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Night Three.
A Cannon in the Wind;
The Fifth Hunger Games.
Vesper Quinn, 18;
District One Male.
The Capitol Anthem roars throughout the Arena, obnoxiously loud.
As I've been doing since the first night I got here, I poke my head out the window to see who the unlucky victim of today was. Silently, I hope it's a member of that stupid Pack — but realistically, I know how unlikely that is. If one of them is going to die, I realize that I'm the one that's gonna have to do it.
And as usual, I'm right. Grinning widely is the boy from District Five, his pixelated face brightening up the night sky.
I sigh, retracting my head from the outside world and closing the window. Of course it had to be one of the brats to die. It's almost the fourth day in the Arena, and not a single contender is out! This year's Games are going along pretty slow, compared to most of the others. I don't think I can complain, though; considering I've done nothing but stay in this house, only leaving to collect rainwater, it's not like I'm doing anything to speed up the process.
I'm surprised, if anything. Except for yesterday, when I had to fight off hordes of stupid talking animals, there haven't been any real attempts at my life. I thought that my outburst during the interviews would attract that old Gamemaker's attention — but apparently, I was wrong.
The Capitol just doesn't care about you, says a rather soft voice in my head. It almost sounds like the twelve-year-old me. Shaking my head, I start pacing around the room — but I can't rid myself of that thought. They don't...care about me? But I practically called the entire country a bunch of idiots! Shouldn't I be having a more challenging time right now?
...The answer to that question, I realize, is a bitter no. Why should my angry words onstage have anything to do with my time in the Games? They don't give a damn what I say, almost as much as they don't care about what that girl from Six said. To them, I'm just a bitter eighteen-year-old boy who's only purpose is to bring entertainment. Why should my words mean anything to them?
I should be feeling relieved at the fact that I'm not being targeted, but I'm more angry than anything. Just like back in One, the Capitol doesn't give a fuck about the things I say or do. It stings. It brings back memories I'd rather keep locked in the closet.
"Fucking bastards," I grumble, feeling a strange surge of energy flowing through my veins. Anger, sadness, even regret — they all mix up into one overwhelming feeling as I kick and kick and kick the wall in front of me.
Why doesn't anyone care? Why? Am I really so fucking irrelevant that an old man can't even be bothered to press a button and blow me up? Am I really so unimportant that my so-called friends can't even convince their parents to let me stay with them? Is it really so hard for someone to just give me a bit of their fucking time?!
Why does nobody care about me?
I don't know where these sudden emotions are coming from. Is it because I'm in a place that could be the site of my death? Is it because I'm finally feeling the effects of abandonment after years and years of loneliness? I don't know. Tears are streaming down my face, but I'm scowling at the wall in front of me as I continue to try and kick another hole in the building.
All I really want is to be acknowledged — even if the acknowledgment is negative, even when it annoys the hell out of me. My parents tried to give me the world — but the very second they died, I was lost in a sea of people who just didn't care. My friends didn't care, their parents didn't care, and everyone else barely looked at me because they just didn't care.
I don't know why I didn't realize it before...but I guess it does make sense for me to be a little thirsty for attention. I don't even remember the last conversation I had back in One.
I stop kicking the wall, panting, wiping the tears out of my eyes. "Dammit," I mumble with a hollow chuckle. "They actually managed to hurt me without doing anything. I really, really hate the Capitol."
I seriously do.
About to go to sleep for the night, I start walking to the bed. Tomorrow, I just might leave this house and go hunting for other tributes. Not like I want to kill or anything, but I really do just want this thing to be over.
But suddenly, stopping me dead in my tracks, I hear a door in the house creak open. My breath hitches in my throat. What is that?
Seconds later, I hear a nervous voice. "Hello? Is... Is anyone in here?"
A tribute, male, and on the older side of the spectrum. My mind goes through the possible options of who this person could be as I simultaneously grab my tomahawk off the bed. The guy from Twelve, the guy from Ten, the guy from Nine, the guy from Eight... Shit, there are too many options. If I knew it'd be such a problem in the future, I would've bothered to memorize every tribute's voice. Unfortunately, I didn't — and now some random guy is coming into my shelter in the middle of the night.
I can hear him slowly walk into the house, not bothering to close the door behind him. I grip the weapon in my hand, standing frozen in the middle of the room. It'd be stupid to go out there with it being so dark, because he could easily get the upper hand. When he opens the door to this room, that's when I'll strike.
But what if he doesn't do that? What if he just decides to stay somewhere else in the house?
I silently exhale, furrowing my brows. That's just something I'll have to risk, because I am not going out there. Not because I'm scared, but because I'm smart.
I wait for what seems like an eternity. Every so often, I feel like I can hear his soft footsteps, but then there are times when I want to believe he's gone. After waiting and waiting and waiting, I slowly lower my weapon, glaring at the door impatiently. Is he seriously not going to check in this room?
I'm about to stomp out there and give the intruder a piece of my mind — but just like that, my eyes catch onto the shine of the bronze doorknob slowly turning.
The door swings open. My heart beats harder than it's ever beaten before. Kill him! I don't even get a chance to see who it is; as soon as I get a glimpse of the shadowy figure in front of me, I swing my tomahawk to chop his head off.
"Ah!" The boy somehow manages to jump back, avoiding the fatal swing of my weapon. My tomahawk sinks deep into the wood of the door — and before I can pull it out, the boy dashes away.
Shit! Blood pumping, adrenaline coursing throughout my veins, I pull as hard as I can to get my weapon out of the door. But it won't budge. You can't let him get away, I tell myself, gritting my teeth. Chase him! Hurry up!
I shake my head and charge out the room, abandoning my tomahawk and sliding a long knife out of my pants. It's not as long and powerful as my weapon of choice, but it'll have to do.
I dash down the dark hallway, listening in for the boy's frantic footsteps. Upstairs. I run over to the dilapidated ladder and start climbing, ignoring how worn-out and wobbly it feels. My only objective, the only reason I'm even chasing this guy, is to kill and rid myself of another competitor. Everything else doesn't matter.
This is the only thing that matters. I crawl onto the second floor and immediately jump to my feet. Up here, there are no rooms, but instead boxes and boxes of old knit-knacks. That guy must've thought that he could escape up here — but no, the only escape for him is death.
He stands a few feet away from me, frowning, his dark eyes boring into my own. As my eyes get more and more accustomed to the darkness, his features start to become more and more distinguishable. The dark-skinned District Four guy. Wasn't he allied with those other two girls?
When he sees the knife in my hand, it's almost as if there's a war raging in his mind, before he slowly takes out a dagger of his own. I tense; if it's a fight he wants, it's a fight he's gonna get — but in the end, it doesn't even matter. He's already dead.
"...Well?" He says, practically croaking the word out. The trembling of his hands prove how scared he is, but the intensity of his eyes prove otherwise. "Are—?"
"Why are you in here?" I demand, interrupting whatever he was planning on saying. I don't know why I'm talking; every bone in my body is telling me to run up and stab him in the chest, but it's like there's something else in pit of my mind, nagging at me to...to...
He shifts. "I didn't think there was anyone else here. Not... Not you, at least." The way he says that, like I'm some sort of monster, almost makes me laugh. Almost.
"Well, I'm here." Stop talking. This is pointless. Kill him! "Now what?"
His brows furrow. He takes so long to respond that I almost think he's not going to say anything at all — but then, a humorless smile settles on his face. "You could let me leave?"
For some reason, the thought of him walking out of this house and forgetting all about this encounter fills me with dread. I can't let that happen; I don't know why, but the feeling of neglect is overwhelming me right now. I know, in the end, he's going to die if I'm going to win — but I just can't rid myself of my earlier thoughts. Nobody in this world cares about me, no matter what I do.
I grip the knife in my hand. I'll make them care.
Without even answering his question, I charge at the guy. He stumbles back, shocked, and that's all the advantage I need to raise my knife and stab at his chest. Fortunately for him, he clumsily blocks my strike with his own knife. Metal grinds against metal as he pushes my weapon away and fearfully stabs at my shoulder. Move! I side-step, just barely dodging what could've been very painful. A long, thin line of blood cuts down my arm, though. He got me.
It's my turn to strike. We're close, almost face-to-face, his eyes widened and swimming with emotion. I look away; I can't hesitate, not now, not ever. Stabbing at his torso, I scowl when he backpedals, putting space between us and inadvertently saving his life. Just die! I don't give him any chance to breathe. As soon as I catch my footing, I rush him and slash at his eye.
He's fast — fast at running, but not at fighting. He tries to evade the attack by bringing his head back, but my knife connects with his cheek and forms a pretty deep gash along the side of his face. He screams, bringing his knife up and slashing frantically, doing anything to get away from me. For a moment, I just stare at him as he brings a trembling hand to his bleeding face and winces.
He won't forget that. He'll care. The Capitol will care. I don't know where I gained this complex from — but at the moment, I don't care. Not know, when I'm seconds away from ending a boy's life and proving myself as more than a shit-talker.
"D-Do we really have to do this?" He asks, voice soft, staring at the floor instead of at me. I'm about to respond when, all of a sudden, he charges at me and quickly slashes at my chest.
I don't feel the pain, not at first. At first, all I can feel is the heat spreading across my body and the indignation flowing through my veins. But then, like a waterfall, the scorching pain hits me and forces a loud, guttural scream out the pits of my throat. He actually got me! My vision goes red and blurry, matching the blood pooling out of my chest, and a terrifying feeling of anger lodges deep inside of my brain.
I don't think, I just move. I run up and stab at his neck. He parries my blow and knocks my knife to the floor. Undeterred, I pounce on him, tackling him down to the floor and slamming my fist into his nose. He screams — and at the back of my mind, I realize that I should watch out for the knife still in his hands. But the fiery anger is too great and I punch and punch and punch until my hands are wet with blood that's not my own and he's screaming and I'm screaming and—
Something hard and meaty slams into my temple, knocking me right off of him. I fall on the dusty wooden floor, groaning, my vision blurred and a non-stop ringing in my ears. Pain is erupting all throughout my body, and the stickiness of blood makes me squirm uncomfortably.
I should be getting up and doing something. But I literally can't. I'm exhausted, and hurting, and I think he punched my equilibrium off because everything is spinning. So I don't do anything except lie on the floor, my groans mixing in with the District Four boy's pain-filled moans.
This is so stupid. Another wave of anger hits me, but this time it's for the Capitol. How dare they force us to fight like wild animals? How dare they force us to kill each other? I'm not above doing anything if my life is on the line, but it's the fact that I don't have a fucking choice. It's always the Capitol who decide what happens, always the Capitol who decide which lives get fucked. And I hate it. I hate, hate, hate them.
I'm not going to let them decide anymore.
"Stay here," I mumble. I can tell, as soon as the words leave my mouth, that the Capitol is displeased. They wanted death and blood. I'm not giving it to them.
It takes a moment for the District Four boy to respond. "...What?"
"Stay here. I'm letting you stay here, in this house. I'm not going to kill you." I exhale, more pain prickling across my chest. "We can... We can momentarily ally."
He's going to die. I'm not distancing myself from that fact. I'm going to win, and he's going to die. But it doesn't have to be now. Life is cruel and pointless — but for once, I can enjoy the time I have left. I won't let the Capitol continue to take away my energy, day by day.
"After... After we just tried to kill each other?" He exclaims incredulously. I can tell by the way he keeps pausing that his face is in excruciating pain, but so is my chest so we're about even.
"Or you can leave, I don't care." I do care. I don't want to be alone anymore, I realize. I don't want to wither away in this house and become someone evil. Because I might be abrasive, but I'm not evil. I'm still human. "I'm just... I'm done playing by their twisted ass game. I'm done."
Slowly, I crawl to my feet, wincing every five seconds at the mess of blood on my shirt. I'm going to need bandages, bandages I don't have. At least I have painkillers. Looking over to the District Four boy, I notice his knife a few feet away. That's why he didn't stab me when I was on top of him.
I dust myself off, trying to endure the pain. And then, I stare at the dark-skinned boy, the same boy who was seconds away from killing me. He slowly sits up, wiping the blood off of his face, and then stares at me with his dark eyes. For a moment, we just stare at each other, knowing what must ultimately be done but neither of us really wanting to do it.
"Can I... Can I think about it?" He asks me.
I snort.
"No. Either say yes and sleep up here for the night, or say no and get the fuck out."
There's silence between us as he tries to answer my suggestion. I roll my eyes, suddenly tired of standing, and turn around. I can't deal with this. I'm slowly losing blood, the pain is unbearable, and I'm fucking exhausted. If he wants to think about this all night, he can. I don't even care anymore.
Whatever he ends up doing, I can sleep easy tonight knowing that I spoiled the Capitol's fun. They should've killed me when they had the chance.
Eion Daltier, 18;
District Twelve Male.
It's the third night of the Hunger Games, and we're still alive.
I'm still alive.
I don't know when I started thinking in terms of myself and not the entire group, but it's unnervingly become easier and easier by the day. I mean, I love Isabel and Ricky like I've known them my entire life — but when the deaths start to show every night, it reminds me that these two people I've grown to care about will eventually have to die if I'm going to make it back home.
It's a horrible thought, but it's impossible to clear out out of my mind. Not here. In the Capitol, I could be my charming self and pretend that nothing bad would happen, that everything will somehow end up okay. It's procrastination at its finest level, sure, but I am ultimately just a teenage boy. And us teenage boys procrastinate.
Here in the Arena, though, it's like every shadow is a clear reminder of death and gore.
I see myself as a positive person — but this place can make the most hardened optimists break into tears.
I want it to end. I want this terrible, horrifying, inhumane game to end. And yet, at the same time, I don't want it to end. Because when the Fifth Hunger Games come to a close, I'm either dead or my two friends here are dead. And I can't... I just can't deal with the whirlwind of emotions that'll wreck my mind if Isabel and Ricky die.
But you'll have to deal with it, I can hear Adina say, watching me on her family's television. She's always been the most intellectual of my group of friends, the one that knows what needs to be done and how to do it. You don't want to die, do you? If not, you need to mourn for your friends right now, because you can't let their impending doom stop you from coming back home.
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Shut up!" I yell, slapping myself against the head. Multiple times. Anything to get rid of my friend's mature voice. It's so painful — because I know she's right, I do, and it makes me absolutely nauseous to think of my two friends as corpses. I've always been the guy to act on impulse, to use my emotions as the strength to keep going. I can't realistically dehumanize Isabel and Ricky. I can't. I know I can't, I know I'll never be able to handle their deaths — and yet the thought of my death is so much scarier, so dark...
...And then there's the thought of me actually being able to cope with their demise and win this. That scares me, too, because that means the Capitol would have successfully turned me into their perfect little tool. I refuse to change for their enjoyment. All of my morals, my entire life back in Twelve... I can't just throw that away.
And that's why you're dead, I hear Adina say, loud and clear. Her voice has never sounded so cruel before. It's the Capitol's influence. It's like just being in this place is enough to fill your brain with horrible thoughts.
"Eion!" Isabel exclaims, forcing me out of my thoughts. I blink back into consciousness and force my eyes to concentrate on both Ricky and my District Partner. "A-Are you alright? You just started hitting your head and screaming..."
Usually, I'd tell Isabel exactly what's wrong. I'd tell her how scared I am, that I can't realistically be the leader she and Ricky expects me to be. I never, ever keep my emotions to myself — but somehow, I manage a thin smile and nod.
"I'm... I'm fine," I lie, feeling a sharp spike of guilt eat at my torso. I can't possibly tell them what's bothering me, no matter how much I want to. If I'm not the one to lead this group, who will? One of my strengths is how perceptive I am, and I know for a fact that my two allies can't handle the responsibilities of leadership. Isabel would crumble, and Ricky would curl into himself. I'm the only one who can take on this daunting job.
If I don't, I'd have given up. And I can't bear the thought of giving up. I can't bear the thought of all three of us dying.
"If you… If you need anything…" Ricky's quiet voice carries to my ears. I look over at him, and he gives me one of his signature small smiles. "Um, there are still a few berries in the bush outside. I-I could go and—"
"No, no, I'm fine." Forcing a grin on my face, I get up and sit beside my ally from Ten, bringing my arm around his shoulders. He tenses at first, but then he slowly relaxes. Ricky should be use to my random displays of friendship by now, honestly.
Right now, we're in this dark dilapidated house — the one right in front of the pond. We've been taking shelter in here ever since the bloodbath, only going out to snag berries from the bush outside and to get water from the pond. There were a few talking animals outside, too, strangely enough. They were friendly, showing us the different type of berries we could find and which ones were dangerous to eat. Though it was a bit unnerving, we found ourselves slowly trusting the animals.
That is, until the second day of the arena. When we woke up, it was storming outside, and the animals had gone insane. They started screaming very choice words at us, calling Isabel a useless bitch and Ricky a stuttering coward. Being the guy I am, I started screaming things back at them, angered by the fact that they dared said those horrible things to my friends. A fight broke out. Isabel ran away, terrified, while I grabbed Ricky and led him to the kitchen. Both of us armed with butchering knives, we fought the animals head-on.
I shiver at the memory of those animals, gutted open and bleeding all over the floor, screaming at us even when their lives were slowly fading away. Their blood, running down my hands, stained on my arena outfit…
"You… Are you okay?" Ricky asks, talking low. I open my mouth to respond candidly, to tell him that I'm not okay, that nobody in this place could possibly be okay, that I'll never be okay.
But I don't — because the arena changes everyone, and it's trying to change me so fervently. I know that telling my allies all of my fears would just make the mood a thousand times drearier. I know that if I were to start talking, I wouldn't be able to stop. I wouldn't be able to control my raging emotions.
And I can't break down. I want to; it'll be a relief; but I can't.
"Yeah, I'm cool," I lie, giving him another one of my signature grins. "Just cold."
Cold with fear, I should say, but the look Isabel gives me makes me reconsider that thought. She's always so fidgety, especially now that we're in the arena, and I don't need her to think I'm not the same confident Eion she befriended in the Capitol. I don't particularly know what Ricky's response would be, but it's her I'm most worried about. I know about her insecurity issues, and how if it wasn't for me, she would've died in the bloodbath.
I'm always trying to make her feel better about herself, but it's getting harder to do that when I'm starting to feel the effects of being in here so long.
"So," I begin, trying to start up a conversation. Right now, we're all stuffed up in this room, because it was pretty much decided that staying together would be the safest thing to do right now. "What now? Who died today, Isabel?"
My district partner looks up from her hands, casting me an almost nervous look. "Um," she starts, voice low. "The District Five boy, Michael…"
The fact that she remembered his name almost makes me feel bad about myself. I only remember London because she's Ricky's hilarious but competent district partner, and I remember the names of the Pack because they're the most dangerous. But that's it.
"So that makes seventeen tributes left," Ricky says, before turning a deep shade of red when our gaze turns to him. "I, well, I used to work as a cashier so…"
"So you're good with math." I don't know why, but I laugh. Maybe it's another way of me trying to get things back to normal, even when I know things will never be back to normal. "That's so...you."
At this, Ricky actually chuckles. "Thanks?"
We continue the small-talk for a while, which is basically just me talking and Ricky giving a short response. Isabel doesn't say anything — but when I look at her, she discreetly gestures to the air around us. I understand immediately; she knows that we're more-than-likely being recorded and broadcasted, and if I know anything, it's that Isabel despises attention.
I'm about to open my mouth, tell her that she shouldn't be shy of the...people that are watching us. But suddenly, before I can speak, a loud creak reverberates through the house and breaks open our peaceful silence.
Someone's coming in the house. Isabel jumps up, her being closest to the door, and rushes over to where Ricky and I are. There's a terrified, wide look in her eyes. Quickly, both Ricky and I stand up, staring at the wooden door in front of us. Who is it? Is it the Pack? What are they going to do?
I don't really have time to think. Before either of us can plan our next course of action, the door to our room flies open. Standing there, with her face in a tight grimace, is the little girl from Six. For a second, it's as if time stops as we stare at her and she stares at us. Just from looking at her, I can tell she's been through a lot more things than we have.
"...No." With that simple word, the girl from Six slams the door and I can hear her footsteps walking right back out of the house.
I don't say anything; I clench the knife that I unknowingly picked up from the floor, letting out a breath of relief. Thank Panem it was only her and not some psychopath. I know we've had it pretty lucky so far, considering all the past Games, but I'm still not ready to actually fight another tribute for my life...
"That was intense," I say with a small chuckle, hiding the misery out of my voice. With a sigh, Isabel falls to the floor, hugging her knees. I know she won't be in the right mindset to do anything for a while, not after what just happened. And Ricky...
I glance at the boy from Ten. In his trembling hands, too, is a knife. When he catches my gaze, he sorta smiles and grimaces at the same time. I grin back — and this time, just like old times, it's a real grin.
At least I have him to watch my back. I might be slowly cracking, day by day, but one thing will at least stay the same. Our friendship won't crumble under the foot of the Capitol.
Daniel Church, 17;
District Seven Male.
"And another day passes," I mumble, as my younger ally and I walk through the deserted grasslands. I wait for a response, but then silently ridicule myself immediately after. Of course he's not going to say anything.
Tet hasn't said much since that muttation attack. I don't know whether he's traumatized over the fact that he killed a living creature or traumatized over the fact that he was so close to being eaten alive. Whatever it is, it's made him a lot quieter than he already is, with an almost haunted look in his eyes.
I'm worried about him, but there's only so much I can do before I border on annoying. I'll let him have his space. When the time is right, he'll be back to his usual quiet but helpful self.
If you even have any time left. Look at where you are, Daniel. I instantly block that thought out of my mind. I can't dwell much on the ticking clock of mortality; I can't dwell much on anything until I get revenge for Iris.
She's dead. Every time I close my eyes, I can hear her piercing scream, see her body sprawled across the floor. I was there, right there — and yet, due to my arrogance, I let my allies slip from my mind. I thought they'd be alright. I didn't... There was no doubt in my mind that any of them would die in the bloodbath. And yet, as I was busy fighting against Kostos, Vesper took that opportunity to murder her.
Hate is such a strong word, but it's the only word I can think to use at this moment. Absolute loathing courses through my veins whenever I think of that District One guy. If it's the last thing I do, I'm going to eliminate him from this competition.
You reap what you sow, after all.
"Well, I suppose we can rest here for the night," I say, gesturing to the vast expanse of grasslands. Not like there's many options to choose from. I glance down at my ally from Three, who's as despondent as usual. "You should get some rest. Don't worry, I'll take the first shift."
"Okay." With blunt indifference, Tet drops his backpack to the ground and zips it open, taking out a small blanket. It came with the sponsored medicine. Thinking of it, my gaze lowers down to Tet's arm, meticulously bandaged by yours truly. He doesn't complain about it, but I have enough medical experience to know that it still hurts, if only slightly.
I look away and up at the dark sky, clouds floating overhead. Today, Michael Riverbee from District Five died. I remember asking him and the girl from Six, Ceres, if they wanted to join us. Michael wanted to, initially, but changed his mind when Ceres quietly pointed out all the negatives of working with us.
I close my eyes, momentarily praying for the small boy. Rest in peace.
When I open my eyes, that moment of kindness vanishes. I can't focus on the other tributes anymore. It's the third night of the arena, and all I need to worry about is Tet, myself, and avenging my departed ally. Everything else is background.
Even Calla.
I stiffen at the memory of my district partner. She was always so friendly, so smart, so good. There aren't too many good things in this world anymore, but she was one of the rare ones. And now, because of my mindless rage at Iris' death, she's dead. And I don't even know who killed her.
It makes me sick to not even know. I want revenge so bad — and yet the only thing I can blame is myself.
I always told my brother that being a vindictive person was not the way to go, that it'd only lead to more dead people — but now that I've actually experienced loss, it's the only thing I feel will make me whole again. This world doesn't target anyone specifically, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't feeling attacked right now.
I toss my backpack to ground, sighing as I sit down and hug my knees. It's a very unbecoming image, but for once, I don't really care about my image. I'm in the Hunger Games. I'm in the Hunger Games, fighting for my life against other teenagers. Because my brother was hardheaded and irrationally ambitious, I volunteered to save him from what I assumed was nothing but bad. I volunteered to save him from his own inner demons.
I want to say that I made the right choice, that nothing is too much for Luke. But did I really? He wanted to volunteer. He wanted this madness — all for a bigger goal, of course, but still. And here I am, wrought with anger and guilt, with a despondent thirteen-year-old genius as my only living ally.
You don't want to be here. I wince at the voice of Luke, ever so blunt. You idiot. I was going to change this world, and you just ruined it. All the hundred of kids that'll die in the Hunger Games from now on, it'll be your fault!
Your fault that Iris died. Your fault that Calla died.
Your fault that Tet will die.
Clenching the medallion around my neck, I bite back a sob. I don't need this kind of drama. I don't need to be in this damned arena, killing innocent kids just to keep my own neck. I don't need to be feeling guilt over both of my allies' death. I don't need to be doing the bidding of the Capitol, when they're the most evil beings in this universe.
And yet, that's exactly what I'm going to do. If not, I'm going to die — and pretentious I may be, I am not a Marty. I do not want to die. I don't want the deaths of Iris and Calla weighing on my mind, either, which is why I'm going to eliminate— no, kill Vesper Quinn. I'm going to kill him.
If I don't, I'll break down. I need him to die. I need to regain my good conscious.
"Where is he?" I ask the invisible cameras around me, standing up. I look around at the arena around me, silent save for a few crickets. "Please," I beg, feeling my voice take on a whimpering tone. "Where is Vesper Quinn?!"
I don't expect an immediate answer. I expect for nothing to happen and for me to sit back on the ground, embarrassed and suffering. But suddenly, like a beacon of light on the stormy sea, I hear a soft ding and see a small parachute fly down towards me.
I grab the parachute, tossing the note away — it was something irrelevant, no doubt — and gaze my eyes on the best thing I've seen since coming here. A map of the arena, with a small compass attached. I grin, reading the paper as best as I can under the moonlight. There's the Cornucopia/Barn right in the middle of the place. Situated evenly around the Barn, miles and miles apart, are three houses with a pond in front of one of them. To the left of the Arena seems to be large tree, while to the right is what looks like a sea of crops.
One of the houses are circled, though, with the letter V written beside it. And almost at the edge of the map is another circle, with the word "you" written next to it. My smiles gets bigger, extraordinarily so. With this map, I'm going to find Vesper. With this map, I'm going to kill him.
It's the only thing I can do at this point. It's the only way I can regain the sense of composure I've managed to keep up my entire life, despite everything that's happened to me.
Tomorrow, Vesper Quinn is going to die.
No Deaths.
Author's Notes: Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait of this chapter. Summer is officially over for me, and starting this Monday I'll be back in school. It sucks, I know. Of course, being me, I procrastinated dreadfully on my summer assignments and had to spend quite a bit of my time working on them instead of writing. So yeah, I'm sorry. ;-;
I'd also like to apologize if this chapter seemed bad or lazy. I kinda wanted to rush through this, because nothing was happening (other than the first POV) and it was pretty boring to write. Thankfully, things REALLY speed up after this chapter. Prepare for a lot of action and angst, everyone!
What are your thoughts on each of these tributes? Which POV was your favorite and why? Which POV was your least favorite and why?
You're walking around the arena, and that's when you see a little twelve-year-old girl, crying. She recently lost her allies to the Careers. You know killing her would be so easy, but do you really want to hurt this little girl? What do you do?
Well, I guess that's all I'm going to say. I don't know when I'll next update. Depends on how much work I have at school, and maybe even the amount of reviews I get. *wink*
Bai!