Chapter 2: ONLY ONE
A different gamemaker materializes at my bedside this morning, wearing white rather than the more traditional purple. It's obvious that she's been delegated the task of presenting me with The Rules.
Today is the day that ends it all, she says. I will be allowed one final visit with my team before the Games begin again, and one hour to prepare before my competitor and I are released into the empty Training Center, which is still stocked with all of its weapons and provisions from our training week. Once the doors are shut, we will stay inside the Center until there is a victor. It's enticingly simple, but it leaves me with a bad taste in my mouth.
I can't believe they let me think I'd won.
60 minutes remaining.
"Alder!" Cardea stands up when I enter the Floor 12 apartment, flanked by two armored guards. My stylist's curly hair has been dyed the color of the sky, the same blue as one of the feast backpacks. Vega smiles and claps her hands at my arrival, her pristine smile more jarring than encouraging. Violet's stylist is notably absent.
Cardea rushes forward but doesn't quite hug me, maybe afraid she'll break my spine or damage something important. But I'm not made of glass. I throw my arms around her.
"You've done so well, Al," she tells me. "You've made it so far. You must be able to hold out just a little longer. I know you can do it."
"Thank you," I say into her hair, my voice shaking.
She pulls back to look at me, smiling. "There's that voice. See? You're ready to roll. You'll be back with us before the day is out."
"I certainly hope you're right, Cardea!" remarks Vega from her seat. "It's about time the world knows who their victor is! Are you prepared for today, Alder? Is there anything you need to do?"
I need to go home. I shake my head.
"What do you suppose Emerald is doing right now?" the escort wonders. "Perhaps training? Or rewatching bits of the Games to learn from her mistakes, maybe we should give that a try—"
"Alder doesn't need to do anything right now." Cardea chastises her lightly as something awful occurs to me. I clear my throat, and both of their brightly colored heads turn in my direction.
"Will it be recorded?" I ask, my voice tight.
"The fight?" asks Cardea, and I nod. "Recorded, but not televised, dear."
"Ooh, wouldn't the rest of the city envy us, if they knew we were getting to watch you two?" Vega gushes. "Oh Alder, no one on the outside knows what really happened! The whole country thinks we're simply waiting for the victor to recover to give them some big grand reveal!"
My stomach turns. So, after they have their victor, they'll play it off as if one of us died in the fire. Certainly one way to avoid acknowledging the gamemakers' failure to produce a single victor in their finale. It's difficult for me to comprehend that my existence is something of a secret now, a secret that Vega seems absolutely tickled to know.
I take a seat beside my escort, feeling weak.
"This is better." Cardea assures me. "It must make it harder to fight, when all of Panem is watching. Today, there will be considerably less pressure."
I strongly disagree. Televised or not, she must know that there's still a lot at stake here. The longer this visit lasts, the more I sense my anxiety consuming me.
"And speaking of today," my stylist proceeds carefully. "I brought you something a little more presentable to wear than those papery scrubs of yours."
She reaches into her silvery messenger bag and removes a set of folded clothes. I begin to reach out to take them, but when I realize what they are, I draw back my scarred hands as if they've caught fire.
Black shirt, brown pants, green jacket. It's the same outfit I wore in the arena.
No. I shake my head almost violently.
"Alder," says Cardea gently. "You must wear it today. You're not going back into the arena, you just—"
"Why does he have to wear it, Cardea?" Vega butts in. "After all, it won't be televised, so what is it to the Gamemakers if he wears his hospital scrubs? Or goes in naked, for that matter?"
"He has to wear it." says Cardea. "Because they told me he has to wear it. They've asked the same of the other tribute."
Both of them turn to me when I stand up, as if waiting for me to chime in. Or to try and make a break for it. Which I do.
"He's running!" yelps Vega as I sprint down the hallway, toward the space that was once Violet's bedroom. I hear them coming after me, quicker in their high heels than I would have imagined.
The door does not lock, and I'm not strong enough to drag over the armchair or the bureau on my own. I throw my weight against the wood, hoping I can hold them off while I devise a means of escape.
Thud! Something hits the door. My eyes scan the room, trying desperate to ignore the traces of my district partner inside. The covers are still drawn back, from the last time Violet got out of her bed. Her pale green reaping dress lies folded on top of the bureau. Everything is just as she left it that morning. I rub at my eyes. The only other door leads to the balcony.
I fling myself from the door, almost tripping over a pair of white Training Center sneakers as I race through the room. I fumble with the latch, my fingers numb. I hear the bedroom door open behind me.
Someone calls for me to stop. The voice, an unmistakably masculine one, belongs to neither Cardea nor Vega. I hear heavy footsteps behind me, but I won't turn around, still working at the latch, which is decidedly not meant to be opened. White-gloved hands grab my shoulders, wrestling me to the floor. Choked, incoherent sounds are coming from my throat as I try to fight them off, but I'm no match for my guards.
I feel a pinprick near the base of my neck, and retreat back into silence.
15 minutes remaining.
When I become aware of my surroundings again, part of me starts to imagine I'm back in District Twelve, dozing in the room I share with Cedar and Graham. The sunlight normally falls on my face at around six, waking me in time to get ready for school. But today it's dark, and it's calm, and I can sleep the day away.
That fantasy collapses very quickly when Cardea sees that I've come to.
"Alder?" she asks cautiously. "Are you awake?"
I pry open my eyes and stare at her from the bed, feeling groggy and confused.
"They had to sedate you," says my stylist, "I've never heard you scream like that before."
There must have been a point where I would have been ashamed to act that way in front of Cardea. But I'm long past it now. After a moment, I notice the absence of the papery scrubs against my body, and know that they've put me in my tribute uniform. I tense up, grabbing fistfuls of Violet's duvet.
"We had to do it." I don't think she's sorry. "They'll want you in the Training Center in about fifteen minutes."
I sit up immediately, but the movement makes my head spin. I couldn't make another escape attempt now if I tried. I sink back against the headboard, defeated. Cardea purses her lips.
"I want to show you something, Alder," my stylist tells me. "You don't have to get up, just rest. Just watch the screen." She picks up a device the size of a graham cracker and presses a button, lighting up the television on the wall.
That's Violet's. I think in vain. Don't touch it.
"Look," says Cardea, and to my alarm, I see my brother Graham on the screen.
"Alder is the youngest of us, yes," he's saying. "But he's smart. And hasn't he proven that in the arena? I think he has."
"What is this?" I ask in a low voice.
"You were in the top five," explains Cardea. "They sent a team to your district to interview your family and friends. It's new this year."
I find I'm unable to respond. The next family member up is Laurel.
"I used to tease him," she said. "But in a fun way, you know? Ask anyone with a sister. I'd joke that he was short, and I'd joke that he didn't talk a lot. But I'm out of things to tease him about now." She wipes at her eyes. "I just want him to come home."
I cover my mouth with my hands to prevent a sob from escaping. One after another, everyone I care about chimes in with something to say about me. Some have words of encouragement, others a story from back home. My two best friends, Rowan and Linden, tell Panem about the time I got stuck up on the roof of my house. My mother talks about how much hope I've given her over the weeks, how many times I've pulled through when she thought the end was near. My sister Betony makes up a fantastical story about me winning a footrace in a lightning storm.
"They've put him through so much over there." Last to speak is my brother Cedar, his voice shaking. "I was eligible, when they called his name. I know it should have been me."
I let out a sob, my shoulders trembling.
"Do you want me to turn it off?" asks Cardea. I shake my head fervently before she finishes asking, my eyes glued to the screen.
"I just thought," Cedar struggles to finish. "I thought I'd never see him again, and now there's a chance that he's coming back." He takes a deep breath. "I never would have made it this far. Please, if you're listening, just keep him safe. Let my brother come home."
5 minutes remaining.
AN: There will be one more chapter of Endgame, which I will hopefully be able to post sometime this week. Thank you to everyone who has reviewed and followed!
In the meantime, I have another story that I want to begin working on this summer, a partial SYOT called Luetis: The 39th Hunger Games. I'm still short about ten tributes, so if anyone would like to submit a tribute or two, the list of available spots and the submission form are both on my profile! Just PM your form to me and I'll shoot you back a confirmation if your tribute made it.