A bell rings.
The curtains open.
Lights come up.
A sloping stage is revealed; it dips at a sharp angle toward an empty audience, a stretch of grass. Spires glimmer in the distance.
On the stage, there are no players. Only weapons. They glimmer beneath the lights, polished to perfection. There are brass knuckles and knives, bows with quivers of arrows, each decorated so ornately they look to belong in a museum. Among these are more unconventional weapons; thumbscrews, iron maidens, all standing tall upon the stage. But the centerpiece, the star of the show, is the guillotine.
The blade is wicked-sharp and it swings in the wind. For a moment, the only sound is the gentle creak of the majestic creature, a device that has felled kings and queens. These weapons seem to be waiting for someone, preparing for their big debut.
For a moment, the Tributes are silent. They stand stock-still, deer in headlights. They are paralyzed at the glorious collection of antiques. They have never done, or seen, anything like this before. Nobody knows quite what to do.
A young soldier breaks from the rank. When Tremor Atilius sprints beneath the spotlight, reaching for the weapons with absolute surety, he triggers a ripple effect. The statues of the Tributes in their lovely masks seem to fracture, as they skitter out in every direction. The guillotine looks sharper and keener still. The stage is waiting for its next big show. And all of the Tributes are players, now. Some might not know it, but each will play a part in this wonderful drama, a show that's never before been seen. The cast is perfect; there are lovers and enemies, tragic stories and joyful ones, murderers and martyrs. And, of course, every good tragedy needs a bit of death. When curtain call comes and the lights go out for the last time, there will be one last soul alive to take their final bow—at once a player and a character. And, like every good play, the sole survivor will be anything but innocent. They will be haunted.
The good rarely survive to see such an end.
Everyone knows how this one will end. The question is only what will come between.
The play starts now. The Tributes are already in the midst of their own stories, with the unseen audience watching from afar. One can only guess if they fully understand what this play entails. Some of them are unprepared, and some of them think they know this by heart.
But it all comes down to this: none of them are ready for what they will become.
...
Dria Isatis, 13, District Six Tribute
Well, this is certainly unexpected.
Dria didn't know what they'd been anticipating, exactly, but a glamorous stage decorated with weapons that they hardly recognize wasn't it. Dria stays on their pedestal for a moment to observe their surroundings. They were hoping that this Arena would have some supplies, but all they can see on the stage is sharp objects.
They peer past the stage, past the giant guillotine and the Tributes running around in chaos, to the rest of what looks like a village. A large building, pure white with spires pointing into the sky and the sound of bells emerging from its depths, is nearby. There probably won't be anything of interest there. On the other side of the stage, perhaps a street away, is what looks like an abandoned marketplace. Dozens of little stalls crowd close together in the square. Perhaps there would be food and supplies there, though Dria notices that no merchants man the stalls.
The boy from Two walks confidently and calmly out onto the stage and lifts a machete from the collection. He pivots on his heel and makes for the Two girl, who still wears an expression of total indifference. Dria does not want to be in his path; his expression is inscrutable, but he's making straight for his target, his machete poised.
A little blood never bothered Dria, but they look away all the same as the girl starts pleading.
"You don't want to do this," she whispers. "You always seemed so... so normal; you'd never kill me!"
Judging by the girl's scream, it seems that he would kill her, without hesitation. This is why Dria doesn't trust anybody. They're all bound to turn on each other soon enough.
They scamper back through the curtains and around the stage, through the grass. They dash out through the audience, hoping nobody sees them. They don't want to be anywhere near the Careers or the older Tributes; even if they are good, they know to pick their fights accordingly.
A chill crawls along Dria's spine as they sprint through the rows of chairs that make up the audience, but they don't dare look back. Surely the boy is still absorbed with his District partner; two cannons have already went off. They hope they won't be the third.
Someone tackles them from behind.
Dria swallows a scream as they tumble to the grass, arms flailing in an effort to derail their captor. They hear a soft thud from above, and they glance up quickly. An arrow is embedded in the wood of a chair, not a few feet away from them.
Dria's movements slow as they glance back at the girl whose arms are wound tight around them. The girl from Ten.
"What are you doing?" Dria snarls.
"Saving you," says the other girl quietly.
Dria squirms away from the girl's loosened grip, seeking out the archer who almost killed them.
The girl from Four is staring down at them, looking calm. She knocks another arrow.
Dria jumps to their feet, ready to bolt, but... the girl from Ten is still standing behind them, her eyes kind, but sparking with defiance. "Why would you save me?" Dria whispers.
"Because, you were all alone. Why wouldn't I?"
Dria doesn't know what to say. They're stunned, their heart warring between suspicion and warmth. This wasn't supposed to happen. Nobody was supposed to care about them, or look at them, or... save their life.
Dria can't breathe. They don't know what to do. Really, it shouldn't shake them so much, but... they always thought that this type of kindness was only in movies, and certainly not meant for the Games. Of course, Ten could have ulterior motives. But she's still standing there, watching Dria with careful curiosity.
The boy from Four dashes across the stage and down the side stairs, disappearing into the audience. The girl from Four glances briefly after him, lowering her bow just a fraction as she tracks his retreating form.
Dria takes that opportunity to run. They don't know what else to do.
They still don't understand why Ten decided to save them, but they're not sticking around to find out. They duck beneath the sloped stage and flatten against the ground.
They aren't dying today. And it wasn't because of themself... it was because of someone else.
Dria hadn't even spoken to Ten much before today; they barely knew each other. There was no reason for her to go and save Dria like that.
But at the same time... can they really be upset? They're alive because of her, and cannons are firing from above. Kids are screaming. Blood is pattering on the stage above their head.
And it's not theirs. And it's because of Ten.
Dria cannot wrap their mind around that. Perhaps it's best that they ran. They have no idea how they would confront that. Would they say thank you? They've never been in such a situation before.
But that's all over now. Now, they are hiding beneath a stage, staring up at the dark, wooden underside. Now, pounding feet echo through the village. Now, chaos unfurls to every corner of this Arena like some stain that won't stop spreading. And Dria is safe.
That girl almost killed them. It was only Ten, and the boy from Four, that prevented that. Dria isn't planning to sit idly by, either. They don't like the Careers, not at all, and they're planning to make their lives very difficult. Now that Dria's got a chance at living, they aren't going to squander it.
Their family back home wouldn't want that. And if Ten's kindness is to be trusted—though nothing really is—she wouldn't want it either.
Dria's never depended upon anyone else but their family. They don't know how to watch out for other people, and nor do they want to.
Still, Ten offered Dria her kindness. So perhaps they can't feel any regret for running away instead of repaying the debt... that's how it should've gone, really. They can only hope Ten is alright.
When it comes down to it, Dria seriously doubts they could possibly win this thing. But if they'd pick anyone else to take the crown, it would certainly be the girl from Ten, with her gentle eyes that are steeped in strength. Strength that Dria themself could never fathom.
Perhaps seeing life flash before their eyes has changed them. And perhaps... perhaps that's not a bad thing.
...
Jacqueline "Jack" Baylor, 17, District Ten Female
Saving the tribute from Five was somewhat of an impulse. They just looked so small, so vulnerable, as the Four girl calmly planned to end their life. Jack couldn't help but intervene; she was right there, and she knew it would kill her if she didn't do something.
But now Britta's bleeding out on the floor, Tremor walking away with a perfectly serene expression on his face. Jack shivers. That could be her... if she hadn't moved away from Two, he'd have been her District partner.
But that's not important. There's a gaping wound in Britta's chest and her breath sounds like a sputtering water faucet. And Jack wasn't there to save her.
Tears stream down her face but she fiercely brushes them away. She can't breathe. How could this have happened? By saving someone's life, she killed someone else; her friend, a person she'd cared about.
"Britta... I'm so so sorry, I'm so sorry—I—I—"
Her voice is overtaken by a shuddering sob. How could she do this? Her friend's dying and she can't even hold herself together, when it was her fault that Britta was in harm's way in the first place.
Darla stands silently beside her, her hands half-lifted as if to reach for Britta. Britta, who took her in so kindly, who laughed with her at the interviews and who sat with her last night, when the nightmares and demons were too much to hold alone. Britta, who doesn't deserve this...
"It's all my fault," Jack whispers. "Britta I d-didn't mean to... I'm so, so, so sorry!"
It's not enough; her words echo dully in the open air; they fade before they're even fully-formed. She is nothing in this turmoil, this tangled mass of Tributes who now only exist to kill and be killed... for someone else's entertainment.
It's too much. Jack can't... she can't do this—
But then Britta's sweet voice breaks through her thoughts. Even dying, her friend is trying to comfort her. It's not fair, it's not right.
"Jack?" she says, her voice tight with pain. "Don't apologize anymore; don't worry about me. I'm fine. And besides, you saved someone else, right? That little kid you saved got away?"
"Y—yes, but... but you're dying... It's because of me."
"What, you're in charge of Death itself now? Don't pretend you could've controlled it even if you were here, Jack. I'm just happy you're with me now... and I'm happy you saved a life today. That's what I wanted."
Britta folds her arms tight around her chest, her expression contorted with pain. Blood stains her once-perfect nails. Her beautiful ball gown is soaked through, along with the gloves that go all the way up to her elbows. Her mask resembles a butterfly.
Britta's eyes sag closed. Her breath sputters out.
Darla folds forward beside her. Clutches her wrist and presses her fingers to the place where the pulse should be. She sobs, but it's silent. Darla always was quiet.
And now it's just the two of them.
"Come on, Darla," Jack whispers, her voice hoarse from crying. "We have to go; come on."
But Darla doesn't seem to hear her; she is inconsolable. Jack gently pulls her up by her elbows and lets her lean against her, her body shuddering with silent grief. Together they stumble out of the theater.
They run through the central plaza, past beautiful statues and large buildings, until the screams are far behind them, and Britta's irregular breath is only a memory.
What is kindness, when it amounts to nothing?
Jack continues to cry silently, Darla leaning against her. At least she still has her. One more person that she loves; it's only them now. They're all each other have.
She can be strong for Darla. She can protect her, the snarly girl who never was a person of many words, but who made them count, each and every one. She is broken now, her mask of heavy-hooded eyes and sharp fangs hanging limply off her face. Jack touches her own dress, where white wings unfurl behind her. A halo perches in her hair, and her mask is so white that it glows.
An angel. It doesn't seem right. She does not deserve the title.
Soon, the grass becomes wilder and the buildings are smaller and farther apart. She can still hear the cannons—they have not died down.
When will this nightmare end?
There's a tiny cabin, crudely constructed, just ahead of them. Inside are two cots. Not three. As if the Gamemakers led them right to this place.
Jack guides Britta to one of the moth-eaten beds and she collapses atop it. She pulls off her black corset, and it's as if that single thing was holding her together, because Darla shatters and her tears spill out with fresh vigor.
There is nothing Jack can do but massage her shoulders and hum a tuneless song.
Nobody will find them here. The action is back on the stage, and Jack hopes that nobody will bother them, at least for now.
Jack doesn't know what to do; she's usually the one unraveling, trapped by her own anxiety. It seems that their places are now switched, her and Darla's, but she isn't ready to be the guardian.
She wants to escape, but there's nowhere to go. Not back to her childhood, where her father's voice echoed through the halls. Not back to Ten, where her ghosts were tucked safely away. And certainly not here, where she has to bear a burden she never anticipated.
Britta and Darla were supposed to live longer.
Jack falls onto the other bed, burying her face in her hands. It seems that life will never grant her solace. She can see no path forward from here.
All she can do is try not to break. Try to guide someone else out of this mess so that they don't have to feel this way; like their soul is being rent apart.
She can't win, not with Darla turning into a ghost and Britta already in the grave. But she misses her family, she longs for her siblings. How could she escape this; how could she live with herself?
...
Luz Contreras, 15, District Nine Female
Everything happens very quickly. It's not that Luz didn't anticipate it—Linnet had warned her beforehand of the bloodshed that happened within the first few minutes of the Games—yet it's jarring all the same. It seems there's violence in every direction. The girl from Four lands an arrow in the boy from Three's chest. The little boy from Eight tackles the boy from Ten, struggling to get his weapon, but Ten stabs Eight in the process. It's all too much for Luz, nausea rising in the back of her throat as she tears her eyes away from the killing and runs to Asa. The first thing she did when they rose from the tubes was to seek out Asa. He's across the stage, barely distinguishable among the tangle of bodies. She begins to sprint through the fray, praying that she's not an easy target for the Careers. Of course, she would never hesitate to get to Asa—she'd rather risk her life than see him fall.
Finally, she reaches him. She has to dodge a Tribute barreling past her and a throwing knife whizzing overhead, but at long last, she reaches him.
"Asa," she says. He's trembling from head to toe, but when he sees her, all the tension melts from his body.
"Luz," he whispers.
She crosses the last few feet to him, and he grips her hand, looking shell-shocked. Together, they run to the closest exit and out into the grass. It feels as if their feet are skimming the ground, they're sprinting so fast. Luz's heart is beating so fast that it roars in her ears, but she stays calm for Asa.
They reach an open marketplace, the stalls overflowing with food and clothes. Luz guides them behind a large sack of dates, where they crouch to catch their breath. Asa is still clinging to her hand, and Luz doesn't mind at all.
"That... was so scary," Asa whispers, and his voice is breathless with fear.
Luz nods. "Are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, ummm... I'm as okay as you can be after seeing something like that, I guess."
"Yeah," Luz murmurs, and she reaches out her arms in an open gesture. He throws his arms around her and they stay like that for too little time and far too long, gasping for breath and trying not to panic. They lean on each other until they hear a cannon, which makes Asa jump.
"I'm so glad we got out," says Asa, and Luz nods.
That truly scared her for a second. Her one goal is to make sure that her and Asa last as long as possible. Of course, it's inevitable that they will face pain and death, but right now, she just wants to hold him and live with the fact that they are, in fact, alive, while a good number of the other kids aren't.
Luz has never been a very imaginative person, but back in the Training Center, she could almost picture those kids as classmates, milling around in the cafeteria in their little friend groups, laughing and studying up for the big final exam.
But now they've turned on each other, like animals. Now she can never picture them as normal teens again.
"Yeah, that... sucked," says Asa. He's still shaking. "I'm so scared, Luz, I'm so scared."
"I know," she says softly. "I am, too."
It hurts to admit that. She's supposed to be strong and calm and strategic for Asa. The last time she was this scared was when Asa had shown up at her door battered and bruised, hoping to find safe harbor in her welcoming home.
But there's nobody to keep them safe or welcome them now. There's only each other, in this terrible nightmare they've somehow stumbled into.
But no. Linnet will be watching them, too, and sending them gifts whenever she can. And Luz isn't going into this totally blind; for now, they're safe, very there's no immediate danger as far as the eye can see.
That's worth something, a fact that Luz can't dispute.
"It looks like most people are still on the stage," says Luz, "and there are supplies everywhere. Should we..."
Asa takes a deep breath, obviously still a little rattled, and nods. With that, they emerge from their hiding spot and grab as many goods as they can from the market stalls. There's nobody in this area right now, but Luz doubts that will hold for much longer, so she dashes through the stalls, searching for one in particular.
She finds the apothecary quicker than expected, and immediately she feels a bit safer, reminded of her family's store back home. She collects bandages, needle and thread for stitching, and a tiny knife meant for cauterizing. There are also a few herbs which she recognizes and stashes, but she doesn't see her normal salves and medicines. It seems that this Arena is set in a time far in the past, where they didn't have nearly as much medical prowess. Luckily, certain staples do tent to last through the ages, and Luz feels leagues better with the basic first-aid supplies to her name.
She regroups with Asa, who seems grateful to be by her side again. He's holding as much food and water as he can carry. They've been unbelievably lucky; Luz wasn't expecting they'd get any supplies, because she certainly wasn't willing to get into any fights. But here's a goldmine that's there's for the taking, at least for now.
"Let's get out of here," Asa says.
With that, they hurry out of the market, Luz's shoulders feeling a bit lighter. Sure, they're certainly not out of the woods, but they're more than okay for now. And Luz figures that's all she can ask for: the best moments she can get with Asa, before all of their time runs out for good.
...
Callisto "Cal" Novella, 17, District Five Male
In the end, nothing goes according to plan. Really, Cal should've expected this, with Colby calling the shots. Still, he'd hoped that at least a few things would stay constant.
As soon as the bell rings, Cal tries to drag Colby away, but she shakes him off. "Let's wait a minute," she says.
He tries to explain that there is chaos and bloodshed all around them, and that staying here would likely get her killed, which would totally ruin his entire plan to save her... which was why he'd even Volunteered in the first place, but which she hasn't even noticed... but the words got lost on the way, and all of that reasoning would only make her scowl at him.
So he doesn't say anything as Colby dashes out into the middle of the stage, where she snatches a javelin. He follows wordlessly, heart racing in concern, as the boy from Eleven tackles her from behind, a serrated blade raised to her neck. His hands start to shake, but he still does not make a sound as Colby twists from beneath the other boy's grip and thrusts her javelin into his chest. Before Cal can even blink, the boy is still and hollow, his pained gasp cut short, and Colby's already standing.
She lets him steer her backstage, behind the curtain, but squirms out of his grip before they leave. "I want to watch," she insists.
Cal cannot stop staring at his sister. His sister, who just killed someone as if it were nothing and is now leaning forward and watching with detached disinterest as the Bloodbath continues. Is it morally sound to ally with a murderer? But then, that murderer is his sister, whom he Volunteered to save; where would he be if he wasn't beside her? What other choice does he have but to protect her? But should he condone such practices, even if she is family?
This is all he does; go around in circles and never get his head above water, even when he's in the midst of death. Why can't he just figure it all out? Why does he have to struggle and spiral instead of actually making a decision? Why does the very thought of doing such a thing paralyze him?
Cal watches as the boy from Twelve swings his pickaxe into the boy from Seven's back. The boy from One steps back, shaking his head as his allies say something to him. They all exchange a few more hushed words before gathering weapons. Armed to the teeth, they exit stage-right and fade from view.
Colby laughs. "Well, Cal, darling, it looks like we have this place all to ourselves! The stage is ours and ours only."
Cal stares at her. "But... don't you think we should..."
"We'll be just fine here. The Careers are obviously finding somewhere else to camp. If we don't take this spot, no one else will."
"I highly doubt that..." he murmurs.
"Oh please! You're so uptight."
Cal doesn't know what else to do. He can't very well leave Colby alone—as much as he tried to teach her, she didn't learn much in the Capitol. Even if she is a murderer, he couldn't just abandon her. Even if her choices are somewhat questionable, and certainly not ones he'd make, it wouldn't be morally correct to simply leave. Besides, where would he go? She's quite literally his only friend, and always has been. (Though really, she hasn't been much of a friend for a long, long time. She's been too busy blossoming under her parents' adoration while he wilted under their deluge of insults.)
Despite all this, he follows her onstage, because he is not confrontational and he doesn't make decisions and he never finds the answers.
"Well, dear brother," says Colby, "it looks like things are finally better for us. After all of our trials these past years, it is so good to finally feel safe."
He knows she's putting on an act, a show for the Gamemakers who are probably watching them, and so he swallows his rebuttal against her small lies. She has not faced a trial in a long time, and he doesn't feel any semblance of safety. But this is their deal: she finds some kindness in herself to take him on as her ally, and he doesn't correct her lies. It hasn't been easy. Some part of him pictured that when he Volunteered, she'd recognize his kindness and his wonderful morality for stepping in to protect her, and they'd become fast friends while in the Capitol. He'd hoped that she would listen to him for once, and tell him she was sorry for leaving him to the mercy of their parents for so many years. But perhaps it's immoral to be so selfish; after all, he can't expect more from Columbia than what she's capable of. It would be wholly monstrous of him to only want to Volunteer so he'd get recognition—that's not how he feels at all. Still, it would be nice to be seen, for once.
Columbia is busy inspecting the guillotine with awe. All of the other Tributes are long gone, and the world hangs in a kind of eerie calm. Cal doesn't like this, hates being privy to this kind of murder without being able to do anything about it. He feels powerless, and selfish, and confused. He longs for a book, but the stage is only covered in weapons and the blood they've shed. Colby is too busy for him, as always.
Why does he stay with her? Because he has no other option.
Seven people died today, and Cal is allying with a person responsible for one of them. And yet, he could never bring himself to leave, because part of him still hopes that his sister is still there somewhere beneath Colby's hundreds of masks. He's waiting for the day when she will finally see reason. If he can just save her, prove himself somehow and actually make a difference, perhaps she will finally understand. That's really all that's left for him now. If he doesn't save Columbia, all of his doubts that he'll never amount to anything, never find the absolute moral right, with be proven. He'll be a waste.
That's why he has to save her, despite her protestations. Otherwise, this will all mean nothing, and he'll have condoned her murder and sacrificed his own moral code—the only thing that really means something to him—only for it all to be for naught.
And he can't live with that. Not after all he's been through.
24th Place: District One Female, stepped off her pedestal too early.
23rd Place: District Two Female, killed by Tremor Atilius.
22nd Place: District Eleven Female, killed by Tremor Atilius.
21st Place: District Three Male, killed by Naya Illumina.
20th Place: District Eight male, killed by Buck Taurean.
19th Place: District 11 Male, killed by Columbia Novella.
18th Place: District Seven Male, killed by Alessio Spades.
Hi! It's Miri here, a bit sick and sleepy but still very excited to present the first Games chapter of IIDY, which I hope you enjoyed. Now, I've been a little disappointed in my writing lately, and that last POV was written while I had a fever and was pretty sick, so I apologize if this was not up to standard; that's just the way it turned out, but I hope you liked it nonetheless! We are now in full swing of the Games, with almost all the fillers gone, which just leaves more time to focus on your children! Thank you for trusting me with them. I can't believe we've finally made it here! That little passage of third-person limited or whatever it's called at the beginning was certainly not my original idea, but it's a style I love writing in and I figured I'd do it whenever I got the opportunity! Other than that... well, there's really not much I can say, besides a huge shout-out to everyone! Also, I'm ditching the Broadway quotes for the Games chapters because they just didn't seem to fit the... vibe, per se, that I had in mind lol. They shall be back for the epilogues, which feels really weird to even think about right now lol! Anyways, hope you are all having a fabulous week, please vote on the poll if you so desire, and I'll see you... when I see you!
Much Love,
Miri