the pain but she just stands over him and laughs as she watches him die. Suddenly I'm struck with an awful thought—besides Amber there's just the boys from Five and Twelve remaining. Granted Ytter has been clever so far and Haymitch has shown he can hold his own in a fight, but I'm not sure either of them can beat the strong, cruel girl from One. I may spend the next who-knows-how-many years being forced to share a room, a table with my sister's killer. And I have no doubt she will go out of her way to make my life a misery.
I'm not remotely surprised when Ytter's fort gets over-run with squirrels about an hour later, the small boy putting up a valiant fight though he is eventually ripped apart by dozens of sets of razor-sharp fangs and ends up in more pieces than Balia. I close my eyes, head pounding once more as I realize my last hope for not suffering even more mental anguish in the coming months and years lies in the hands of an underfed boy from Twelve who doesn't even have a proper mentor.
This thought forces me out of bed. I shower, change clothes and slowly make my way downstairs to the Viewing Hall, which is relatively full of victors and escorts discussing the afternoon's lively action. A slight hush follows my entrance but the murmur of conversation picks up again by the time I track down Chaff Hazelwood, District Twelve's fill-in mentor. He doesn't look up from his notes as I approach—names of potential sponsors at a guess as several of them are crossed out while others have odd squiggles next to them—and only seems to notice me when he throws down his pen in favor of a large apple.
"Wiress. No point asking how you're doing I suppose. But I hope it's better. Sit?"
He waves at the empty space on the couch beside him with his arm stump. I nod and sit down, still trying to gather my thoughts and force them out. Eventually I get out "Help."
He raises his eyebrows and asks, "You need my help with something?"
I shake my head, cursing mentally at the stupid barrier and point at the screen where Haymitch Abernathy, eyes wild with fear and anger is stalking through the woods, knife clutched defensively in front of his chest. "Help."
He blinks, uncomprehending for a few seconds then his face lights up with understanding as the view changes to Amber Noble, also hunting for her one remaining foe.
"You…no, you can't make calls I suppose, but…here." He hands me the notepad and pen. "Even after five years I still can't write proper with my off hand and I'm too fat these days to go around skipping dinner. " He slaps his stomach which isn't fat, but certainly isn't lean either, especially by my district's standards. "I'll eat and talk if you can write for me."
I nod and take a few deep breaths to calm my mild hand tremors before I set to writing his notes.
~xXx~
After a night and morning taking notes for Chaff and Twelve's good-for-nothing escort, listening to them discuss sponsor calls and gift lists I get to watch with some satisfaction as the hungry boy on screen is delivered a small bag holding three energy bars, a bottle of some rejuvenating drink and some pills which will apparently heighten his awareness. Haymitch stares at his haul in surprise before downing half of it and stashing the rest for later. On the other side of the screen Amber receives her own gift of food and drinks, though instead of pills her package includes a new cream and bandages for the cuts on her face and arm, and for the poorly-healed knife wound in her foot.
The day wears on as their stalking hunt continues, Amber muttering constantly as she walks, eyes darting restlessly from side to side, her whole body twitching in response to any rustle or cheep. In contrast the boy from Twelve is completely silent, and while his exhausted swaying walk has been countered by a decent meal his eyes are still ragged and his arm shakes slightly from the force of gripping his dagger. Judging by the few high-angle camera shots we get they nearly circle one-another in the forest, both ending up near the bit of hedge-maze that the pair from Twelve cut their way through. The background music, a steady beat which matched both their footsteps fades slightly as the screens merge to a single shot.
Haymitch spots Amber first and quickly backtracks along the curve of the path she will follow, ditching his bag and scrambling up a tree so that he can get the jump on her from the only place she isn't carefully watching. His ambush is nearly successful, his feet slamming into her back and his knife flashing down at her unprotected neck as he leaps from his branch. But she is so quick and the would-be killing blow only slices her collarbone. She yells in pain and surprise and slams an elbow over her shoulder, smashing him solidly in the face. He staggers back a few steps, blinking furiously and shaking his head as she regains her feet and charges at him.
As he did with the trio of Careers, he ducks and dodges several of her blows, though he's unable to land any of his own in return. Suddenly he overbalances the tiniest bit, his foot skidding in a patch of loose dirt, and the large knife is knocked flying from his hand. Amber's next swing connects with his torso, the axe-head which cleaved my sister into pieces slamming deep into his stomach. I force down the rising bile, hoping, praying for a miracle. I nearly cheer when the boy from Twelve fights through the pain and staggers upright, smaller blade now in hand. Amber, sensing her moment of victory has come, charges forward once more with a sweeping strike intended to decapitate the smaller boy. Instead he ducks, crying out, his left hand grasping at the savage wound in his gut. The lack of force causes Amber to overbalance and Haymitch drives his smaller blade deep into her face, staggering aside as the girl shrieks in pain and starts wildly cleaving the air.
Had he been holding his larger knife she would probably be dead, but instead she grabs the smaller knife and wrenches it free, throwing it at him and forcing him to stumble another two steps back. Her left eye goes with it and bursts as it hits the ground. I hear several choked sounds around the room, people swallowing revulsion. Suddenly both tributes remember that she is still armed and he is not, and the boy from Twelve turns and runs as fast as his exhausted, badly injured body will let him.
My little sister saves his life. Balia's final act, plunging her two-inch blade into Amber Noble's foot seems to have slowed the big girl from One noticeably. The wound didn't heal properly despite the sponsor medicines she received, probably because she was doing so much running around on it. Four days ago Amber would have run him down in under twenty yards. Now, even with an unpleasant curve of pink innards peeking through his fingers, Haymitch manages to stay at least fifteen feet ahead of her. He even adds some ground as he dashes up the slight grassy slope and dives through the hole in the hedge-wall that leads to the arena's edge. He lets out a yelp of pain as he crawls through, dodging her hand grasping at his ankle by inches and regains his feet long enough to almost reach the cliff edge.
His knees buckle about five feet from the drop and he groans as he tries and fails to stay upright, though his right hand gropes wildly at the ground, reaching for a rock, a pebble, a handful of dirt, anything he can use. Amber apparently decides that caution is her better option and hurls her axe at him, which misses by about three feet and sails into the empty air, but achieves the desired result of forcing him to duck and drop whatever he was trying to pick up. With a final groan he collapses, body twitching in the final spasms of death. Amber turns away, balling up her shirt-sleeve to try to stop her empty eye-socket from bleeding too much and I shudder uncontrollably at the thought of the future days, months and years I'll be forced to spend with my sister's murderer.
Out of no-where the axe comes flying back and embeds itself deep into the ruined side of Amber's face. Enough of the blade hits her neck to sever the artery and she staggers and falls, her throat fountaining blood for a few seconds as she gasps out her last gurgling breaths. Just like her brother who died at my hand.
There's a shocked silence in the Viewing Hall as her cannon fires and the twitching, half-dead boy from Twelve is announced as our newest victor. I watch on relieved as Chaff (and, presumably Laurela from One) are led away to talk to the cameras. The remaining victors in the Hall resume their conversations, though there's a great deal of unhappy murmuring coming from the Career corner.
They cut away from footage of Haymitch being crowded by doctors on-board the hovercraft—he's certainly not the first victor to be hauled from the arena unconscious and close to death, but they like to pretend that they have everything under control—and show a brief replay of Amber's sudden and unexpected death. This too is cut away after just a single repeat, replaced by Caesar Flickerman and Chaff, discussing what prompted the victor from Eleven to volunteer as a replacement mentor following Marcie's sudden death.
The arena is surrounded by a force-field, I realize. One with sufficient strength to rebound anything dropped into it with at least equal force. It's the only possible explanation and would make sense as a way of preventing tributes from finding their "own way" out of the arena. I think back a few days to when the District Twelve alliance split when Haymitch was kicking pebbles off the cliff-edge. I don't remember seeing it on-screen but I guess one of them came back. Or maybe they didn't and he was trying to throw himself off a cliff out of some misguided desire to deny the girl from One a final kill. Either way he's spared me and my family a great deal of continued anguish, though I doubt I will ever stop mourning Balia's death or forget how and why it happened.
~xXx~
It takes them nearly two weeks to get our newest victor fit enough to take the stage for the victory ceremony. Apparently they came close to losing him completely several times, though I hear this through unofficial channels; the news reports only say that he is healing and will soon be ready to continue the show. Chaff practically camps out by the boy's bedside, with Seeder spelling him occasionally for sleep and the odd interview. I volunteer to take one shift when they are both called out and spend three hours scribbling notes on a new electromagnetic propulsion unit while our newest victor tosses and moans in his moderately drugged sleep.
Beetee tried to shelter me from our regulars, taking all call-outs and refusing any discussion about me joining him to 'do my part'. After another sleepless night replaying Balia's death over and over I begged him for something, anything, to take my mind somewhere else. Working on theory alone is probably my best medicine and has given me a reason each day to continue getting out of bed.
Beetee meets me in the Training Centre lobby on my way out of the hospital rooms. He's been run off his feet, working between the Mastersons and the Heavensbees as well as a new company who make robotic animal toys for the rich kids of the Capitol. They are apparently a rather snobbish bunch, rude and demanding, and I'm quite glad he has given me an excuse not to have to deal with them. I pass him my notes from the last two hours and order us some food to share while he goes over my working. My hand tremors have lessened enough that it's all reasonably legible now.
Seeder joins us an hour later to let us know that our newest victor has finally woken. "Poor boy," she says softly as Beetee hastily clears space for her to sit, shuffling away his own scribbled notes into his favorite brown leather case. "Doctors wouldn't say much, but one of the assistants said he had a nasty infection. That happens with gut wounds sometimes. He was pretty out of it, didn't really know what was happening."
I remember my own waking several days after the Capitol doctors repaired my punctured lung. I'm pretty sure I didn't know what was happening either. Beetee and Seeder, who were both conscious and relatively healthy when they were pulled out of the arena, shake their heads, not really understanding.
"They were trying to get him ready for the memorial service for Marcie, you heard it's been scheduled for the day after tomorrow?" Seeder continues, smiling at our blank responses.
"Of course you didn't because you were both tucked away in the dark playing with your inventions. Not that I blame you," she adds hastily, patting my arm gently. "But they will stick you back in front of the camera and I thought you might need the warning."
I appreciate it, though I still share an eye-roll with Beetee at her description of our preferred pastime. Haymitch isn't quite well enough to attend the victor memorial. The news channel cites an emotional detachment from his mentor, who was, after all an old woman that he had little in common with. Chaff tells us all in a low whisper that the boy had a relapse after a bad reaction to some new medication they were using to try and hurry up the healing process, and that the head doctor has already been replaced.
As with everything, the Capitol tries to turn death into a party and 'celebrates' the life of the quiet, reclusive victor from Twelve by holding a long winded memorial service, followed by a twelve-hour city-wide holiday that thousands take part in. We victors are 'encouraged' to stay out for a bit to be seen celebrating the memorial alongside the Capitol citizens. I let Beetee take the lead and wander beside him, nodding to the people talking to us and generally tuning out any further conversation. We eventually find ourselves near the large public library where we did the book signing around four months back, and decide it's as good a refuge as any for a few hours. A group of teenagers excitedly waves us over to one of the large meeting-rooms, and we end up spending the rest of the afternoon talking to the science club of one of the larger Capitol schools. Well, Beetee talks. I make an attempt to pay attention and leave with a vague idea of where the conversation went.
Four days after the memorial for the deceased District Twelve victor, old Marcie's replacement finally appears on the stage for his victory recap and post-Games interview. The sullen boy I remember from before seems to be making a strained effort to act happy about his victory, though his eyes are a little wild every time they cut in close to his face.
The story of the Second Quarter Quell seems to be about a smart, arrogant boy being pushed to his limits and taking a rare underdog victory mostly by sheer luck. I wonder silently just what he did to annoy President Snow and the Gamemakers, or whether they were just angry about him using the arena force-field to take out their preferred victor. Luckily this story-line minimizes Balia's role (had Amber won as they intended I expect my sister would be more prominently featured as a necessary obstacle to overcome for revenge) and I only have to cover my face a dozen times to avoid seeing her again. I am technically expected to attend the victory party as a mentor of a final-eight tribute. Conveniently I spot Brutus fuming about his lack of invitation to the party (surprising as it's not uncommon for popular outgoing victors to be invited even if their tribute didn't make the cut) and hand him my entry card. He sneers at me, but takes it and I run for my room and barricade the door with a chair. If they want me to attend they'll have to break in and drag me there, and I doubt anyone cares that much.
Gloria is waiting in the lobby to see us off the next morning. To my surprise she pulls me aside slightly and says, "I…I just want you to know that I'm sorry about your sister."
She glances around guiltily though there's no-one nearby and I doubt any recording devices that might be in the walls can hear over the raucous conversation of the District Two mob on their way out. "I mean, I didn't pull her deliberately. It just happened and when she died…" She cuts off as Beetee and Cupros start to approach from the lift. I rest my hand on her arm and squeeze gently, trying to convey that I know it wasn't her fault and that I appreciate her unexpected support.
She nods once, clears her throat and tugs my shirt collar straight, as though she pulled me aside to fix my sloppy dressing. Her usual smile appears as the men arrive and she chirps at us that she'll see us next year at the usual time, and waves us goodbye.
~xXx~
My family is waiting on the train platform in Three, front and center. I fall into my mother's open arms, letting her hold me as I cry one last time. Father, Cupros, Ezra and two of Ezra's friends take charge of the plain wooden box that is unloaded from the end compartment and arrange for transport to the tribute's cemetery, where the empty graves will already be dug out.
"Wiress, where's Balia?" A small voice asks behind me and I turn to find little Malcy staring up at me, dark eyes hopeful.
"We tried to explain," Mother says as Malcy starts shaking his head, looking around wildly. "But I don't think he ever understood-"
"Where's Balia? WHERE'S BALIA! WHERE'S BALIA! I WANT BALIA!" Malcy's repeated screams tear through the train station as I try to hold on to him, letting his flailing fists and small shoes pound against me. Over his head I see Ezra watching us, and he jerks his head in acknowledgement as I meet his eyes. They have taken away the thing that mattered most to me in the world. In the future they can try to target the rest of my family or my tributes, but I know that losing any of them won't hurt as much as losing her. I see the same anger burning in Ezra's eyes as is welling inside me; I am no longer afraid to do whatever I can to stop them and make this world a better place for all of us and I will spend the rest of my life (and my death if necessary) making it happen.
END
Thanks to all those who have stayed with Wiress on her journey so far, especially those who took the time to leave comments. I'm sketching out a follow-up story now which should start being posted in a month or so (maybe).