Seneca Pelletier - District Seven
Seneca felt better the moment the cream hit her skin. She was not sure how long she had been lying there in pain, drifting in and out of consciousness while around her the world was nothing more than a noisy blur.
Her dreams had been confusing, leaving Seneca feeling restless and unsettled. They had appeared so vivid, so real. There was one steady figure that appeared frequently, a dark skinned boy who flashed through scenes that were almost too fast for Seneca to pick up. The first was of him and another boy playing together; she couldn't remember if they were laughing or fighting. The second was of the same boy a little older, looking down at a twisted and mangled body that lay motionless at the foot of a staircase. The final clear scene she could remember was the boy standing beside an empty hospital bed; his face void of emotion yet still plastered with an unsettling smirk.
There were also some dreams of a girl in white. She had been watching over her, every so often brushing loose strands out of her eyes. Had she been real? She kept telling Seneca the same phrase, over and over and over.
"God will make his decision,"
She gave Seneca a bad feeling; like a parasite worming its way into her mind; and now Seneca found herself thanking god for saving her as the pain lifted enough for her to think clearly.
"You're lucky I stole this before she left," A voice said in Seneca's ear. The young girl's eyes flew open, and she found herself staring at a blank, grey ceiling. At her side was a beautiful blonde girl; had Seneca met her before?
"I was worried," The girl said again. She was rubbing some sort of ointment on Seneca's arm, and the young girl only just stifled a scream at the sight of the large, pus-filled, red lumps that covered her skin. Peering down at her legs, she saw that those limbs were also peppered with the ugly lumps, "It's lucky neither of us were allergic to bees,"
That's when it all came rushing back. Her plan on the hill to snag a caring, older ally who would protect her. Candace falling for the trick and coming to her aid. The bees. The pain. The last thing she could remember was the grassy floor rushing up to meet her. She supposed that Candace was the right person to use as a protector.
"Where did you get that?" Seneca managed to croak. Her throat was raw and her lips were dry, she thirsted for water yet she felt too weak to speak again. Candace scowled at the question, as if it were a great nuisance.
"I got it from a girl," Candace said, the scowl turning into an ugly snarl, "Her name was Liberty. She saved us. Well, she saved me. Refused to save you, don't know why. Kept saying you fell in the middle and she wouldn't do anything about it,"
Seneca winced as another flash came through her mind; Candace arguing loudly with a pale blonde girl. Had that girl been Liberty?
"She insisted that I sleep and she keep watch," Candace continued as she moved from Seneca's arm down to her revolting legs, "Eventually, I gave in. But I managed to swipe the cream before she left. When I woke up, she had left. Weird girl, she was. But she saved my life, I guess,"
Seneca wished she had the strength to speak right now, because then she would be able to tell Candace what an idiot she was? How could she just let that girl watch over her sleep? She could have killed them both! A smaller part of her mind told her that she had stupidly put her trust in Candace in a similar fashion, but somehow, it felt different.
Seneca managed to make a croaking sound, and Candace's head suddenly shot up with wide-eyes, "Oh my god! Water, I forgot!"
She abandoned soothing the pain on her burning legs and dashed for a nearby bag, scooping a bottle of water out and fumbling with the cap, "Liberty left this behind. Weird, huh? I wonder why. Anyways, drink up!"
Seneca spluttered as Candace tipped the water into the younger girls open mouth. She rolled over despite the pain in her legs and spewed a translucent liquid all over the metal floor.
"Oh!" Candace cried, "Sorry, I didn't mean-"
"It's fine, Candy," Seneca said, remembering the ridiculous nickname from before. If this plan was going to work, she needed to keep up that innocent, little girl act for a little longer. She pulled the bottle from Candace's trembling hand and brought it to her dry lips.
The relief was overwhelming, and as Candace began rubbing the cream on her final injured leg, Seneca let out an involuntary moan of satisfaction. She drained the bottle without remorse and tossed it aside carelessly.
"Do we have any food?" Seneca asked sweetly. Candace nodded, finishing up on the final leg and hurrying over to her bag. The red welts were shrinking remarkably quickly, the arm Candace had been working on when she woke up was almost back to normal.
Candace returned with what looked like a cold chicken leg. Since when did they allow the tributes such amazing food. She took the leg and dug in greedily, the greasy skin tasted like heaven on her tongue. She has only been in the arena for a day, how would she survive with only crackers in a few days time?
"Thanks for saving me, Candy," Seneca said between bites with a voice so sweet it almost made her sick. Candace's face lit up brightly at the praise and turned back to her bag. Seneca's sickly smile turned into a darker smirk the moment the girl's back was turned. Really, some people were so easy to manipulate. Now all she has to do is sit back and enjoy the ride.
Yvette Macura - District Eleven
Yvette awoke to a jingling sound she never thought she would hear in her life. Her eyes shot open, and she found herself staring at a wide eyed, and shirtless, Osborne, who watched as a silver canister floated lightly down towards the sleeping form of Ryland.
Ryland jerked awake the moment the capsule touched the floor beside his head, sitting bolt upright as if he had just been harshly stung.
"What is it?" He cried, arms swiping out and slashing through an imaginary attacker. Osborne just laughed at the boy, while Yvette found herself grinning weakly. She was still unsure if she could trust these boys, afterall, Osborne seemed quite ready to decapitate her with his axe. But after sitting up with the boys and talking into the early hours of the morning, she could not help but feel safe with them. Yet at the same time, that doubt still festered somewhere within.
Osborne was like an older brother; the only difference being that Yvette could actually appreciate how handsome he actually was. She found herself staring at his muscular chest as he laughed at the disoriented Ryland, only to flush and quickly look away when he caught her staring.
"Who's this for?" Ryland said, picking up the canister and staring at it as if it were an alien artifact.
"I think it's yours, kid," Osborne said. Yvette giggled as Ryland scowled; she found the interactions between the two very amusing. Ryland picked up the canister and unscrewed the lid, only to drop it in shock as he peered inside the metal.
"What is it?" Yvette asked, only to immediately regret it. What if it was private? He might not have wanted to share, and now Yvette has pushed him to reveal it's contents. Why was she so thoughtless.
Ryland didn't answer, instead he reached into the canister and pulled out a small, yet fancy looking sketchbook. The cover sparkled in the light cast down from flaring bulbs above, and the binder looked as if it were made of gold. There was also a note attached to the front of it.
"You always told me you wanted a sketchbook to carry around with you wherever you went," Ryland read aloud, his voice croaking, "I'm sorry it took me so long to buy you one. Love Dad,"
Ryland held the book in shaky hands, his eyes glistening with tears. Osborne shot an uncomfortable look at Yvette, only to appear dissapointed when she mirrored the expression. Comforting the emotional has never been a strong suit of the girls.
But after seeing Osborne's obvious discomfort, Yvette detached herself from the tangle of cloth she had splayed out on the teacher's desk and padded her way over to the spot on the floor where Ryland sat cross-legged, staring intently at the book.
"He'd buy me anything, you know," Ryland said weakly as Yvette sat down beside him, "My family was rich, and my parents spoilt me stupid. But the sketchbook was always the one thing my dad refused to buy for me. He hated my interest in art. He wanted me to be more manly, I think. I guess I never will live up to his expectations,"
Yvette shifted uncomfortably, "But he's sent you one now. Doesn't that mean he's proud of you?"
Ryland didn't answer. Instead he hung his head low and whimpered. Yvette winced as a tear hit the cover of the book. Oh God, she screwed it up again.
She didn't stand up and back away, but she didn't trust herself to speak again. Instead, she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
It was curious, how quickly relationships inside the arena can develop. She has only known these boys for just over twelve hours, yet she feels closer to both than any of the friends she had back home. Not that she had any friends back home.
They sat like that for a while, with Ryland crying over the book while Yvette rubbed awkward circles into his shoulder. Eventually, moved closer and laid his head on her shoulder. Eventually, the depressing fog that had settled over the classroom was broken by a slam.
Two heads shot up and whipped around to find Osborne standing next to one of the filing cabinets on the right side of the room with a sheepish look on his face.
"Sorry kid. Didn't mean to interrupt your little heartfelt moment over there," He said with a smile. Yvette thought the words may have been a little harsh, but to her surprise, Ryland laughed. Why couldn't she be that charismatic?
"What are you doing?" Ryland asked, his voice cracking as he wiped at his eyes.
"Exploring," Osborne said as he pulled open the middle drawer flicking his fingers through the files, "Most of these are empty, though,"
"What kind of stuff do you draw?" Yvette asked slowly, turning back to face Ryland as Osborne became immersed in his searching. Ryland sighed and looked down at his book.
"Scenery, mostly. Things I find pretty. People, sometimes," He said, a frown creeping onto his face as if he were holding something back.
"Did they send anything to draw with?" Yvette asked. Ryland peered into the canister and shook his head, raising an eyebrow as Yvette face lit up.
"Well, it's lucky I have something," She said, jumping to her feet. She dashed back to the teacher's desk and yanked open one of the drawers. Inside sat a packet of coloured pencils and a byro; alongside a number of other stationery supplies, most of which she scooped up with cupped hands.
She ran back to Ryland with an enormous smile, it was ridiculous how excited she was just to help. Maybe her enthusiasm would scare the boy away, but it had been so long since she had a friend. She wanted to do everything she could to make Ryland like her.
He appeared stunned as she dropped the stationary into his lap, and for a moment she feared he would reject her offering or start crying again. Instead, his face stretched into a wide grin as he peered up at Yvette with sparkling eyes.
"Thankyou!" He said, "Thank You so much!"
"It's really nothing," Yvette said with a blush, scratching her back nervously, "I found them before you guys caught me. It's like they were waiting for you to find them,"
"Do you mind if I draw you?" He said suddenly, and then flushed redder than she had, "I mean, I'd like to draw you both. Even if we only know each other for a few days. If I ever make it out of here, I want something to remember each and every person who helped me by,"
"Y-yeah. Sure," Yvette said meekly, sitting down on one of the school desks behind her, "Do I need to pose, or?"
"No, I can usually draw from memory as long as it's fresh," He said, but he did not open the book. Instead, he continued to stare down at it in awe.
"And I thought the old tests were creepy," Osborne suddenly gasped from the filing cabinet. He was holding a yellow file with a stack of papers inside, as she watched the boy shuffle through them, his face slowly lost colour and his bright smile faded into a terrified frown, "I think you guys may want to have a look at these,"
Yvette met Rylands eyes briefly, and was relieved to find her concern of her brown mirrored in his green. She had been told many times in the past, from caring teachers and her grandfather, that she worried too much about things that didn't matter. She was often advised to just go with the flow. But what if that flow carried her into ragged waters from which she couldn't escape? No, to Yvette it was safer to fight and question the current at every turn.
Together, they stood and moved to the top draw of the cabinet which remained open. Crouching down, fear swelled in her chest upon seeing the labelled files. Each were branded with one of twenty-three names. Varick Lamare. Willow Drake. Ivy McKinnon. She continued to read until she found her own, a file labelled Yvette Macura.
She pulled the file from the draw with shaky hands as Ryland withdrew his own. The front page had nothing but her full name, Yvette Ember Macura, her age, 16, the names of her parents, and a photograph of her. The picture was one of her most recent school photos; her hair was terrible in the photo, she had woken late that morning which also resulted in heavy bags weighing down her eyes.
There were seven other pages behind it, and as Yvette began to flick through them, the shaking in her hands became more violent.
Yvette Ember Macura was born on the 17th of November to Willow and Norse Macura in the District Eleven hospital. The child showed signs of autism at an early age, however later tests disproved her parents fears. Yvette was a lazy child, refusing to even attempt walking until she was four years old. At this point, her younger sister, Terrasse Willow Macura, was birthed into the world.
Fed up with their child, Willow and Norse tried a different approach by ignoring the child until she learnt to do things for her own. This method faltered after the girl attempted to walk too fast without proper practice and fell, smashing her head on the corner of a wooden table. The injury required six stitches.
Yvette reached up to touch the scar from the accident. How did the gamemakers know about this? The recollection of her life became more and more horrifying as she read on, accurate descriptions of outings and thoughts she had had when alone where all recorded here on paper. How long have they been watching.
At the age of twelve, Yvette sunk into a stalkerish mindset after she fell hard for an elder boy, Ethan Marks. This obsession did not exclude theft, breaking and entering, and photographs taken without the boys consent. One particular incident involved Yvette hiding in a linen closet while the Marks family sat down to dinner. To this day, they do not know the girl was there. This obsession ceased the moment Terrasse Macura passed away.
Yvette dropped the file in horror, the papers spilling across the floor and sliding under the nearby desks. There's no way they could have known that. How could they have known that? She had never told a soul about her obsession with the boy in the grade above her. She hadn't even written it in her diary. The photographs she had taken, well, she burnt those long ago. She burnt them the night after her sister died. The death that had been entirely her fault.
Osborne and Ryland appeared to be having similar reactions. Osborne was no longer reading, his chest was heaving and his hands were crumpling the paper in his hands with white knuckles. Ryland was crying again, slumped against the wall as his eyes darted back and forth across the page.
For a moment, Osborne's eyes slipped down to one of the sheets that Yvette had spilled near his feet. With a lurch, the girl dropped to her knees and began retrieving them. As she moved closer, Osborne took a step backwards, clutching his own file to his chest.
Yvette couldn't let them find out. They would hate her if they did. They would think her a murderer, just like everybody else. Not to mention the fact that she was once an insane stalker. No, she had to get rid of these files.
"We need to burn these," Osborne said suddenly, as if reading her thoughts, "Nobody-nobody can know what's in here,"
Yvette only nodded meekly. Ryland appeared to have not heard him. As Osborne turned away and shoved the folder into the depths of his bag, Yvette found that festering doubt in her gut flaring once again. If she thought her own secrets were bad enough to burn, what exactly was Osborne Seatone hiding?
Phelan Krouse - District Eight
Phelan was bored. Of course, in the arena that wasn't actually a bad thing. In fact, he should be thankful that he hasn't run into any axe wielding maniacs. Yet he still found himself longing to run into somebody, hell, he would even take that axe wielding maniac if it meant something to do.
Some of the rooms were interesting enough. Last night, he had briefly passed through a beautiful beach that overlooked the sunset. He hadn't stayed; at the time he had been worried that the intense beauty of the sinking sun was nothing more than a trick, designed to entrance the viewer so that they would not notice the mutt sneaking up from behind.
Now, he longed to be back there; lounging on the sandy shore and dipping his feet in the water. It was the first time he had ever seen a beach, his family had never been able to afford inter-district travel. Not that Phelan would have ever gone with them if they had travelled; he would rather stay home alone for months on end than be stuck in a car with his parents.
The rooms since then have been nothing more than a series of blank cubes with rusty hatches. Every now and then, one would contain some sort of task that would result in a reward of food or a menial weapon like a knife. A few rooms back, found himself stuck in a maze of loose tiles that would collapse into oblivion if he took a wrong step. He had managed to make it out after a while; with a hefty backpack on his shoulders, but every now and then he would stop walking and carefully tap the tile in front of him. Just in case it fell.
He longed for another room that sparkled with beauty. He was sure there had to be more; why would they have a single room that was so different to the others. He held his fingers crossed as he pushed open his fourteenth hatch of the morning; hoping to find something other than blank white walls on the other side.
"Wish granted," Phelan grunted as the hatch swung open to reveal two people with their backs turned to him. They were standing in the centre of the room, necks hanging low as they stared at something that had captured their attention enough to keep them from noticing Phelan slink into the room.
He crept up on them slowly, right hand pressed against the handle of the knife that was strapped to his belt. Just in case. He had no intention on killing either of these two; a short, skinny boy with a mess of blonde curls and a girl with flowing blonde hair and a single blue streak.
He must have taken one step too loudly, because at once the two figures whipped around and gaped at Phelan with wide eyes. He returned the look as his eyes landed on the boy; he recognized him almost right away. Almost everybody in Panem did; Darcy Retore, the boy who escaped a string of kidnappings that resulted in murder every single time. Except in the case of Darcy.
"I know you," He said stupidly to the boy. The girl frowned, eyes dashing between Darcy and Phelan uneasily. Her hands were concealed behind her back, and Phelan's hand grasped the handle of his knife tighter. If she was concealing a weapon, he couldn't afford to be slow.
"Um, I can't say I remember you," Darcy said, and then flushed red, "At all. I mean, I'm sorry if we once met, I've met quite a few people. Were we good friends?"
Phelan raised an eyebrow, and shot a look at the girl, who stared back at him with a pale face. Phelan sighed, "No, we haven't met. I just know you from television,"
"S-so I don't know you?" Darcy stuttered.
"Nope," Phelan said, popping the P. The girls eyes dropped to where Phelan was fiddling with his knife, and she let out a shriek.
"I hope you aren't planning to use that," She squeaked. Darcy's eyes dropped to the weapon as well, and Phelan's slender fingers froze around the hilt. The two young teenagers backed further away from Phelan, revealing a large, white, marble pedestal as they parted. Atop it sat a large, red button. Darcy and his fried retreated to the other side of the pedestal.
"What is that?" Phelan asked, colour draining from his face. He couldn't help but feel that a mysterious big red button screamed danger. He swallowed loudly as Darcy hovered a small hand over it.
"We don't know," He said. His voice wavered with each word, "But if you don't drop the weapon, I swear I will do it. Push the button, I mean,"
"Darcy!" The girl cried.
"I know what I'm doing, Quinn," The boy hissed. His hand trembled over the button, fingertips only just grazing the gleaming, red surface. Phelan's sharp teeth sunk into the flesh of his tongue as he bit back some kind of retort; did these idiotic children actually think he was about to murder them?
"You don't sound so sure," Phelan snarled, his blue eyes flashing dangerously, "You don't have the guts to push it,"
"I swear I will!" Darcy said, his voice losing its previous nervous energy and picking up a miniscule bout of confidence, "You shouldn't push me. I'm not scared of you,"
"If you weren't scared of me, you wouldn't be threatening me with a stupid button," Phelan growled.
"Drop the knife!"
"Okay!" Phelan hissed. His fingers fumbled with the glasp and unclipped the weapon. It clattered to the floor, shattering the uneasy silence that followed Phelan's acceptance. For good measure, he nudged the knife with his foot and sent it skittering towards the two. Quinn bent a knee and picked up the weapon, examining it carefully before sliding it into a holster on her own belt.
"Good," Darcy said. His hand fell back to his side, fingers curling into a clenched fist. Phelan felt tension he had not known he was building in his shoulders release. He made a gesture with his hands that was supposed to imply 'What now?' but it must have came across as something else, because Quinn suddenly shot forwards and replaced her hand over the button.
"Drop the bag too," She said. Her voice was much stronger and more determined than her companion, who now appeared taken aback by her threat, "Toss it over here and leave,"
"I'm not going to 'toss it over there and leave'," He said, voice raising in pitch to mimic her girlish tone. Maybe the method of torment was an act of childishness, but it hit it's target none the less, Phelan smirked as the girls face flushed red, "I think I will be going on my way though,"
"No!" Quinn cried, stamping her foot like a cranky child, "If you do anything but take off that bag, I will push this button,"
"What are you doing?" Darcy hissed, "He's not stupid enough to give us the bag,"
"He'd be stupid not to," Quinn growled. For a thin girl with the eyes of a baby deer, Phelan had to admit; she pulled of the intimidation tactic very well.
"Apparently I'm stupid either way," Phelan snapped, "I'm not going to be threatened by a little girl and her pussy boyfriend,"
"Well, it looks like you are," Quinn said, "So just give me the damn bag,"
"We don't know what it does!" Darcy whispered harshly, "It could kill us all!"
"Why is okay for you to use it as a threat and not me?" Quinn argued.
"Because I wasn't actually going to do it!" Darcy said, throwing his hands into the air.
"She's not going to do it either," Phelan snarled, his blood beginning to boil, "She can't be that stupid,"
"I am going to do it!" She said, "So give me the damn bag,"
"I refuse,"
"You can't just refuse!"
"I think I just did!"
"Quinn! He's not going to hand it over!" Darcy said, weakly tugging on her sleeve.
"Maybe he would have if you hadn't told him you weren't going to press the button!"
"I wouldn't have done it anyway," Phelan said, "So go on, press the button,"
"This is your last chance," Quinn growled, "Give me the bag,"
"Press the button, you little slut." A smile carved it's way onto his face as he saw the words hit home. The girl's eyes widened and her hand slackened on the button in shock; as if Phelan had just mumbled an unforgivable curse. But then, her expression changed. A sickly sweet smile paved it's way through her lips, and her eyebrows raised in a manner that looked almost pitying.
"Oh Phelan, this is just sad," Quinn said mockingly. He was taken aback by not only the tone of her sentence, but the use of his name; how had she known? "I mean, I know you're upset because your real mummy and daddy didn't want you, but there's no need to take it out on us,"
"You bitch," Phelan snarled. His nails dug sharply into his palm as his eyes prickled with the threat of leaking tears. There's no way she could have known that. How did she know that?
"And now you're a disappointment to your second family!" Quinn said happily, "Oh, how much you must loathe yourself. But don't worry, you won't have to disappoint anybody again once I press this button,"
"You're not pressing that button," Phelan shouted, he now spoke with wild and raging emotions, "I'm not letting this dumb slut and her bitch of a boyfriend threaten me!"
"Don't call him a bitch!" Quinn protested.
"Oh, but he is a bitch!" Phelan said, now taking on that sickeningly sweet tone Quinn had used as torment before, "I mean, look at him? He looks like he's going to cry! He must be really weak after that kidnapping. Didn't they say they only fed him dog food? Do you miss that, kid? Do you miss sleeping in that little cage and having that bad old man touch you? You probably deserved everything you got, you worthless sack of-"
Phelan didn't get to finish his sentence. He knew he had gone too far, yet he couldn't make himself stop. Quinn threw herself at him with an animalistic scream. Her knee collided with Phelan's chest and sent him sprawling; he only just had enough time to deliver a harsh kick to her stomach as she attempted to pin him down. She let out a groan as the wind was forced out of her, stumbling back until her back hit the pedestal and she hit the floor on her behind.
Darcy was crying now; whether it was because of Phelan's harsh words of the horrific nature of the scene unfolding out before him, it was difficult to tell. Phelan pulled himself up and pushed himself towards Quinn, lashing out with two large hands and wrapping them around her throat.
She squealed and thrashed beneath his weight, but he was much heavier than the scrawny girl. His hands tightened around her neck; he felt her smaller ones pummelling at his broad chest. He couldn't help but smile down at her. He had had no intention on ever laying a finger on the girl, she had brought this on herself.
Just when Phelan thought she was going to go limp and pass out, pain flared in hip. Phelan screamed and let go of the girl, falling backwards and grabbing at the now torn and bleeding flesh. Quinn wiped a glob of spit from her mouth and scowled at Phelan from the base of the pedestal, her left hand clenched around the handle of the knife; the blade of which was now dripping blood.
"Oh my god," A voice cried. Three heads turned and whipped around as a fourth person entered the tiny room. Phelan recognised him from one of the photo's in his original room; Brody Lewis. He was staring at shock on the two on the floor, eyes flicking between Phelan's sliced hip and Quinn's purple throat.
"Get out of here!" Darcy cried suddenly, "He's insane!"
"I'm insane?" Phelan hissed through teeth clenched so tightly they felt as if they were going to shatter, "You're the one who threatened me with a button!"
"What button?" Brody asked.
"The big red button in the centre of the room!" Phelan growled, "Are you blind?"
"I wasn't going to press it!" Darcy countered.
"I was," Quinn croaked.
"What does it do?" Brody asked. Nobody spoke as Quinn stood, her face red and her eyes wild.
"I don't know," She said eerily, eyes suddenly widening with glee, "But why don't we find out?"
Phelan screamed and threw his hands in front of his face as she slammed a fist down over the button. There was a loud click, followed by an even louder crackle of static electricity. Phelan heard Quinn scream, and he opened his eyes just in time to watch as Darcy shot across the room faster than a bullet, hurtling away from the pedestal and crashing into the wall behind.
"Apparently it does that," Phelan choked out as Quinn rushed to Darcy's side. Brody shot Phelan an irritated look and moved to crouch beside the fallen boy. Phelan growled as he sat up, poorly dealing with the pain in his hip as he glared at the two fawning over the fallen boy.
"Oh, Darcy!" Quinn whimpered, reaching out to clasp his limp hand, "This wasn't supposed to happen, I never thought-"
She stopped speaking as she wrapped both of her hands around his, only to shriek and yank them backwards as if he had burnt her. Darcy's eyes flew open, and he shot into a sitting position hands trembling and eyes darting in every which direction.
"What happened? Where am I? What did it do? Is everyone okay?" He said. His head flicked about with every word, it was like he was watching a multi-platform tennis match, "Are you okay?"
"I-I'm fine!" Quinn said, pulling away quickly as Darcy tried to reach for her again, "But you're not. The button released this weird bolt of energy that hit you and-"
"You're okay now," Brody said reassuringly, pressing a hand to Darcy's bare arm, only to yank it away with a hiss of pain.
"What?" Darcy groaned, looking down at his arm in horror.
"Nothing," Brody said, rubbing his hand vigorously, "You shocked me,"
"You shocked me too," Quinn said, looking down at her hands. Phelan thought he could see black soot coating the open palms. While the three tributes were so conveniently distracted, Phelan seized the opportunity to escape unnoticed. Breathing heavily and wincing harshly as he bit back shrieks of pain, Phelan began to creep back towards the hatch door he had clambered through before. A few minutes ago, he had been wishing for more excitement to cure his boredom. Now, he would give anything for that bored feeling.
His hands had barely grazed the rusty wheel of the hatch when Darcy gave a loud shout. Phelan risked a look back and sniffled when he saw three sets of eyes staring at him. Brody's were strong and emotionless, Quinn's were specked with crystal tears, and Darcy's were ripe with uncertainty as he spoke, "Where are you going?"
"Leaving," Phelan croaked. One of his hands pressed into the wound on his side. It didn't feel very deep, Quinn has slashed at his flesh rather than stabbed, "Before you can do anymore damage,"
"Not with that bag, you're not," Darcy said, shakily climbing to his feet. Phelan swore; why did they won't this bag so desperately? He had risked his life for it, he deserved what lay inside, "Hand it over,"
"And if I refuse?" Phelan asked.
"I electrocute you," Darcy said, with such a serious voice that Phelan through back his head and howled with laughter.
"You're going to shock me with a little static electricity?" He said, "Ooo, I am really scared!"
Darcy didn't answer. Instead, he crossed the room silently towards the laughing Phelan. Brody and Quinn followed him uncertainly; and despite the tears still running down her face, he could tell that Quinn was suppressing a smile.
Phelan did not even get the chance to make a snarky comment when Darcy's hands grabbed for his face. The shock was not at all like static, the pulses of electricity that ran through Phelan's body was so painful that he began to scream and thrash. It was horrible, it was agonizing; and it only last about three seconds before Darcy was gone.
He was groaning and holding his face; head tilted backwards and his nose pointed towards the ceiling. Phelan's knee was throbbing, he must have smashed it into Darcy's face. While the boy was distracted by his own pain, Phelan leapt up and yanked open the hatch. His entire body was twitching with electricity, but he had no choice but to power through as he shoved himself back through the hatch.
He landed on the other side chest first, groaning loudly as his hip scraped the cold floor. A cold and cruel laugh echoed around the room above him, and suddenly something wet and sticky dripped down into Phelan's hair.
Reaching up and touching it, the boy retched as he realised his hand was covered in dirty saliva. And then he realised there was a pair of boots right in front of his face. Slowly, his head tilted upwards; following the frame of the tall and lean body until he was staring right into the grinning face of Grant Gino.
"Well, Wolf, look what we have here!" He said to the snarling and drooling boy who crouched at Grant's hip, "Breakfast wasn't that hard to find after all!"
Willow Drake - District One
The ground beneath Willow was more comfortable than the bed she had slept in at home. The springy grass supported her weight effortlessly, and despite the harsh sun shining down on her sleeping form, she found herself wanting to snuggle deeper into the earth rather than wake up.
She had no blanket, nor a pillow, yet she was still warm and toasty. Something heavy was pressed into her side; an object that radiated warmth throughout the sleeping girl. Yet, no matter the comfort, Willow could not force herself to slip back into a slumber. Grey eyes fluttered open to find a thin arm draped across her chest.
Those eyes followed the slender arm towards it's source; a sleeping boy who had found it reasonable to cuddle up into her side. She didn't recognize him at first; in fact, for the first few moments, she lay staring at the boys peaceful resting face, trying to work out how she had ended up asleep in the middle of a grassy room.
Then she saw the bandage over his shoulder. It was stained dark red, white tainted by the copious amount of blood that had seeped from a wound carved from the blade of a throwing knife. A throwing knife that she had inflicted upon him.
Her left hand flew to her hip, fingers closing around nothing but air. Her last knife had been the one to hit the boy's shoulder. The rest were gone. Her eyes drifted to the large bundle of fabric beside the boys sleeping form. Could he have stored the knife in there?
Sitting up slowly, his arm that had been pressing down across her chest fell limply to her lap. Annoyed, she grasped his wrist and threw the limb back to him; only to have her own arm harshly yanked with it.
"No," She whispered as her grey eyes fell on the metal cuffs that joined their wrists together, "What the fuck?"
The last thing she could remember was drowning; the swirl of a current much stronger than her dragging her into the depths of a whirlpool, further and further away from the surface until she was so deep that light could no longer penetrate through the fog of darkness.
Had this kid saved her? Had he hauled her from the deadly whirlpool, bandaged himself up, and then handcuffed himself to her? That didn't make sense whatsoever.
"What the fuck?" She repeated, a little louder this time, this time pulling back her palm and slapping the sleeping boy across the face; trying her best to ignore the feeling of utter pleasure she got from the pained expression he gave upon waking up.
He was up in a sitting position the moment his eyes flicked open; clutching his reddening cheek and looking at Willow in horror. He scrambled away from her; or at least attempted to. The hand that was connected to Willow was held firmly in place, and he let out a sharp hiss of pain as strain was placed on his shoulder.
"Let me go!" He said, his voice panicky and not at all like the cocky and irritating boy that had invited her for a cup of tea while she hunted him down, "Unlock this thing,"
"Me?" Willow snarled, "Why would I want to handcuff myself to you?"
"I-" His voice faltered, raising his wrist lightly and inspecting the cuts where the metal cuffs had dug into his skin, "Maybe you really wanted that cup of tea?"
"What?" Willow blinked, and then she scowled, "Oh, I understand. This is your idea of a joke!" She raised her cuffed hand as an emphasis, "Ha Ha. Very funny. Now unlock this so I can kill you,"
"Hm, tempting," The boy said, scratching his chin and feigning thought, "But I think I'd like to chose life handcuffed to you than death,"
"I could kill you right now," Willow growled.
"Not if you want to drag a dead body around for the rest of the game," The boy said, and then sighed, "I really didn't do this. The last thing I remember is passing out in that whirlpool that YOU pushed me into,"
"And I'd do it again," Willow snapped, "If you didn't do this, then who did?"
The boy shrugged and peered down at his shoes. Willow sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead, noticing for the first time that both her skin and clothes were bone dry. How long had they been asleep for?
"Hey, what's that?" The boy said suddenly, climbing to his feet. Willow was caught off guard by the gesture and pulled up alongside him, scowling until she saw the golden plaque at their feet. It was pressed into the face of a rock that jutted out of the grassy hill, engraved with dark words that read:
If you wish to stay alive, you must work together.
Follow the path of red, if you seek to break the tether.
"No, no, no," Willow groaned, sinking back down until she was kneeling in the grass, "I can't be tethered to you,"
"Come on, it will be fun!" Heath said, pulling on the handcuffs lightly, "The two of us, against the world! The two musketeers! Willow and Heath, partners in crime!"
So Heath was his name, "There were three musketeers,"
"No, I'm pretty sure there's only two of us," Heath said with a frown.
"You know, maybe this won't be so bad," Willow said with a cruel smile, "I get to have my own, portable punching bag,"
Just to make her point, Willow stood and delivered a harsh punch to the boys gut. He let out a groan and crumpled to the ground, pulling the white haired girl down on top of him. She let out a yelp as she fell, hitting his back only to fall harshly on the rock that held the plaque.
"Karma's a bitch, isn't it?" Heath groaned as Willow cried out in pain. The pair took a while to untangle themselves; the cuffs created a connection that made standing up feel like a harsh game of twister, once they were finally on two feet and seperatred, Heath spoke again, "Let's just find out how to break these,"
"Break them? Are you an idiot!" Willow hissed, "The sign said to follow the path of red,"
"Oh. I couldn't read it," Heath answered, tapping his right eye.
"You need glasses?" Willow asked, and then grabbed him harshly by the ear before he could answer, "Don't answer that. Let's just go,"
But Heath was no longer listening. He was screaming and thrashing, and as Willow pulled her hand back, she felt sick as a chunk of flesh came away with it. She looked up and almost spewed at the sight of Heath's mangled ear; part of which had just come away with her hand. How had she forgotten the injury she had caused?
The mangled flesh reminded her of Varick Lamare. Suddenly she was back in by the cornucopia, laying crumpled on the floor and watching in horror as that spearhead erupted through the centre of his chest. She remembered the one droplet that hit her face. She remembered who disgusting the scene was.
"Come on, we are going to get this over as soon as we can," Willow said, yanking Heath back to his feet. The boy was still sobbing, mischievous smirk gone.
"How do you know which way to go?" He sniffed. Willow rolled her eyes; of course, he was trying not to cry.
"Because, idiot, look at the colours around the hatches," She said. Each of the hatches were surrounded by an arch of flowers. Red, Purple, Yellow, and Blue. As much as Willow hated to admit it; they were really quite beautiful, "Come on,"
She pulled him towards the hatch surrounded by a flurry of red flowers, the sobbing boy reluctantly following. Not that he ever had a choice. Walking was difficult; the two could not even time their steps over this very short distance; every few seconds, Willow's arm would either be yanked backwards or forwards. What was going to happen if they needed to fight? Knowing this kid; he would try to hide instead of brawl. That was going to be a problem.
"You know, one good thing came out of this," Heath said with a small smirk as Willow opened the hatch, continuing as Willow raised an eyebrow, "It's not every day you wake up handcuffed to a pretty girl,"
Willow resisted the urge to punch him again.
Quinn Hyland - District Four
Quinn Hyland had seen so many terrible things in her life. She had once seen a boy swarmed and bashed by his entire class when she was seven. At twelve, she saw a girl raped by a drunken boy who was uncharacteristically aggressive. At thirteen, Quinn herself was stabbed in the stomach and tossed into the gutter like a piece of garbage. Yet all of those instances appeared to pale in comparison to the inhumane sight of the savage boy with a rope wrapped around his neck, being set upon Phelan Krouse like a rabid dog sent to fetch a tennis ball.
Grant Gino laughed; it was cruel and cold, the laugh of somebody who relished in the idea of somebody suffering at his feet. As Quinn watched Wolf circle Phelan Krouse like a cat stalking its prey, squished between Brody Lewis and Darcy, the most disturbing thing yet about the situation was the question of what made Grant Gino this way?
How could she be so cold? So nosy? Why was it that her strongest urge was not to slip away unnoticed or surge forward to save a life, but to creep around and follow Grant Gino until she had obtained the information she needed.
The photographs had provided little evidence on Grant; in fact, he had a minuscule amount compared to his twenty-three peers. Even the Wolf had more pictures; blurred images of a wild boy scampering through the forest. Like an animal.
Quinn was snatched from her world of speculation as Darcy's bare forearm brushed hers, sending a surge of pain and a crackle of electricity through the limb. She let out an involuntary shriek of pain and threw herself sideways; shouldering Brody roughly aside and catching the attention of not only Grant Gino, but the disgusting creature that once was a normal little boy turned savage.
Things appeared to happen in slow motion from that moment forwards. Grant appeared to stunned to move for the stretch of three seconds; apparently unaware of the audience that had been watching his display of inhumanity.
Wolf was no longer circling and preparing to pounce on the cowering Phelan: who surged forwards to seize his opportunity to escape death's clammy hands by shakily standing, one hand clutching his hip, covering the stain of blood that seeped through the fabric from the wound Quinn herself had inflicted.
Wolf lunged as Phelan stumbled; Brody grabbed at Quinn as Darcy screamed. Brody pulled Quinn down on top of him as the wild boy latched onto Darcy, dirty nails slashing through clean clothing. Darcy fell with Wolf on top of him, yellow teeth snapping around loose air inches from Darcy's throat. Quinn heard Grant give a cry of protest; trying to call Wolf off, but his order was cut short as the hatch door swung closed, sealing Phelan and Grant on one side; and leaving Quinn, Brody, and Darcy trapped with Wolf.
Brody threw Quinn off of him and moved to help Darcy, who was pinned beneath Wolf who padded up the boys chest with his teeth bared. But Brody was too late to do much of anything, as Darcy appeared to have a weapon of his own.
Wolf screeched as his dirt encrusted hand came into contact with Darcy's throat; the sound was so high-pitched and human like that Quinn would have never believed it came from the boy had she not heard it for herself.
Wolf threw himself backwards, hitting the floor on his back and curling up into a tight ball. Quinn stood slowly; using Brody's shoulder to steady herself. The shared a confused exchange before stepping towards the shaking boy. Darcy was sitting with his back pressed up against the button pedestal. His chest was heaving as he sucked in deep breaths, right hand absentmindedly rubbing his throat as he stared at the cowering boy at his feet.
A sound emitted from the curled up form of Wolf; and it took Quinn a moment to realize he was crying. Not the whimper of a kicked puppy, but the full-fledged sobs of a truly broken boy. A human boy.
It was at that moment the hatch behind them swung open again. On the other side stood not Grant Gino, but Phelan Krouse.
He was panting; his face was pale. In his hands, he held a long, metal pole; the one Grant had possessed a mere minute ago. His eyes were wild, and for a moment, Quinn almost pitied the boy. Suddenly, he toppled forwards. He hit the floor face first, no longer moving as Quinn spotted the handle of a screwdriver sticking out of his leg.
Brody rushed to Phelan's side, whereas Quinn rushed towards the open hatch before it could close. On the otherside, Grant lay splayed out on the floor in the shape of a star. There was blood splattered across the floor around him; yet none of it appeared to come from the boy himself. For a moment, Quinn thought he was dead, and she feared not for his life, but for the story she would never know. And then he saw his chest rise.
"Darcy," Quinn suddenly said, looking back at the petrified boy, "Check his bag for rope. I'll go and grab our prisoner,"
Kelani Richards - District Ten
The very last thing Kelani ever thought she would admit to herself was that she had slept in comfort inside the Hunger Games arena. Currently, she laid with her body splayed over the cushions of a luxurious red couch. One leg was draped over the arm of the lounge, the other curled up against her curved yet still comfortable body. She had even found a fluffy pillow resting on the sofa as if waiting for her to lay her head on it; surpassing the lumpy mass that dared call itself a pillow that sat in her bag.
Maybe it was a stupid idea to fall asleep out in the open; ripe and ready to have her throat slashed open by a maniac. Yet the thrill of it all was what made the option so enticing. With a yawn, she stretched and swung her bare legs over the edge of the couch, fiddling with her messy ponytail as she settled into a sitting position, as casually as she would have if she had awoken on the couch back home.
But she wasn't back home. In fact, the room she was in was farthest from it. It was luxurious, to say the least, appearing as if it should have belonged in a mansion. In fact, the place was a mansion. An entire floor spanned the space of this enormous room; including not only a lounge room, where she currently lay, but a kitchen, a study, a dining room, a sitting room, a bathroom and an enormous library that was more of a labyrinth with books. Honestly, the place was so large that Kelani had a hard time believing she was the only one who had discovered it. She had already learnt that there was more than four hatches acting as gateways to the room; in fact, there was close to a dozen.
Kelani stood abruptly; dark blanket falling from her shoulders, and quickly paced across the room towards the hallway. The mansion was by no means warm; her bare legs were freezing and the black dressing gown she had donned did little to keep out the cold.
The hallway was enormous, large enough to fit two cars standing end to end. A long, red rug ran the length of the floor, connecting one pristine steel hatch to another. Kelani peered nervously up at the large chandelier that swung ominously high above; yet slowed instead of speeding up as she passed under. The sharp rise in her heartbeat was enough to bring a smile to her face.
It was curious, how dabbling in dangers that could kill her excited her so. But with no drugs or alcohol; fear was the only thing that could give her that rush that she lived off of. One day, this addiction might kill her. But that day was not today.
With a newfound spring in her step, Kelani happily skipped through the large arch that opened into the kitchen. The place was nowhere as large as the library, yet it was still bigger than Kelani's entire house. Flicking on the coffee pot, Kelani swung around to the large fridge. Tapping in two simple words on the keypad, she pulled open the door and found a tall, glass of orange juice sitting on the shelf waiting for her.
With a smile, she placed the glass down on the marble kitchen, ignoring the small portion that sloshed over the side. She moved towards the extensive stovetop, complete with fourteen hotplates, more than Kelani could ever imagine using. Like with the fridge, her fingers danced across the keypad in front of the stove, she watched with glee as one of the hotplates rose from within the counter; a frying pan sitting on top with six strips of bacon sizzling away inside.
While the majority of the mansion was in old fashion, with lounges and lamps that would have been used a hundred years ago. But the kitchen was equipped with technology used in the present day. Not in a home as simple and small as Kelani's, but she had seen this type of fridge used by celebrities on television. Now it was like she was one of them.
As another hotplate rose with a pan cooking a dish of scrambled eggs, Kelani thought of all of those in the arena who may not be enjoying the luxury she is. She then thought of her mother, and how right now she would be watching with narrowed eyes from her ratty sofa while her husband was out working. Kelani's fingers ran over the scar on her nose and sneered. Sucks to be her.
She first heard the music halfway through breakfast. Her fork, which was currently piled high with scrambled eggs, froze inches from her mouth. The song was slow and eery, drifting through the empty halls of the home and sending chills down Kelani's spine.
Slowly, she placed down the fork, barely noticing the lump of yellow that splattered across the countertop. Sliding from her stool, she crept across the cold tiles towards the hall. The tune sounded like a slow version of pop goes the weasel; and this fear was so different to the thing the adrenaline junkie was used to. This fear was more like terror.
The moment she stepped out into the hall, the music stopped, plunging the large mansion into a silence that was somehow worse than when the song was playing. She stood, for a moment, in the gateway between her sanctuary and the unknown. Waiting for the music to start playing again. Waiting for an intruder to leap out of their hiding spot and attack. But nothing happened; and now with an uneasy feeling weighing down on her shoulders, she returned to her breakfast which no longer felt so inviting.
The music came again as she was drying off from her bath. She had opted for the tub instead of the shower for that very reason. She didn't want to be ambushed because she couldn't hear over the sound of rushing water. But the music had stopped by the time she had pulled on her pants; there was no way she was going to be murdered naked. Again, she stood awkwardly in the bathroom doorway, staring out into the empty hallway with that feeling that she was being watched now feeling heavier than before on her shoulders.
The third time she heard that eerie song, she was back on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate in her hands. This time, she was not going to be slow. Slamming the steaming drink down on the coffee table, she dashed from the lounge room and out into the hall. The music sounded as if it were coming from everywhere, bouncing off of every surface with the sole purpose to making Kelani feel uneasy.
Jogging back and forth down the hall, she eventually determined which room the music was coming from. Slowly, she crept into the study with her weapon in hand; a curved sword that she had no idea how to use.
And there it was. Sitting neatly on the centre of the desk was a small, pink, music box. A ballerina sprouted from inside the container, spinning gently as pop goes the weasel slowly echoed around the room; far louder than what should have been possible from such a tiny object. Unable to bear the music any longer, Kelani lunged forwards the slammed the lid of the box shut, silencing the dreadful song just in time to hear an ominous smashing sound from the living room.
Whipping around, Kelani dashed from the study with her curved sword held out defensively in front of her. The hall was empty, and as she crept down towards the living room, she felt as if the eyes in the paintings were following her. Her hand shot to the scar on her nose, and she suddenly wondered what her mother would be thinking right now. Would she be worried? Was she scared that she was going to lose a second child to the arena? Or was she glad? Glad that her reject child was going out the same way her golden boy did; the last reminder of her traumatic past erased forever.
She froze as she stepped through that archway, eyes lingering on the now shattered mug that had sat on the coffee table moments ago, dark liquid sinking into and staining the perfect white rug.
And then she was running. No longer excited; no insane smile on her face. Kelani's face only portrayed a look of utter terror as she sprinted for the nearest hatch. Pop goes the weasel began playing again, this time louder than ever before. It made every hair on Kelani's body stand on end, and she could not help but throw a look of her shoulder with every two steps.
Her hands latched onto the wheel of the hatch before she had even reached it, and with all of her might, she tried to twist it. But the wheel didn't budge. Kelani stumbled away from the hatch, panting, her blood running cold as she came to a horrifying realization. She was trapped. And she wasn't alone.