Cicero and Caesar were yapping again. This mutt and that trap in the forest – it all blended into the background for me. As far as the 97th Hunger Games were concerned, I didn't care about the little details, like the hidden pit of spikes that awaited the two from District 4 if they chose to traverse the ravine. I didn't care that the huge flying mutt was based off of some mythical creature. I only care that Fenton was still alive, even as he nursed a shoulder gash he'd sustained tumbling down a small gorge the day before.
He was alive, and I still had a reason to care.
In truth, I felt guilty as I watched the two talking heads. I hadn't spent nearly as much time courting sponsors as I should have, even if it might not have tipped the odds that drastically in Fenton's favor. He was still alone in the cloud forest, the mist choking him off from others and cutting his visibility down to a few meters at best. Every tree loomed out of the fog like a black specter, hardened and ready to smack him down the moment he turned his back. I wasn't sure all the money in the world I could gather would change things right now, even if it might change his supply situation. Fenton had a small knife he'd recovered from a supply cache hidden beneath a forlorn log, and he was doing well on dry clothes and food given our sponsor drops. We sure couldn't guarantee him anything like a sword, however.
For now, it was a waiting game – waiting to see what the other seven tributes remaining would do first.
"Always the tedious part," said Elan, watching as the two from District 4 probed the misty ravine ahead of them on our office television screens. "Once there's only eight left, the producers tend to get caught up in interviewing people back home. This is the point they grow interested in their characters as more than meat. A little late to flesh out their stories, I think."
He and I were alone in the office. Daud had retreated to some hovel in the Capitol to drink with Johanna and Haymitch, while Finch had left for sponsorship duty once again. She seemed more and more restless by the day, with every hour Fenton lived on adding to her stress. I felt it, too, but I didn't know if selling my time was the cure.
"How many of these have you watched?" I asked. I leaned back in my chair and watched, less interested in Cicero and Caesar and more interested in Elan's answer. He was always well-informed.
"Fifteen years as of next as an escort," he said. "I began with District 11…but that's a long story. Another time, maybe."
"You promised me that you'd share it. You're not like…like a lot of escorts. Not so fussy."
He smirked. "We all have our tastes. The other escorts, me, everyone."
"Fine. Different question, since you seem to know everything. Do you know someone named Gar?"
My escort paused and raised an eyebrow. "You end up in some strange conversations."
"I overheard the name."
"Of course. The things we innocently overhear. It's so easy in this city," he said. Elan turned away from the screen and folded his hands. "From what I overhear, you wouldn't want to meet the man."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I don't know any Gar personally. I've never met any man with that name face-to-face. But I've heard the name in passing, and I know someone in a dark corner of the Capitol who could tell you more."
I opened my arms. "So…arrange me a meeting?"
"Not an easy proposition. You see, the someone in question…she doesn't live in a part of the Capitol like this. This city's a lot larger than its villa district and the metro center, and there are parts where the buildings never shined. It's hushed up by those in the know here. Even the most well-polished toilets have a stink, after all. In these parts where the excrement flows freer than money, simply setting up a meeting with a crime boss takes a little more than a polite request."
"A what?"
"I'm a little shocked you're so surprised such elements call this city home. After all the people you've been consorting with over the past few weeks…"
"No, it's just…"
I bit my tongue. I was doing a lot for Creon's vague request to unearth clues about his father's death, especially when I had only scraps and guesses to work with. Still, I'd gotten this far down the tunnel. I'd gone too far to let myself walk away without some sort of payoff at the end of the road, even if my own curiosity was my biggest driver.
"How do you know this person?" I said at last.
Elan shrugged. "I grew up with her, several dozen children and I who ran around the streets in Auburn's Belly. She lived two blocks away from me when I was six. If you could call them blocks."
My eyes bulged. "What?'
"Like I said, that's for another time. Save your shock until then. I have to procure something to earn that conversation in the meantime, something that will take a day to arrive, knowing where it's coming from. Don't spend too much time in here. It's a bit too sterile for my tastes."
Elan strolled out the door, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the television. I wasn't wrong in thinking he knew everything. Every time I talked with Elan gave me something new to think about, but more than anything, I wracked my brain over why he was an escort if he was telling the truth about his background. If he'd come up from somewhere horrible to this, why keep prancing around on the Hunger Games stage year after year? I had no doubt he had enough money to do whatever he wanted. Why keep leading doomed children to the arena?
The television didn't give me much time to dwell. I had to worry about another potentially doomed child: Brocade and Achilles wandered through the misty forest not twenty meters from where Fenton cowered in the underbrush, his breath heavy. He'd heard them, clutching to his obsidian chunk for protection, his back pressed against a thick tree trunk. I reached for someone to hold onto and found myself alone. Digging my fingers into a cushion provided my only relief. Dammit, we should've given him an actual weapon.
On the screen, Brocade grunted. "We're not finding shit out here. It's just wet and everything."
"I've been pretty dry. Apart from the fog that never lifts and the constant rain and the fact that my shoes are lakes," said Achilles.
He received a grunt in return as Brocade steered them towards Fenton. Go the other way. Hear something. My thoughts were in vain.
Fenton had trouble keeping his breathing quiet as panic crept over his face. Brocade didn't hear it as he passed by the tree, but Achilles stopped short nearby. He bent down and picked up a fist-sized rock from the ground, turning it over in his hands.
"The hell are you doing?" Brocade berated him.
Achilles shrugged, and in one fast motion, hurled the rock at the base of Fenton's tree. Fenton yelped as it struck him in the gut, and it wasn't a moment before Achilles brushed aside the leaves that camouflaged him.
Brocade grinned. "Huh. Hiding. We did find something. Who the hell're you again?"
Fenton was in no mood for chit-chat. He didn't look eighteen any more: Fear flashed in his eyes as he pressed himself against the tree, swallowing hard and gripping his rock. Achilles looked back and forth between my tribute and his ally, his eyes narrowing. "Go on and get it over with, Brocade. I'll let you have the honors. This is boring me already."
"Pansy," said Brocade, smirking. He hefted his axe, smiling at Fenton as he said, "Any famous last words, or things? At least give 'em your name."
"Please," Fenton begged at last, dropping his rock and holding up his hands. "There's only a handful of us left. I'll do anything. Please. Just don't."
I dug my nails into my palms. I knew what happened next, and I was powerless to intervene.
"Can't do that," Brocade said with a shrug. "Sorry, man."
He lifted his axe over his head. Fenton held up his hands – and a blade plunged out of the front of Brocade's stomach.
The boy from District 1 gasped. He still clutched his axe as he pressed one hand to the wound. Blood spilled out, a river of crimson gurgling up like a hot spring from beneath his shirt. Brocade stumbled back as Achilles yanked the blade out.
"W-w-what?" Brocade stammered, his voice weak and timid. Achilles's face was stone, not a single emotion playing out over it. "Why d-didn't –"
Achilles didn't let him have his famous last words. He batted aside Brocade's axe and swung his sword. The blade connected against the base of his ally's neck, cleaving like a guillotine through muscle and spine. Brocade's head landed in the wet earth with a soft piff as his body stumbled, contorting, contracting, hands shaking, before slumping down in a pool of blood and collapsing in the dirt.
Fenton gasped. His lip quivered as he stared at Brocade's head, its eyes still wide with shock. As Achilles wiped gristle off of his blade, Fenton managed to stammer, "Th-thank –"
He didn't finish. Achilles ran his sword straight into Fenton's heart, not a flicker of emotion on his face. It was mechanical, surgical, execution at its most logical and routine.
I screamed, turned, and buried my face in the cushions.
/ / / / /
Drink number three tasted just like numbers one and two: Full of bitterness.
An invisible hand squeezed my heart as I threw back another swig of the foul-tasting clear liquid. Thump. Thump. Each heartbeat strained and pressed against the grip. Tumbling between confusion and drunkenness, my mind searched for reason. Why? Why, the question of why the Hunger Games had called Fenton and Mari's name in the first place. Why, came the question with no answers on why I'd spent so much time dabbling in Creon Snow's game rather than attending to my tributes, the ones with lives on the line. Why, wondered the wisps of hate that snarled at Achilles for his cold-blooded murders, at Brocade for his arrogance before a helpless opponent. Why, asked the voice in my hand that vacillated between self-condemnation and bewilderment.
Gray. Everything looked gray. Gray walls lined the Training Center's communal floor. Gray room, empty except for me and my drinks. Gray floor under humming gray lights. Gray couch. Gray television screens I'd turned off as soon as I walked in. Outside, gray towers and gray streets under a wet blanket of gray clouds.
I kicked the leg of a chair. Good. I felt something – pain, but something. That was good. At least I felt.
The glass looked tempting in my hand as I emptied its contents on the floor. I didn't want to feel this vacant throbbing in my chest, and the pain in my foot at least felt better than that. It was present, hot, colorful, better than the squeezing that laughed at my pathetic attempts to leave me in drunken peace. With a crash, I smashed the glass against a tabletop, breaking away two-thirds of the glass and leaving but a jagged, sharp shard in my hand.
It bit my finger when I pricked its edge. I ran the glass along my palm, wondering what color the blood would be if I pressed it into the skin.
I hadn't expected company, but that's what I got when the elevator doors whirred open. The last person I wanted to see walked out, frowning and squinting as he did.
"Why the hell is every light in here on?" Drake asked. "It's like a freaking – why is the floor all wet?"
I scowled at him and raised my glass, remembering I'd broken it only when I jabbed my lip with the edge. I swore and pressed my hand my mouth as Drake laughed.
"This is a real happy occasion," he said as I turned away. "You're sitting here, drinking alone – or not really drinking, considering you broke your glass. What are you doing?"
"Piss off," I spat.
He sighed. "Is this really how you're gonna cope? Terra, this is pathetic."
"Oh, real empathetic. Thank the gods you're here. I wouldn't have managed without."
"'Gods.' Crazy religions in your outlying districts."
"Do you want something? Are you just here to mock me? Go ahead. Mock away. Bastard."
"Terra, I'm not –"
"You know, Finch told me about your mother. Annie. Did she like, pass on crazy to you? Is that why you think this is all funny?"
He frowned and narrowed his eyes. "First off, you're the one who's been a first-class jerk to me the whole time. Secondly, that's really low and uncalled for. Even if you're just trying to hurt stuff, since that's apparently the only way you get things out."
I couldn't help it. I pitched the fragment of my glass at him, missing by a mile and hitting the wall, but it was the thought that counted. Growling, I turned away and shoved my face into a pillow. Tears broke free from the dams I'd struggled to keep up, right at the very moment when I'd hoped to keep them back. Wonderful. Give Drake something else to laugh at you about.
To my surprise, he didn't say something demeaning. He didn't say anything. Drake slumped down in the seat next to me and put a hand on my shoulder. I brushed it away, angry, torn, hoping to drive him off. It didn't work.
"Don't touch me," I moaned.
"Fine. Won't."
"Leave me alone."
"No."
I don't know why I did what I did next. I turned away from my cushion, tears streaming down my cheeks, and planted my face into his chest. Nobody else was around to cry into, and his torso made a good pillow. He paused, unsure of what to make of me before reaching around and holding my back.
"Just get it out," he said.
I pawed at his shoulder, clutching whatever I could get my fumbling hands on. "I'm sorry," I blubbered.
"Don't worry 'bout it."
"I don't have anyone else."
"Terra, just shut up."
Fine. If I had to use him as a tissue, so be it. I didn't care.