+ Experimenting a bit with the writing style for this chapter. Feedback always very welcome!
/ / / / /
I shouldn't have cared about the fight. The Hunger Games were over for me and District 5, our tributes dead. This oncoming show down between the two kids from District 4 and Achilles from District 2 wouldn't decide whether or not I had a child to mentor next year. Yet I fought back nerves as I sat on a couch on the tenth floor of the Training Center, Phoebe next to me, the two of us waiting for the 97th Hunger Games to conclude.
We'd welcome one of these three kids to our ranks next year. I could only imagine the anxiety Drake and Finnick felt now, so close to winning, yet potentially facing the agonizing decision of watching one of their tributes kill their partner. It wouldn't be like what I'd done to Glenn. This wouldn't be a mercy kill. It'd be a kill for the win.
I'd barely paid attention to the two of them, but I knew what their winning must mean to the Odairs. For Finnick's sake…and maybe even for Drake's, as hard as that was to admit to myself…I wanted them to win. It didn't hurt that their competition had killed both Mari and Fenton without a shed of remorse. If I had anyone, anyone, in the arena to wish an early death on, it was Achilles. Maybe it was fate returning the favor for what I'd done to his brother, but right now, I didn't care about balancing accounts like that. I wanted revenge for my kids.
Phoebe tucked her legs in to her chest and said, "It's not very dramatic."
I disagreed. Galan Greene and his Gamesmakers were doing a great job setting up the fight in my eyes. Rain had just begun to poor, turning the foggy, soaking, chilly forest into a quagmire of mud and sludge. Achilles had figured out what time it was: The boy sat on the lowest step of a terraced stone pyramid the size of a five-story building, his sword in his hand, the rain plastering his hair to his forehead. The downpour had made the stone plaza around him slick and treacherous.
Outside the Training Center, the Capitol's night sky was no less foreboding. Thunder rumbled far off in the distance like some old beast calling from the depths. Dry lightning flashed over the mountains to the west, just a flicker, but enough to tell me a storm was on its way.
The two from District 4 were on their way. I lay back against the cushions, closed my eyes, and waited for what came next.
/ / /
The man couldn't shake the words.
In the minutes and hours after the meeting, the man had brushed aside the information. Unsubstantiated counsel from an untested source. Why had he trusted his informant in the first place? He had no more reason to trust her than he did any of the others who whispered advice and intelligence in his ear, a round-the-clock white noise of secrets and lies.
He wished he knew how much of each his counselors told him.
The two men flanking him were silent as they walked up the drive to the colossal villa. They had reason to be: The man hadn't picked anyone to accompany him. Certainly not simple bodyguards: These two were members of the Black Rings, the best of the Peacekeepers' best, signified by the dark bands on their arms. If nothing else, they knew how to hush up about things.
The villa's owner was out. She'd be watching the Games with her posse, out until the sunrise or later, indulging in who-knew-what until the world hazed over. The man didn't understand the appeal. He hadn't resorted to such shallow entertainment when he was young and in his prime, but then again, he hadn't lived here, either. Not in a villa, not in the Capitol, and definitely not in a place where the Hunger Games were the end-all, be-all for most people on a stormy summer night.
Even though the giant house was empty, the man pulled his cloak's black hood over his face as he approached. He'd told no one he was coming. The owner, most of all, couldn't know.
"Stay outside," he snapped at his soldiers as he stepped up to the gold-inlaid front door of the place. "And bar entrance to anyone."
One order was enough for the guards. The man pushed open the door, stepped inside, and let it close with a thunk behind him. The rumble echoed in the bright foyer, a dazzling, glittering entrance hall large enough to host the Capitol's most luxurious parties. The man sighed and lowered his hood. He shouldn't have let it come to this, but the words ate away at him, the suspicion nagged and refused to go away. The accusation sounded preposterous.
But how much did the man really know his daughter, or what she was capable of? It'd been his father who had raised Calla.
Creon Snow sized up the hall, took a breath in, and pulled a pistol from his belt.
/ / /
The downpour had grown so bad that the two kids from District 4 didn't look like they could see more than ten feet in front of them by the time they arrived at the pyramid.
"That must suck," I murmured, only half-listening as Cicero and Caesar blabbed about the odds of the coming fight.
"Duh. I think the death stuff probably sucks enough," said Phoebe.
Achilles stood up as he saw them. His sword was thick and strong, but for all its power it lacked anywhere near the reach of the spears the two from District 4 carried.
"Would you two mind hurrying up?" he called. "I'm wet."
The boy from District 4 stopped his partner. He nodded to the left: "Go that way and cut him off. I'll handle him at first."
"Screw that!" she argued. "I'm fighting too."
"Just –"
"I don't care what you say. We'll fight him together."
Achilles watched without a flicker of emotion. "Like what they've done with the place?" He said with a fret, glancing up at the sky. "I'm not a fan of the weather. Every hour it gets worse. Mutts drive you here? Lightning or something? I doubt you just waltzed up to me."
Upon receiving no reply, he sighed, "Fine. Can't have a conversation. I'm Achilles. What's your name? Names?"
The girl scowled. "Mela."
"Hm. Mela. Mela and…?"
The boy grunted. "Mela and Grunt," said Achilles. "Fine. Mela and Grunt, are you really that eager to stab me to death? Is that on your list of pressing concerns? I mean, I don't remember doing anything to either of you. We could just talk for a while."
"Grunt" wasn't having it. He charged ahead of his companion, lunging at Achilles and whiffing.
The boy from 2 sighed. "Just can't talk with these creatures."
He wielded his sword, and suddenly, I saw what trained fighters in the Hunger Games could really do. These three were more than Delfin and Acheron. Grunt lashed at Achilles with his spear, metal clashing on metal as the boy from 2 blocked, hopped away, and swung laterally. He struck air as the boy from 4 dodged, his partner whirling in for a strike. Achilles was a blur. He countered Mela's blow, forcing her spear back as Grunt jabbed again, missing by a hair.
Clang! The sound of angry steel howling against steel drowned out the downpour.
/ / /
The house was too quiet for Creon's comfort. Calla wasn't one to station guards around her estate, but he couldn't be too careful. His daughter had left Cassandra with Bera and the Sharpes more and more recently, but what if the girl was home? He couldn't very well convince his granddaughter, the one and only one person he cared about, that he was here on innocent business. That would be convenient, but a lie. He wouldn't lie to her. Unacceptable.
The archives. That was what Terra had said. Creon kicked himself inside for trusting the girl. Terra Pike seemed the honest sort, and she'd been so much more agreeable than everyone else he'd surrounded himself with. Taurus was too ambitious and controlling. Lucrezia was too unpredictable. Cyrus was stuck in the old ways and unable to move on from Creon's father. Julian was a hedonist. Galan was a cretin masquerading as a Gamesmaker. Rigel didn't have an original thought in his head. Deceivers, all of them, consciously or unconsciously. Some no better than thieves.
When he took office, Creon knew he had to surround himself with advisors who could tell him an honest, hard truth. He'd been met with the worst sorts of both spectrums, those who would lie for their own sakes and those who would lie because they knew no better.
Terra? She was new, fresh, an unknown commodity. He'd seen dreams in her, brains too, but also fear, timidity, and anxiety. She was scared about what would come next. Did that make her a liar as well, or someone frightened enough to tell the truths that had to see daylight?
For whatever reason, Creon had listened to her. The nagging voice in his head wouldn't let him turn her information away without seeing for himself.
The spy drone he'd released that morning told Creon where to go. The fact that it got into Calla's estate told the president his daughter didn't have a great mind for security. Basement. Second level. Concrete staircase behind the hidden panel with the bookshelf. Calla watched too many spy thrillers.
The basement was a far cry from the rest of the house. Here it was dark and gray, all metal and cement and functionality, whereas the rest of the house was designed to impress the Capitol's socialites. Creon kept his gun out as he descended. Even though he'd gotten this far without incident, he had no idea if Calla had guarded her data archive with any defensive measures. How had Terra Pike of all people learned about this?
For a sixteen year-old girl from District 5, Terra was useful.
A hallway loomed down the second floor as Creon stepped away from the staircase. He clutched his gun, but his heart didn't race. He'd faced this kind of thing before, back during the insurrection in District 8 that he'd put down, back during the District 11 riots, hadn't he been the one to confront the dangers of the districts? Sometimes, the dangers came home. Deep down, that commander and soldier he'd once been yearned to be free of the prison that was the presidency.
The air felt still down here. A single door at the end of the hallway beckoned forth. Creon approached, weapon at the ready, prepared for whatever burst out in defense of his daughter's secrets.
With Calla, anything was possible.
/ / /
Clang!
Achilles shoved aside Grunt's spear as Mela came in, swiping at his torso. He dodged and grabbed her shoulder, dancing away as he shoved her towards the pyramid. Retreating from the two, Achilles caught his breath and said, "This – this isn't going anywhere. Come on. We can solve this without rushing at each other like animals. Some – huh – some sort of civilization to this mess. At least a little order. Hm?"
The boy from District 4 leapt at him again, his spear thrust to impale Achilles square in his stomach. He bounced away just in time to avoid being skewered, knocking aside Grunt's spear with his sword before raising the weapon to counter the next blow. He jumped up a step on the pyramid, catching Mela's attack with his sword before lunging at her partner.
Achilles struck Mela with his fist and drove her off, turning his attention to the boy from 4. On and on they fought, their breath tiring, their attacks growing sloppy with exhaustion. They'd been at this for a solid five minutes at least, and by now both were burnt out. Achilles grabbed his opponent's spear shaft, pushing aside and driving his shoulder into Grunt's chest. Both toppled over, and Achilles just rolled away to avoid Mela's killing blow.
"Shit," Mela groaned, catching herself with her hand before swiping at Achilles with her spear and missing badly.
Her partner made the first mistake. "Grunt" lurched at Achilles, his movement sloppy, his attack rushed and slow. The boy from 2 jerked back and caught the spear shaft under his arm, wrenching the weapon away from his opponent.
"Oh no," Phoebe breathed. She grabbed my hand, and instinctively, I clutched her grasp hard.
Achilles took advantage of the mistake. He tossed the spear aside, smacked "Grunt" in the face with his fist, and burrowed his sword up to the hilt in the boy's chest. The boy from 4 gasped gazing down at the wound in awe, baffled by Achilles killing him here at the Hunger Games's climax.
Mela howled. She lunged at Achilles with her spear, a madwoman exercising the last of her strength. Achilles toppled over. He shoved aside Mela's spear a moment before it would have destroyed his face, throwing it to the side and pulling her into him. She punched, missing, striking stone, and yelping in pain. Achilles bit down on her shoulder. She screamed. Blood spurted when Achilles pulled away, bits of flesh hanging from his mouth.
"Pah!" he spat, throwing her to the side and spitting out his mouthful of girl. "Hell!"
Mela had one last burst of strength left. She snatched her dead partner's spear, hoisting the weapon high and bringing it down with a sickening thunk! The spearhead burrowed deep in Achilles's torso. His eyes bulged, his mouth gaped. He looked up at her, unable to fathom how she'd gotten past his defense.
She gasped. Out of three tributes left, her partner was dead. Her opponent fell back, panting, bleeding.
Achilles twitched.
Blood spurted from his injury.
With his last ounce of strength, he reached up and grabbed Mela's hair. She twisted away, smacking his face, desperate to get loose. The boy from 2 wouldn't let go: With every gram of energy left in him, he reached for his sword, clutching its handle with his fingertips and thrusting it upward.
The blade slashed. Next to me, Phoebe yelped as a crimson line opened across Mela's neck.
Achilles threw her aside, blood spraying across his chest. He exhaled, slumped back, and let his sword drop.
/ / /
The door opened without a single line of verification.
Creon stepped into a dark, cramped room, gun at the ready. A half-dozen computer screens lined this place, some active, some not. White and blue lines of text and imagery ran across the open displays. A lone chair beckoned the president to come forward, waiting impatiently in front of a keyboard and a blackened screen.
Some sort of trap? Maybe, but worth the risk. Creon sat down, laying his gun on the console and opening the first security screen he'd found. Basic stuff. It was a genetic scanner, looking for proof that, indeed, Calla Snow was trying to access what was inside. He'd prepared for this. For Peacekeepers and the Capitol army, this was nothing more than standard procedure. Creon swiped a gene sample he'd had ever since Calla's birth across a scanner, accessing the computer without a second's hesitation.
Is this all, daughter? Nothing more to hide your secrets with?
Not all, it turned out. One more security verification awaited Creon before he could access Calla's secrets – and find out if Terra Pike told the truth about his father's death. It was a retinal scanner, a test of one's eyes. For most, this would've been the end.
Not so for Creon.
His own father, Coriolanus, had seen to that. Every Snow since then, Creon included, hadn't needed more than one parent. They had the same DNA, the same physical characteristics, the same everything that made them a dynasty in every sense of the word. There was a reason Calla had no mother, and Cassandra no father. With the Capitol's labs, two parents were a hassle.
Identity confirmed, read the computer as Creon looked into the scanner. Welcome, Calla Snow.
That was that. Now came the moment of truth, the moment where Creon would figure out just who he could trust – his daughter, or the new girl, Terra, the victor who he wanted to dismiss as some district brat but couldn't after all this time. He was afraid of what he'd find. More than anything else, Creon was afraid that he really could trust Terra.
Something was wrong. Black and red lines scrawled across the computer screens. Creon frowned, looked down at the scanners, and waited for some sort of response.
Something shifted. Something mechanical twitched, and the screens went dark. The computer roared. Fire flashed.
/ / /
I gasped as Mela fell, blood spurting from her neck. Phoebe moaned and looked away, covering her face with her hands. Just as I wanted to look away, too, a distant bolt of lightning far off towards the Capitol's outskirts caught my eye.
But it wasn't lightning. It was a blast of fire, a brief snap of orange and white in the direction of the villa district. A shock wave rattled the windows.