Title: Awake and Sing
Author: A Crazy Elephant
Summary: Or "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games Begin!"
Category: Action/Adventure/Drama
Chapter Word Count: 3,228
Disclaimer: The Hunger Games universe and related characters do not belong to me.
Author's Notes: Sorry for the delay – exams are creeping up. I'm presently avoiding a paper and a final directing scene. As always, I'd like to thank everyone who's read this far, especially effmitch and Dr Giggles for being such dedicated reviewers. I love hearing what you have to say. ^.^
Chapter Fun Facts: The saint on Mags' chain is Saint Peter, one of the 12 Apostles and one of the several patron saints of maritime related trades. The ruined city is supposed to be the remains of Chicago – the Cornucopia sits in what used to be Grant Park along the lake.
Let me know what you think! = )
7 – Cornucopia
I can't sleep.
I don't have anything left to worry about. No training. No interview. Not even intense media exposure.
Only my impending death.
In less than twelve hours, I will be in the Arena. I will be standing on a little metal disk surrounded by landmines. Waiting for a gong to signal that twenty-three children and I may begin slaughtering one another.
It's terrifying.
Like that first night on the train, I can't stand to lie in bed. Pondering my upcoming demise. Instead, I need to see the sky. The stars, if I can. It may be the last chance I get anyway. I try the door to my room. Surprisingly, it gives way.
The apartment is empty. Quiet and lonesome. The elevators are frozen, but the fire stairs are unlocked. Down is surly nothing, but Peacekeepers. Up, at least, should at some point reveal fresh air. A rooftop.
I'm not wrong.
It takes a while and I'm winded when I reach the roof. It isn't empty. There's a full terrace up here. Benches. Flower boxes. The wind howls and I can hear cheering and music from the streets below.
"Oh, it's you."
It's Shep. District 12's Victor. He's sitting out by the edge on the roof, drinking what looks like some sort of liquor. Smoking too and staring wistfully down at the roaring crowds in the streets below. Up close, he looks younger. Sadder. I'm sure when his prep team gets a hold of him he's quite handsome. Dark hair. Tan skin. Tonight, though, he's more than a little ragged. Like Thom has been every morning this week, but worn down. Gloomy and forlorn.
"You're Thom's girl." It isn't a question. "Can't sleep, I suppose?" He says. I shake my head. "No one does. Half decent interview, you gave." He congratulates half-heartedly. He even sounds tired.
"That Thom gave, you mean." I correct. My voice is small and quiet, but it doesn't waver. Shep snorts a bitter sounding laugh.
"Hell of a thing Thom did for you." He observes. "Only one of us who might get away with it too – they love him here. Boy walks the walk and talks the talk for the cameras."
"He's trying." I explain. "It wasn't a lie – he will have to look my brother in the eyes after I'm dead. Danny won't kill him if he at least tried to bring me home." He snorts again.
"Who says you'll be dead?" He asks me.
"The odds are not in my favor." I remind him.
"Odds weren't in Keepsie's either and she's downstairs taking shots of hard liquor with Districts 2, 6, and 7." Shep reminds me. He takes a shot off his own bottle for emphasis.
"Yes, well, she's a whole lot smarter than I am." I voice what I didn't have the courage to tell Saoirse.
"Whole lot crazier, you mean?" He asks with a smirk.
"Smarter – I certainly can't repurpose landmines." He snorts again. Nods and lets it drop.
"So who was it? Your momma? Daddy?" Shep asks suddenly, after a long pull on his liquor bottle.
"Excuse me?" I ask. The question is completely out of left field.
"That got you here." Shep clarifies. "Who was it? Who didn't like the way things were?"
"I-I-" I begin. I'm completely caught off guard by this thinly veiled implication.
"Don't think for a minute that it was because you had rotten luck this week." Shep tells me. He knocks the ashes off the end of his cigarette. Takes another drag. A shot of alcohol. "We're all here to pay a price. Set an example. Which family member are you paying for?" I'm not sure I want to answer. Surely there are cameras out here, so someone can monitor the terrace. Make sure Tributes don't hurl themselves over the edge before the Games actually begin. But Shep is clearly drunk enough to voice what everyone else avoids saying. He's watching me with a glare that demands an answer.
"M-M-My papa." I stammer. "B-But he's dead-" He snorts again. Stamps out the end of his cigarette on the ground beside him.
"So's my daddy." Shep explains. "Brothers, too. That sure don't mean they ain't going to twist the knife on what's left of my family as much as they can. You the baby of the lot, too?"
"No."
"Only girl, then?"
"Yes."
"That's it." He says. "Dom's the eldest and the only boy. Chantilly's the only girl. Lulu's the baby. Cobb, Theo, Thom, and Keepsie are only children. Daisy and me, we're the last living children." He runs through the list of Victors. Some, I actually remember. Lulu, District 9, won the year before Keepsie in close quarters with knives. Chantilly, District 1, won the year before Thom by outrunning the massive mutt-creatures that ripped through her Arena. "You're what's going to hurt your treacherous family the most." He explains. "If it wasn't enough to just kill them off, they're making for damn sure we remember."
"B-But-"
"But nothing, 4." He says. "That's part of what the Games are – why do you think it's they're such a damn spectacle? The fancy clothes and the food and the fucking interviews, like it's nothing but fun." Shep snorts again and takes another shot from his bottle. He is really on a roll now. "Salt in the wound – trivializing our losses and shoving it all back in our faces. Of course, it would hurt if they just rounded up 24 kids to slaughter every year, but it hurts worse when you know the victorious audience pretends it's one big holiday, screaming, and cheering and throwing damn parties themed in the style of the executions."
I'm not entirely sure how to respond. To silence him would paint me a coward or a Capitol sympathizer. To let him plow on might very well mean treason and brand me a rebel. Ending in a fate far worse than the Hunger Games for not just me, but everyone I've ever met. I try something safe.
"I-I-I should go." I nod back toward the door.
"You should." Shep agrees. He's slurring a bit now too. At the very least, he seems to be winding down from his rant. The fire has gone from his voice. "Get some sleep while you still can, 4. Arenas ain't exactly restful."
"T-Thank you." I say. Shep waves me off.
"May the odds be ever," He stresses the syllables like a true Capitol citizen. "In you favor." I wave to him once. Polite, as I should be, but I nearly run for the stairs. Shep's cackling follows me down. I try not to think about what he's just revealed. About paying for our families.
It's not surprising, of course. Somewhere in the back of everything it was just understood. Payment for disloyalty was what the Games were supposed to be about. They told us that every year.
It has just never felt quite so personal.
I'm short of breath by the time I reach my room. The trek down to our floor was decidedly less tiring that the hike up, but it's well past midnight now. I still can't imagine sleeping, but my body doesn't seem to care that my mind won't shut off. Like the first night here, I collapse into a dreamless sleep the moment I hit my pillows.
And then, Minerva wakes me for the last time.
Her suit is still pressed and sharp. Her wig is still outrageous. But for once, she is not surprised-looking or at all enthusiastic. Her eyes are puffy and red like her suit. She sniffles quite a lot too. She looks like she's been crying all morning.
"Come along, Maggie." She says when she shakes me awake. It has taken all week, but she has finally given up the use of my given name. "It's time, darling."
"Thank you, Minerva." I say, sleepily. I'm still tired. I can feel the achy lethargy in my limbs, but my head is clear. Adrenaline kicks in enough so that I don't even care about exhaustion.
Today is the day.
Minerva knows it, too. Her lip quivers and she tosses her arms around me. It seems that in the face of sending her charges to their deaths, Minerva can no longer focus on the shiny and pretty things that she loves so much. She's a Capitol citizen. The Games are not supposed to be a punishment for her. But she has had ten years of sending children to their ends. She at least knows she probably won't see me again and seems to want me to know she appreciates me.
"Oh, Maggie - thank you." Minerva gushes.
"For what?" I ask.
"For your sacrifice! You're doing a brave thing for the sake of us all." It's the same thing the President and the propos say. Only from Minerva, it actually sounds genuine. She actually believes the 'necessary evil to ensure peace' line. I want to be cross with her, but she is just so earnest. She hugs me again. Sniffles and leaves me with a teary looking Saoirse.
Attendants bring us breakfast. Saoirse is nearly beside herself. She barely eats. Just fires off fresh instructions that really ought to come from Thom. No fires at night. Always boil water before you drink it. Grab what's closest to you at the start disk and run for cover. Don't fight through to the Cornucopia. Don't eat anything you aren't absolutely positive about its identification.
Her voice is even wobblier than mine. Like she can scarcely keep herself from crying as she has me dress in the training uniform.
"Oh, my cailín!" Saoirse finally collapses when the Peacekeepers arrive to escort us to the hoverpad. She hugs me and cries until the Peacekeepers carefully untangle her from me and lead us off in separate directions. I can't speak. My voice is far too untrustworthy at this point. But I'm a little bit proud of myself for not crying. Like I'm actually as brave as Grandfather wants me to be.
In lieu of a proper goodbye, I wave to Saoirse as the Peacekeepers lead us in different directions. I don't think she sees, because she is nearly inconsolable now. Part of me is touched that not just Saoirse, but Minerva Holmes are concerned for my safety. The rest isn't sure if it ought to be offended that they are so certain I'll not be coming back.
I don't get a lot of time to mull it over. Adrenaline is still thrumming though me and all my brain seems to be able to handle is what comes next.
I am escorted to a hovercraft where the other Tributes are being delivered. Flynn is there, looking tired, but alert. The others are wearing looks ranging between terror and anticipation. No one speaks.
Our Peacekeeper escorts line us up by district in the belly of the hovercraft. They place us in two long rows of seats. Boys on one side, girls on the other so that we face our district partners. The doors hiss closed as the Peacekeepers leave. A rumbling grows around us as the hovercraft takes off and my stomach turns.
We sit in an uncomfortable quiet. One of the smaller boys down the row snuffles. A girl down from me weeps outright. The rest of us are holding it together, but a glance down the rows of seats confirms that that composure is hanging by a thread. Most of us, Flynn and myself included, try to avoid eye contact with the others.
Nurses in harsh white coats move down the line of Tributes. We are chipped. Tracking devices, the nurses explain when the tiny cylinders are shot into our forearms. To make sure the cameras can find us at all times. So they can find us when we've died. I'm surprised by how much it hurts to have that tiny little device forced into my arm.
I can still feel the burn where the chip went in even when we're off the hovercraft and led to the tiny, windowless staging areas below the Arena. It's a surprisingly plain space, compared to the extravagance of everywhere else we have so far occupied. It's still all posh furniture and shiny new tiles, of course. But there's none of the opulence of the trains or the Training Center. It's more utilitarian, like the prep center.
Saoirse is waiting for me. She's pulled herself together enough to at least give me a sad smile when I enter.
"I'm sorry for this morning, love." She says, pulling me into a hug. She doesn't offer an explanation or an excuse.
"I-I-I-It's-" My voice is nearly gone. I choke on the words. Saoirse clucks, like she knows what I'm trying to say.
"No it isn't, my cailín." She says. "You are being so brave and I should not be so weak." She sighs. Her breath catches like she's pushing down tears again. "Here." She clears her throat. Sniffs audibly. "We have an Arena uniform for you."
It's plain, the Arena uniform. Some years, the uniforms are specific to the Arena. Thom's island Arena had required thin shirts and tight shorts for the heat. The cold, rain forest year, they'd all been in rubber boots with heavy coats. But most years, they're fairly standard. This year is no exception. Athletic underthings in an easy-wash fabric. A light camisole. A long sleeved shirt in white. Tight, stretchy pants in black. Both in a quick dry fabric. Meant for running. A jacket in a deep blue in a fabric that is at once warm but light. There are boots too. Flexible with a thick sole.
It's down right unhelpful for trying to guess what the actual Arena will be like. Standard does not equal uninteresting Arena. It's just probably not an exotic climate. Not consistently frigid or roasting hot. But that doesn't mean it isn't filled with poisonous flora and fauna or vicious genetically altered creatures. It certainly doesn't mean there will be shelter or drinkable water.
"I forgot, darling." Saoirse says when I've dressed. "This passed the Gamemakers." From a pocket in her flouncy skirt, she pulls out a thin gold chain. Grandfather's chain. She clasps it around my neck. "Do you know what this is?" She asks, tapping the tiny gold medallion at the end of the chain.
"T-T-the m-m-masts of a s-ship," I garble out. Saoirse smiles sadly.
"It's very old. From before there were districts or capitols." Saoirse says. She turns the medallion so that the opposite side, the side with image of the old man faces up. "This fellow," She runs her thumb of the dainty cast face. "They called him a saint. Believed he was one of many watching over the living. He was the patron of fisherman." Saoirse continues. "Shipwrights and netmakers. Watched over them specifically because he himself was once a fisherman." I nod. Saoirse gives me another hug. "Let him watch over you, my cailín."
Another buzzer sounds.
"That's it then." Saoirse's voice breaks again. She squeezes me one last time. "It's time." She releases me. I want to thank her. For all she's tried to do. For caring so deeply about the terrible thing about to befall someone she's only known a week. But I can't. My voice won't cooperate. All that comes out is a jumble of broken sounds. Saoirse smiles another miserable little smile.
"I know, my cailín." She says. "You have been so brave. Keep on, dear one. Stay alive." She pats my cheek. Kisses my forehead. And then I must turn to the large glass cylinder. The metal start disk.
A glass door hisses closed behind me, cutting out all sounds from the staging room. I can see Saoirse crying again, but I cannot hear her. Only my own breathing. The sound of my racing heart.
And then another hydraulic hiss. My disk moves upward, like an elevator. Saoirse waves tearfully. I wave back one last time as I leave the staging area behind. And then suddenly, there is a blinding burst of sunlight.
I am in the Arena.
It's a city.
Was a city, anyway. The forests have overtaken it now. The buildings have crumbled to derelicts. Just hunks of cracked cement. Piles of chipped and charred brick. Twisted, rusting iron monster. Empty shells among the trees.
The Cornucopia sits on a shoreline, before a vast sea. No, not a sea. There's no salt in the air. But it's no less vast. I can't see any land beyond the horizon. Sunlight glares off the expanse of water just as brightly as it does from the giant golden horn.
The Tributes are arranged in no particular order on our disks in a semicircle, equidistance from the mouth of Cornucopia. Weapons and supplies are strategically scattered out and around in ascending order of desire as they near the mouth.
We get sixty seconds to take it in.
Around second ten or so, I'm focused on a decent plan. Grab the nearest pack. Run for the ruins. The adrenalin is so high now, I almost forget to be afraid. Forget how dearly I'd like to go crawl into a hole somewhere and weep.
Well, almost. But by second twenty, I'm eyeing a small pack a scant few yards ahead of me. The focus at least grounds me. An immediate task to be accomplished. It's a tiny little pack, bright red, like the color of one of Minerva's wigs. It can't have much inside, but it's something. Most importantly, it's far enough out that it shouldn't be in terribly high demand.
I'm sure I can nab it. Then make a beeline for the ruined city.
An explosion breaks my concentration. Dirt and something wet spatters my left side as though someone ran through a puddle. My ears ring and it's all I can do not to bolt. I manage to control the impulse and instead glance left.
The disk with Boy 12 directly to my left is still there. He all ready looks shaken, covered in dirt and blood. The disk with Boy 5 on the far side of him is also still there. Boy 5 looks just as rattled. The disk between them, where Girl 9 once stood is no longer a disk.
It's a crater.
She must have dropped her token. Or fainted. Maybe even stepped off, as not to give the others the satisfaction of killing her. No one has been so foolish as to try and jump the mines before the gong since I was small. Third or Fourth Games, maybe.
I'm shaking terribly now. Just like the day my name was called. I try not to think about the fact that the damp on my cheek and my clothes is actually blood. About how the field has just narrowed from twenty-four to twenty-three.
As the final seconds tick down, I find the little red bag again. As though staring at it will make it mine. I try not to shake so terribly. Try to even out my breathing.
The seconds run out.
"Ladies and Gentlemen of Panem – " It's Julius Flickerman's voice again. Booming around us like the night of the opening ceremonies. "Let the 10th Annual Hunger Games begin!"
The gong sounds.