I want these Games done at the end of the next chapter, so it's hard to pick out which scenes are essential. I hope this won't feel chaotic.
Date: Year 10, August, a year after Mags' victory.
Mags slipped the bundle of letters in her bag, careful to keep the address face down. She had taken pains to never glimpse the names of the people who made up Valentia's world. It was hard enough without involving the tributes' families. Mags would only require one name, that of the village the letters would need to be sent to.
A gust of wind rustled her dress. The open window slammed shut.
The victor frowned and slowly walked towards the small common room assigned to District Four. Could it be Myia? Lucian only came when obligated and neither Valentia nor Petrel would have left training early.
The person by the door was no-one Mags had expected to see.
Mags' hand went to her belt, until she remembered she had left her knife back in Creneis.
A minute girl with near translucent skin, wet eyes of a blue so pale the irises were almost invisible, and wispy blond hair to her shoulders smiled at her. A happy smile, but Sable Lockley was not someone Mags wanted to be alone in a room with. Constantine's words echoed in her mind.
'Sable is worth my time. She gives another dimension to this world, although one many people would do without.'
"Hello, Sable, I was wondering if you'd come to see me," she said with forced calm, gesturing towards the sofa. The volunteer, despite her doll-like appearance, was seventeen. Mags didn't want her to feel patronized, or be given any reason to be upset.
Mags released the breath she had been holding when Sable skipped up to the sofa and sat crossed legged on the largest cushion.
"Constantine protected you. Who do you want me to protect?" The girl's high-pitched voice had an odd melody to it, dreamy, distant.
Mags stared.
She hadn't expected that.
"I'm sorry he didn't win," she blurted. Her mind only let her focus on the fact that Sable had been Constantine's friend. She hated to imagine what watching Marlin or Glynn die in the Games would have felt like.
Sable's eyes narrowed. "Don't say that," she said, her voice dropping to a displeased hiss. "He isn't sorry, of he'd have won. Nothing ever stopped Constantine from doing what he wanted." The blonde sighed, her expression devoid of resentment. "He wanted you to win."
It was said with such effortless confidence that Mags felt ashamed.
"I'm his friend, who do you want to win this time?" Sable said, clasping her hands on her lap.
The victor couldn't wrap her mind around it. "Don't you want to win?"
A broad surprised smile split Sable's lips. "You want me to win?"
Mags winced. This conversation wasn't making sense. "Why did you volunteer?"
"Why not?" Sable scowled. "Stupid rules, stupid people, they're all stupid. The Games aren't stupid at all. You make your own rules. They're really a lot of fun."
Fun? This was the girl Constantine had been so fond of? What had the aristocratic boy, son of a peacekeeper colonel, seen in this eerie child?
Mags forced a friendly smile on her tense face as she attempted to unravel the logic directing the thoughts swirling behind those too pale eyes.
"Why didn't you volunteer earlier?" Mags said.
A mournful shadow crossed Sable's face. "Constantine said he'd miss me if I did. Now there's no one left to miss me. They all hate me," she said with a shrug.
Her casual tone and bright, open expression made Mags' heart clench.
Against her better judgment, she sat next to the girl. "Aren't you scared, Sable?"
"No. Should I be?" She paused, a small smile gracing her face. "Maybe I'll come back as ghost and haunt everyone who was ever mean to me." A somber vindictive flame had come alive in her pale eyes. Her smile broadened for an instant, reaching cheeks flushed in anticipation.
Mags shuddered.
"Maybe I'll go places," Sable continued eagerly. "Death is very mysterious, you know? I want to see." She clucked her tongue. "Mags, haven't you made your choice yet? Who do you want to win?"
Mags swallowed. Petrel had continued to practice and establish strategies and fail-safes with her tirelessly after his first day of training, but Valentia had reported that he had been loud, assertive and had tried to show off like the hyper-active twelve year old he was. The older boys he'd wanted as allies had not been impressed, so Petrel had gone to sulk and practice his snares alone for the rest of the day. Valentia had sympathized with the girls from Eleven and Eight, and as behind the smiles the sixteen year old directed at her new acquaintances, Mags could see Valentia's suicide plan slowly crumble, replaced by a heartbreaking wish to protect.
Mags' eyes hardened. Maybe someone deserved it more, maybe she was wasting the chance Sable offered her for a doomed boy, but guilt would stick to her skin until her dying day if she did not do her best by the elfin twelve year old.
She forced her lips into a smile. "Petrel has no allies yet. He was waiting just for you."
Sable bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "The little one. He is different from the others. Very well."
Mags' smile grew less forced. Sable wasn't selfless, not with her unsettling fascination with death and her disregard of the other tributes, but the victor could now glimpse how with better guidance, this fiercely loyal wisp of a girl could have bloomed into something truly special.
A knock rattled the door.
It slammed open before Mags had the time to answer.
The man, for there was nothing youthful about him, from District Two, was so broad that he now hid the frame from view. He took a step towards the victor, his jaw set in grim determination. His shaved head glistened with perspiration and his hands were powerful enough to smash a window, or crush her neck.
Mags tensed but refused to be intimidated. She crossed her arms. "What do you want, Mordred? Barclay?"
The shorter boy from Seven, now besides the other tribute, lost most of his belligerence upon hearing his name spoken, as if he suddenly remembered manners, but Mordred didn't even blink.
"We need a mentor. We can't afford to go in blind."
Mags held his gaze. The volunteer should have thought of that earlier. Of course, this didn't make it less true, but a polite knock and a please might have been more appropriate conduct.
"And since you obviously don't mind sharing…" Barclay said, shooting Sable a venomous glance.
Mags suspected it had more to do with them being certain Vicuña would have laughed at them.
"Seven has two mentors," she pointed out coolly. Mentors she still needed to meet, but Mattock had spoken of them rather well.
Barclay barked a harsh laugh. "Maple is their cleaning lady's son's childhood sweetheart's twin sister or something. I've been told to keep out of their feet," his lips curled into a sneer, "not that I want to spend time around that bitch anyway. She cried big fat fake tears when Rowan figured it'd be decent to mentor me anyway. She needed them both, you see." His voice trembled in rage.
Mags couldn't fault the girl for weakening her competition -what a foul inappropriate word in this context-. The Games sent fairness down the drain.
"You both want to be mentored?" She said in the same neutral tones.
"We'll go farther together than by staying on our own," Barclay said, his expression set. "We're not pals and we know there's just one victor, don't worry."
If only this could be the greatest of her worries...
"You help us, or we kill baby boy first, and then the furry chatterbox," Mordred said, taking another menacing step forward.
Mags scowled at the unflattering nicknames. As useful as such tactics may be to detach oneself from the death of the other tributes, insulting Petrel and Valentia in front of her was not only rude but immature. Mordred was expecting her to surrender in the face of brute strength, it wasn't making him sympathetic at all. As horrible as the situation was, Mags would not put her emotional stability in jeopardy for them.
The mountain of a man grabbed Mags' arm as the silence dragged on. "It wasn't a question, Victor," he said through clenched teeth, his breath hot on her face. "I'm sparing you the choice and whatever remorse it'd give you. I climbed out of a pit to come here and I'll break heads instead of stones to provide properly for my family as a son ought to. It's not personal," he said, his black eyes softening slightly. "Now I. Need. A. Mentor."
Sable was on her feet, eyeing the scene with a rueful smile. She didn't seem alarmed.
Mags belatedly realized that her dress, while comfortable for walking, wasn't adapted to self-defense. She grit her teeth as Mordred's hold on her grew bruising.
"I am very sorry you were reaped, Barclay, and I'm sorry that you realize now you may be less ready than you had thought, Mordred," Mags said stiffly, increasingly alarmed by the pain shooting up her arm. "I would not have wished you dead, nor your families suffering."
Mordred's breath seared her skin. She had to twist her neck to see his head. Her arm hurt. Cold sweat pearled on Mags' brow. Even though she was confident he was not fool enough to truly harm her, he was too close. Much too close.
"I'll only accept one answer," Mordred growled.
Let go!
Mags shifted all her weight on her left side. Her balled fist cut the air and collided painfully against Mordred's jaw. His head backwards and Mags gasped at the sharp pain in her knuckles. Hard-boned bastard! Her captive arm twisted free. Mags wrapped her hand around the man's little finger and forced it to the side.
It snapped with a sickening crunch.
It had been one of Marquise's first lessons.
Mordred shouted out in pain. He shoved Mags backwards. She stumbled but kept her balance and grabbed the ornate solid silver boat on the nearest shelf, holding it like a two-handed club.
"Threaten me again, and you'll be entering the Games with so much poison in your body that you'll collapse before you take three steps away from the landing circles," she said, panting for breath. "Get out."
Mags' felt a pang of empathy as she saw the two exchange a desperate glance. Failure, death. She knew that feeling all too well.
"I will tell you one thing," she said, her voice hard. "The means don't justify the end. If you win, the means will haunt you all your life. Anger will give you an illusion of strength, but it will kill you if you lose control. Know yourself and don't let your mind wander. A trapped mind weaves excuses or creates terrors. You've watched the Games, and surely you think previous tributes were cowards, stupid and forgetful." Mags face darkened as Barclay gave a minute nod. "They were just as smart as you and me. You are your worst enemy." She cracked a stiff smile. "You may still want to keep an eye out for Onyx."
Barclay nodded again, his fearful brown eyes not leaving her face until he shut the door.
Mags wiped her flushed cheeks. She winced and pulled her sleeve back. Her right forearm was a single nasty purple bruise, following the red lines left by the five large fingers which had dug in her skin. She'd have to ask Lucian to get Mordred medicine and find something for herself.
The two boys shouldn't have been let free to wander. Avoxes and escorts were not supervision enough. Mags hadn't thought the tributes would ever threaten her. What a naive fool she made.
"I know poisons," Sable said with a calculating smile. "You want me to kill them first?" Her pale eyes were much too innocent for her words. "Sponsors will be aplenty, just send me a coated blade."
"Kill those who are direct threats, don't seek Mordred or Barclay out until then. Petrel is your priority."
Mags couldn't believe she was treating Sable as her personal assassin. She wished someone would burst in, would stop her before she sank any deeper. She couldn't do nothing, but playing the Games as the Capitol intended it... And yet she didn't stop.
Sable nodded, a disappointed pout on her lips. "Constantine didn't set fire to the Scavengers... Should I say something special during the interviews?"
Don't speak of that fire.
"Petrel is a boy, boys can be insensitive. Why don't I train the two of you together so he learns not to be rude to you? And we'll talk about the interviews."
Sable might poison Petrel if she felt rejected.
"Great." Sable laughed, a high-pitched trilling sound.
A knock on the door announced Petrel and Valentia.
Mags glowered. "You're turning up just now?"
Petrel shrank on himself. He swiftly pointed at Valentia. "She took a long shower."
"You took no shower," the raven-haired girl shot back. "Some finished early, we're on time."
Mags nodded, pushing back her irritation. They weren't to blame for the scare Mordred had given her.
"What is she doing here?" Petrel said, glaring at Sable.
"Sable's your new ally."
Petrel's expression would have been comical in another context.
"Fine, I'll go hang out with Fills," Valentia said, her lips tight. "Her escort is cool with having people over."
Mags nodded again, proud the young woman handled this with so much calm. Fills. A nickname for friends to use. Mags' heart clenched.
They would die, one by one, all of them.
"Really?" Petrel finally whispered, eyeing the older tribute with a mix of fear and awe.
"Really. She wants you to win," Mags said with a strained smile. This was going to be fun.
Date: Year 10, August, a year after Mags' victory.
To compensate for last year's unbearable secrecy, this year's Games will be entirely transmitted half an hour after the actual events, and there is more, my friends! Want to see a touching child have their happy ending? Annoyed the arena does not provide your favorite tribute with the opportunities they deserve? Eager to bet with your friends and share a laugh? Send your favorite tribute money, through their mentor or escort, to boost their chances and be quick, for there are no refunds and the tribute supply will soon dwindle. A lot may happen in half an hour..."Mags whimpered, her sweaty fingers clutching the covers, as the ominous whisper amplified by her troubled subconscious chilled her bones. "Are you rrrr-ready for the challenge?" Flickerman roared.
A booming desperate voice wiped the simile of the interview scene away. "The hangman!"
Mags shifted over in her sleep, wishing the clamor away.
"It's the hangman, it won't leave!"
Go away! It was close, too..
… close.
Startled, Mags hands flew before her, colliding with something warm. Something which was pinning her down on her bed.
"It won't leave," the voice wept.
Alcohol vapors mixed with an overpowering stench of incense filled Mags' nose and mouth. She almost gagged.
Bianca. Mags took a deep breath, forcing oxygen in her sleep-deprived brain.
"Calm down, you'll wake Petrel and Valentia," Mags huffed, struggling to get up with the other woman almost lying on her.
"But it's the hangman," Bianca repeated, her features slowly revealing themselves as Mags' eyes adapted to the gloom. "Always, always the hangman. It won't leave," she wailed, horror choking her voice.
A surge of unmasked irritation clenched Mags' jaw.
Was this some kind of new victor hazing? Had she missed the memo that said to bar the lock-less door in order to get some sleep?
The interviews had put her in a terrible mood. Petrel had been so nervous at seeing the size of the crowd that he'd left Marcus to liberally interpret his mumbles for three whole minutes, shattering his valiant young hero angle; Valentia and her girlfriends were depressing, sobbing noisily in each other's arms unless they were pried apart –with bug spray, courtesy of Lucian – and with Vicuña off on mysterious errands and even Mattock much too moody for company, Mags was left spending the long training hours with Myia when, in such conditions, she'd rather have stayed alone.
Oh, Mags, I'm sure Petrel would have had a higher score, at very least a six, if he'd been allowed to train with weapons his size. Surely they did not expect him to do as well as the older tributes with those huge heavy weapons?
Mags scowled at the memory. She was so much of a coward she'd pretended to cheer up at Myia's words. She had wanted to look for prospective sponsors, but they had been told they'd have to wait until the morning of the Games.
And Valentia and Petrel were as good as dead. Mags was working her tail off for pure show and a misguided sense of responsibilities, as if she'd be less guilty if she finished the day as exhausted and miserable as her tributes.
Mags was in a foul mood and Bianca and her bloody hangman were about to make her snap.
"Bianca, the Games are death, the hangman's just one type of it. It won't be your death, please get off me and go take a shower"
"But -"
Bianca yelped as Mags finally managed to sit up properly.
Mags caught herself as she was about to shove the drunk woman off her bed.
She had spent the last six days keeping a brave face on for the condemned tributes. This woman was alive, would remain so, and needed help. It would be absurd for Mags to encourage Petrel and then kick Bianca out.
She stifled a sigh. "Bianca, calm down," she said in soft tones. "I won't make you leave, let's just talk. I'll go turn on the lights and you can show me how the hangman appears and explain to me what the cards are trying to tell us."
She could almost hear her sanity packing its bags and leaving, and yet a warm feeling invaded her limbs as Bianca wiped the last of her tears.
"Mags? Mags!"
Mags hastily threw on a robe and went to join the early rising Valentia at the already set breakfast table.
The raven-haired girl was looking at her quizzically. "Why was that woman in your bed?"
Mags' lips twitched despite herself. "I'm amazed you didn't wake up with the ruckus she made. Bianca fell asleep and I was too tired to move her."
And Bianca had looked so exhausted that Mags hadn't had the heart to order her to leave. The bed was large enough for two.
"We'd had a big day," Valentia pointed out acidly. She paled as the knowledge this had been their last night in the Capitol sunk in. Her dark eyes dropped to the floor. "I need to talk to you about something, I'm sorry."
Mags frowned, wondering what Valentia had to be sorry about. Had she allied with someone who wanted to target Petrel? Did she think Mags would be upset at her for wanting to live?
"I'm from Sickleport," Valentia admitted after a pause.
Mags' eyes widened. Sickleport was less than an hour away by rowboat from Creneis, but it didn't explain why Valentia was sorry.
"Remember Genny and Calder?" Valentia said, her voice now the barest whisper.
Mags paled. How could she forget? Esperanza's kidnapping tormented her nights with greater vigor than the Games themselves or even Kyle's pleading green eyes. She would never forget that fear, the burning soul-sucking awareness that life was a crystal sphere and that yours was about to shatter.
Genny and Calder, like Kyle, had had to perform long hours of communal service to serve their sentence but, unlike him, they had also suffered ten lashes of the chafing hide whip. Mags had made sure their wounds were treated, or Genny would have lost her leg, but the victor now feared it had done little to douse the resentment of the two misguided rebels.
"They've been planning..." Valentia shook her head. "Calder's brain got locked in his head by the waves. He stutters so bad now and he gets so angry. The elders said he deserved it, they treat him like a boy, and most agree, but some... Genny limps and she was Douglas' girl. She fancied herself a lady, marrying to a town boy and all, now she's nothing and she won't work. Her parents kicked her out after a while, telling her they'd only match what she made on her own. Circe, she's twenty-two," Valentia exclaimed, her face a mix of pity and disgust, "but she gets food from somewhere. She's been going off a lot, I think to Creneis. Calder's lost without her now, since none will have him until he apologizes proper." Valentia shook her head again, this time in disapproval. "You don't mess with the elders."
"They believed I turned Sickleport over to the Capitol, that he's the victim because he was flogged but that everyone's forgetting it?" Mags guessed, her voice harsh but resigned. She wasn't as naive as she once had been about what the word 'rebel' could conceal.
"Mags, I don't know. I just know something's on. Genny used to mind me when I was a girl, so I mind her more than most. I'm sorry I didn't care enough to ever tell no-one, but... be careful." Valentia shrugged. "I don't think they can do much, but..."
"Thanks, I'll keep my eyes open." Mags' face fell and she grasped Valentia's hand in hers. "And thank you, for caring enough now to tell me instead of being worried only about yourself, and for this whole week, for never once making an issue about my training Petrel, almost exclusively."
"I'm not as young. I can't dream like he does." Tears misted Valentia's eyes. "My aunt Abril, she caught a sickness," she began, her breath hitching. "It... it sucked her strength from the inside, every day a little more. She shrank, she lost her energy, her mind, her voice." Valentia's horrified eyes were far away. "She was beautiful, I know that. I remember thinking that, Mags," Valentia said softly, grasping the mentor's hands so hard they turned white. "But I can't see it anymore. The sickness, it sucked the memories out too." A choked sob wracked her throat and Mags wrapped her arms tightly around the shivering girl. She shut her eyes to stop stinging tears from falling.
She was the mentor, she couldn't cry.
"All the good memories and beauty." Valentia wiped her nose with the napkin. "I will jump, even if I promised Fills I wouldn't, because if it isn't quick..." Her breath hitched. "I won't, I can't end like Abril, and the Games, they do that. It's worse than death. I don't want it to hurt. I must jump, before the minute is over," she whispered, burying her face in Mags' chest.
"I understand," Mags said, for there was nothing else she could say.
It was a madness. A stampede.
The wooden floor of the luxurious conference room shook as an army of hysterical Capitolites in the garish sleeveless ripped clothes that had replaced the winter's feathers and furs elbowed their ways towards the victors and escorts.
Next to Mags, Comet promptly disappeared beneath the table that was their only shield against the human tsunami about to crash against them. Mags itched to do the same, but she couldn't afford it.
Vicuña and Rowan, the oldest victor, were the only ones smiling at the advancing sponsors, shoulders squared and arms open. Mags plastered a smile on her face. She locked eyes with Mattock who had to mirror her stiff posture.
The rest was chaos. Voices overlapped, people shoved each other out of the way, people insulted others' choice of tribute with unrestrained glee, sometimes forgetting the mentors struggling to keep up with the ledgers.
" - launch a novel collection, Petrel Zander will incarnate the melding of carnal awakening and the spiritual immaculateness of childhood's waning years. I shall -"
"He'll incarnate the melding of rotting flesh and cold earth if we have to wait for the end of one of your speeches. Do let the others come close, Aquarius," Lucian said with an expression of absolute scorn.
Mags bit back a smirk. Lucian was delightful when he insulted Capitolites instead of her or the tributes.
The accused fashion designer glowed red with outrage. "Boy, if your mother was not such a dear friend, I would -"
"Oh my god, you're financing Petrel?" A familiar accented voice squealed. A panting Myia squeezed up to them. "Of course, you are." She giggled. "How could I doubt your sharp eyes and unfailing instinct?"
If the man puffed up any more, he would explode. Mags began to suspect there was a ribcage alteration to give Capitolites a rooster's inflatable chest.
For once, Myia was a blessing. She made introductions and dragged well-known men and women to her stand, vaunting Mags' mentoring skills and appealing to the sponsors' daring streak. The azure-haired wisp of a woman looked enthralled by the attention, and Mags was happy to let her have her minute of glory.
"You shall damn well buy her a shotgun if I give you my money, you silly man!"
"A motorcycle, I'm sure a lad from the technology district can handle a ride. Imagine him, a sweet bike, and that feisty Skye chick, she's a right piece, high maintenance-like, the perfect gal. I'm going to pay extra for you to get them on -"
"Do you think Seven will become a Career District?"
"Is it legal to sponsor for an powerful aphrodisiac if the tribute is underage? I believe no young man should die without having known -"
Mags' head was beginning to pound. She wished she'd been given a list of prices, to know the true value of what she had gathered for Petrel and Valentia in the last hour.
"District Six offers two tributes," Bianca called out, "they're fresh, my tributes, rosy and sweet! Sponsor my tributes!" Bianca shouted, her voice rising with every word. She slammed her tarot deck on the table. "Fresh tributes, sponsor one and I'll interrogate the stars reading."
The near empty District Six table was suddenly swarmed by onlookers.
"Ah, the Capitol and its flair for talent," Bianca exclaimed, her hand clutching her heart. "FRESH TRIBUTES," she bellowed again, stunning the crowd with the power of her lungs.
Mags couldn't hold it in anymore and burst into irrepressible gales of laughter. A market place, she should be ashamed to laugh. It was the most inappropriate type of humor, and yet she couldn't stop.
"Gossip," Rye echoed, "sponsor, M'ladies and gentlemen and I'll sell you the juiciest gossip on your favorite victors."
Excited clamor greeted his outrageous claim. Rye spread his arms out with a knowing smirk.
"Rowan, Larix, shut Rye up and I'm giving your girl a tenth of my earnings," Vicuña called. Her safe was by far the fullest even if Mordred's half-naked escort had amassed a sizable sum.
The broader Larix was quick to move. Mags tried not to be too obvious as she stared. She hadn't wanted to barge in the two men's quarters uninvited just to gawk, but was very curious about the oldest living victors.
"Come and get it, maggot-eater," Rye spat, crossing his arms belligerently. "I know stuff, you won't stop me."
"Place your bets ladies and gents," Bianca called with a bright smile.
The drama-starved Capitolites were quick to cooperate, elbowing their way into a ring around the two men.
A bell toll resounded before the victors could start throwing punches. A deathly silence descended on the whole floor.
Mags craned her neck but she couldn't see above the crowd.
An unmistakable voice filled the air, causing Larix to scramble back for his table. "The Games start at two. This isn't a zoo, try to do this in an orderly way, or we will close sponsorships."
Achlys left as quickly as she had come in. People moved out of her way like dried leaves blown away by an autumn gale. Her guard seemed almost superfluous. Needless to say, the President's ensemble was neither sleeveless nor, perish the thought, ripped.
Mags was astounded to see orderly queues form. She could not have imagined an emptier threat, and yet threaten to take the Capitol's brand new shining toy away, and they turned into docile chastised children.
The morning passed by without another incident. It was one o'clock, the tributes, alone with the stylists since after breakfast, were doubtless dressed, fed, their trackers in place, and it was high time to go to the official mentoring room.
Mags grabbed a pile of bank notes before Lucian could lock the safe. She walked up to Bianca.
"That's for the 'fresh tributes' holler," she said with a rueful grin, handing over the money. "I'm not buying Petrel Aquarius' horrid trench coat or whatever it was, exaltation of purity or not."
The woman's eyes grew even huger. She tugged nervously at her silver-brown hair. "Mags, you know what that money could mean."
"And I know what feeling useful means even more, Bianca. Take it, I needed that laugh."
Mags swallowed when the older victor threw her arms around her.
"The hangman, it was there," Bianca said, pointing a trembling finger at the giant screen.
The ropes Marlin had sold to the Capitol.
Maze of ropes in a tree. Bridges and paths, small and wide linking platforms together, stretching across a small forest the size of Creneis Town.
The twenty-four tributes were being lowered down on twenty-four small platforms which were all linked to a huge central platform from which left a half-dozen rope bridges. Small transparent bags each holding a water bottle and a knife were all over the platform. Twenty bags. The tone was already set.
Cameras zoomed on Petrel and Valentia on the two portable screens before Mags. They wore full protective suit, solid running shoes and thick gloves.
The countdown flashed on every screen and television. Some tributes were weeping from stress, doubled over and clutching their stomachs.
Under the eight mentors' horrified eyes, the blonde Maple from Seven, deathly pale and shivering, fainted.
The platform exploded.
Mags kept her eyes riveted on the screen, not daring to turn towards Rowan and Larix. They'd known her, they'd mentored exclusively for her and fought for sponsors like men on a mission. Vicuña's ten percent were lost before they'd even had a chance to spend them.
The eighteen year old was a mere memory, words and pictures already beginning to fade in the minds of those left behind.
Mags wasn't foolish enough to seek meaning.
The silence was broken by Valentia's desperate scream as she jumped off the starting circle.
"Why did she do that?" Eleven's escort complained. "She was allied with Phyllis. This ruins our strategy."
Mags clenched her fists in sudden rage. Strategy? That shallow hag had no - Mags took a calming breath.
Safe journey, Valentia, wherever you are.
3, 2, 1... 0. Cally from Ten, a tall broad-shouldered young woman with powerful running legs, shot through the rope bridge and to the central platform as if chased by all the demons of hell. She grasped a couple of bags and disappeared before Onyx, the second fastest, could arm himself.
The shock of the two girls' death was such that many waited another whole minute to leave the landing platforms.
Febrile and clumsy, the skinny girl from Three, who, Mags couldn't help but notice, had decidedly not gone through with her desire to commit suicide, slipped. Her hands failed to hold on to the ropes. She slid through the nets with a startled shriek.
The undergrowth was thick and softened her fall. She rolled over, scrambling to her feet. Howls caused all tributes to freeze.
Large mutts -genuine dogs?- this time Mags couldn't tell, were rushing towards her.
The girl screamed and tried to run, but the collared dogs, massive beasts almost as big as her, were much swifter. The one in the lead grabbed her by the collar and started dragging her while she screamed, her hands desperately trying to latch on to the grass.
Mags' lips parted in shock when she realized the hounds had dragged the fifteen-year-old up to a ladder climbing back up into the trees.
The tribute's screams had stopped, but she shook her head energetically, terrified at the idea of going back up.
The dogs (mutts?) began to growl, baring gleaming canines.
"I have a fear of heights, damn it!" Lemma shouted in despair.
"Oh right," Comet muttered. Her hands flew to her tactile screen.
Mags mentally jotted down the time.
The disabled boy from Ten, Brandus, cursed loudly and jumped down before he'd even the large platform where Onyx stood patiently, holding a knife and making a pile of the other bags. The nineteen other tributes seemed to wait for someone to distract the armed volunteer from One before risking themselves.
Brandus smiled at the dogs, which now numbered four, and Mags realized that behind his stupid expression hid some keen instinct, and rushed without prompting towards another ladder, bypassing the Career entirely.
"That's a lad," Mattock said with a ghost of a smile.
A fair few seemed to agree, and while the nine feet drop into the undergrowth scared some, Phyllis shouted out at her district partner, a short mixed-race youth with a large nose that looked like it had been broken once too many time, and they both jumped down, with the ease of people used to climbing the trees of Eleven's orchards.
Except this time, the Gamemakers didn't seem to enjoy seeing the loophole exploited. The dogs charged and leaped for the neck.
Mags didn't need to look, the ripping noises, barks and shrieks was enough to make her gag.
"I hate this district," Eleven's escort said, throwing down her tablet. "The one time I get a decent tribute, we don't have recaps until the very end. I hate it!" She growled, slamming the door behind her. She wouldn't go very far, not when the Capitol had to wait half an hour to see who had survived the first minutes of the Games.
"Bad dog," Brandus began to shout on the main screen, milling his arms in an attempt to chase the creatures away, "bad, bad dog, get off the people, get off!"
But it was already too late. The dogs sat down next to the corpses, their jaws dripping with blood and their tails wagging enthusiastically at the upset disabled tribute.
"Mutts," Mags muttered, now certain. She felt sick.
The girl from Three gasped when a parachute with pills bumped into the back of her head.
Mags' eyes flickered to the clock. Two minute fifteen seconds. Sponsor gifts took two to three minutes to deliver. She would remember that.
"We all need to run together, now!" Petrel suddenly bellowed, rushing out of his narrow bridge.
"Gotcha," Sable shot back, darting out.
Onyx hesitated, and Mags could see his calculating mind assessing that Petrel was no real danger and that Sable was his district partner.
Others mistook his inaction for indecision. Jack, Skye, Barclay, Mordred... soon they all were running.
Onyx bolted, straight for the girl from the power district. Skye had distinguished herself with her throwing knives in addition to her fiery personality, a fatal mistake.
The volunteer from One and Mordred seemed to have split the platform between them, and either armed or bare-fisted, turned on the other tributes.
Skye snapped her head to the side and leaped, seemingly at random. Mags then saw she had a parachute in her hand. She flashed the white-haired escort from Five a curious glance. The ample woman had incredibly swift reflexes.
Onyx was almost on her. Skye threw the contents of the parachute to the ground.
Smoke filled the screens.
"Grand idea, now we can't see a thing," Two's bare-chested escort exclaimed, slapping his thigh in frustration.
"I'm paid to keep her alive," Five's snapped.
"Shut up, yeh loons," Rye grunted, spitting out a beer cap.
A girlish scream cut the air, followed by a grunt of pain and a deeper, heart-rending cry. Fist hitting flesh, feet pounding wood, wails of pain or fear, calls between desperate allies, the smoke hid a pandemonium, but not for long.
Petrel stood frozen on a rope-bridge that would have lead him to relative safety -but only if he moved!-, Sable was waiting right behind him, eyeing the massacre on the main platform with wide curious eyes.
Mags moved her lips soundlessly, begging them to flee.
The brunette from Five was out, empty handed and bloodied but running. The boy from Nine who'd been right behind her had succumbed from Onyx's blind attacks, setting off a litany of colorful curses from Rye. Vicuña's protegé, to whom all the tributes gave a wide berth, had now turned on the doe-eyed girl from Eight, who stood paralyzed at the edge of the platform, stuck between Onyx, her landing zone and the hounds.
Her death was swift and silent. Mags blinked, unable to believe someone could go just like that, snuffed out like a candle. Her mind struggled to process the deaths as real.
Comet's gasp drew her attention to the wiry Jack. The boy was struggling with the nets all around the platform, cornered by Barclay. A violent kick in the ribs ripped the ropes from his hands.
Jack fell. The wind knocked out of him as he hit the ground.
The hounds were already running. He curled up, shivering as he awaited his inevitable gruesome death.
The mutts stopped besides him and began to shove him with their snouts, leading him to another ladder. Brandus seemed to decide then that he had spend enough time on the ground and started climbing with Jack, helping the wounded boy up.
Don't fall intentionally. The rules were clear.
Ragged wheezes caught the attention of the treacherous cameras of the main screen who now zoomed on Mordred's victims. The wooden platform was slick with blood.
A sob escaped Bianca's lips. The limp boy was short and skinny, so much younger than his sixteen years. His hands were still clutching the piece of rope strangling his neck. His even younger district partner, the second of Valentia's new friends, had disappeared, clutching the hand of Alexandra from Two, an enemy evidently turned ally in the whirlwind of the Games.
Another corpse lay face down on the filthy platform, his red hair sticky with blood and the number eight woven into his uniform.
District Eight's young escort left the room in tears.
Mags stood up to hand the sobbing Bianca a tissue, sparing the too-silent mentors from Seven a worried glance. They still looked under shock.
Mordred was swinging torn pieces of rope like whips, his eyes lingering on Onyx, who was slowly disappearing between the trees.
"You forgot your bag, stupid," Petrel shouted, hitting Mordred square on the head with one of the free bags. He'd taken only one other, but Sable had snatched three.
The broad-chested young man stumbled as he made the mistake of wanting to grab the falling bag. His fingers wrapped around the handle but the movement had unbalanced him. He caught himself in extremis on one of the longer ropes. The mutts were circling under him jumping up with fangs bared, almost grazing his shoes, their barks covering every other noise.
Mordred pulled himself back up with one arm, displaying fearsome strength. He groaned as he climbed back on the platform, his cheeks flushed from embarrassment.
"They're all fleeing now, do we chase or explore?" Barclay asked, his arms tightly crossed. "Onyx's gone after the Three girl, we should keep away from him. Two's a threat."
"Leave Alex alone, she's not mine, or yours, to kill," Mordred replied sternly. "The large alliance is still intact, Skye's too pretty to stay wounded long, let's go."
Jack, Skye, the couple from Twelve and now Brandus too.
Those poor children.
Petrel and Sable were alive. Mags clenched her jaw, forcing her mind to concentrate on what she could buy.
The list of goods blurred before her eyes.
Twenty minutes, it had just been twenty minutes. Mags could barely breathe.
The sponsor phone next to her rang. She mechanically stood up to go to the nearest booth, where she could have some privacy. Vicuña and Mattock were already negotiating.
"District Four, Mags, listening," she said, her voice still hoarse.
"Hello, Mags?" A high-pitched voice said.
"Yes, it's me. Would you like to sponsor a District Four tribute?"
"It's Plutarch," the voice exclaimed, bubbling with excitement, "and I want Petrel to win. How much do you need for a big spiked mace?"
Mags almost dropped the phone. Plutarch? He'd seen this... bloodbath, and he wanted to sponsor? She could hear the smile on his face, and couldn't comprehend it. She clamped her mouth shut, afraid she would throw up. It was obscene. Why Plutarch? He was a little boy!
"Mags? Can you hear me?"
"How much do you have, Plutarch?" She said, forcing herself to sound natural. The boy was nine. Nine!
The number Plutarch proudly gave was enough for a fluorescent bandage, maybe a bottle of juice or a small spear, but Petrel had other sponsors, Mags could lie.
The young woman felt terrible, for it was also enough to buy a small rowboat in Four, so doubtless all of Plutarch's earnings. It was disgusting.
"Actually, I changed my mind," Plutarch said, "he needs an ax or something cool to hack the ropes and make the others fall."
"He'll get a large weapon soon," she promised shakily. Sable wouldn't be getting poisons from Vicuña, so Mags had better start looking.
Mags realized she was crying. She couldn't stop. She stood near the silent phone, her chest wracked by silent sobs. The mentor's room was misery and death and home... home was so far away.
Mama, I can't do this.
It had barely begun.
Character recap:
Living tributes: 15/24
District One: mentor Vicuña (7)
Onyx, 18 volunteer (killed 2)
Sable, 17 volunteer
District Two:
Mordred, 18 volunteer. (killed 3)
Alexandra, 16 reaped
District Three: mentor Comet (8)
Lemma, 15, volunteered
Jack, 16, wounded
District Four: Mags (9)
Valentia, 16, DEAD (Early start)
Petrel, 12, volunteer
District Five:
Skye, 15, wounded
boy, 18, DEAD (Mordred)
District 6: Bianca (4)
girl, 15
boy, 16 DEAD (Mordred)
District 7: Rowan (1) and Larix (3)
Maple 18, DEAD (Early start)
Barclay 17
District 8
girl, 14 DEAD (Onyx)
boy, 18 DEAD (Mordred)
District 9: Rye (6)
girl 18
boy, 18 DEAD (Onyx)
District 10: Mattock (5)
Cally, 18
Brandus, 16, volunteered, disabled.
District 11
Phyllis 18 DEAD (Hounds)
boy 17 DEAD (Hounds)
District 12
girl, 17
boy, 16
Please review.^^