Caldwell Kingsen, 17, District Four Male
Caldwell Kingsen has not built a sandcastle since the night before the Reapings, and something about that fills him with a traitorous happiness. He is a labyrinth of conflict today, and has been since meeting Alessio of Twelve, because on the one hand, he is so exhausted and drained and burned out—he has been since he was twelve. But on the other, he is the long-standing sandcastle champion of Four, the Capitol's next prodigy, and his entire being depends on his talent—so what is he, really, without it?
This Arena, truly, is a work of art, from each perfectly-polished marble column to the grandiose cathedral in the distance, and—of course—the art gallery in which he is standing. It looks like a monument, so carefully constructed with the artists' names engraved above their greatest works. Michelangelo. Leonardo Da Vinci. Raphael and Donatello. Each sculpture and painting of various figures in all their glory seem to follow him with their eyes. Will he be joining them in their hallowed halls of glory? Will his sandcastles be preserved in the never-ending passage of time?
A part of him hopes not.
Is he blasphemous? Probably. He is not someone who even allows failure—he would never stoop so low as to do a thing so human, so... mortal. Yet right here, right now, he is so tired. Tired of the endless spiral, the hollow emptiness that can never be filled as he works his hands bloody, sand caked beneath his nails. He builds and builds, earns prize after prize, yet it's never enough for his parents; they want more money. He is the sole provider of the family, who will fail without his help, and it doesn't matter that his imagination feels drained dry.
Even now, in this mythical arena, ideas are blossoming behind his eyes. He is looking at these murals, the Mona Lisa and The Last Supper, and wondering why he's never seen them before. After years of feeling uninspired, each work of art forced into being by force of will alone, he suddenly has ideas. This place is full of art, something that might have been valued long ago. Now, it is only a means to an end for his struggling parents, for the Capitol tourists who wish only to be entertained. But long ago, it must have been a form of self-expression, an outlet for the soul.
How Caldwell misses building sandcastles like that; when he was so young and so new to the world of creativity. But who is he kidding? Even then, he had felt guilty about not helping the family, and had starting building sandcastles in hopes that it would earn money. His artistic pursuits have always been fueled by need.
Caldwell shakes himself out of his stupor. How can he be thinking this way? There must be something wrong with him, some sort of glitch in his system; these thoughts are a mistake.
And he doesn't allow mistakes, because they aren't things that Caldwell Kingsen makes.
(Or at least... that's what he used to think.)
He wanders through the gallery. There is a chair and an easel, but still no sand. He wasn't hoping to build anything artistic... although it might help bring him to his senses. But no, he was hoping that he could build traps, arrange them just so. If anyone approached him, they'd sink in his carefully placed traps that he'd surround himself with, and that would allow him to kill them.
Yes, kill. He sees it as his only option, and something that he could shake off his conscience if need be. He has more pressing things to worry about than what it will do to his moral compass. He was planning to kill somebody at the Bloodbath if it came to it, even prepared for such a thing. But Naya Illumina was nearby, with a bow in hand and a pack of Careers at her back, so he was forced to grab a spear and bolt. He holds no concern for what he will do if anyone comes near him. Still... it's a pity that he can't build traps, as that was the only one of his few assets.
As for Naya... well, she could be anywhere. He knows she's got more important things to do than find him—which is offensive, the thought that he wouldn't be important enough to kill, even—but eventually, she'll probably take it upon herself to hunt him down. And their paths will cross... whenever they do. He has to be prepared.
They both know that they wouldn't hesitate to kill each other. Naya's already got a kill under her belt, if he's not mistaken, but Caldwell's got a weapon and his sheer determination to fuel him. He utterly refuses to die, and nothing will happen to him if he wills it so.
Or so he hopes. But does he even know anything anymore, if he isn't a god? A god would know what to do when his sole purpose for life had been utterly changed. He'd know how to untangle these feelings of utter loneliness, of wanting to create but not knowing how, of wishing he could never touch sand again.
So that's it. He isn't a god. He's only Caldwell Kingsen, a boy trying hard to find grace. A boy whose blood flows on the need for approval, a boy who believes he is something.
Is he?
No one to talk to him now. No Naya Illumina to torment, no sandcastle to build, no parents to beg for praise. No check to collect. Just a gallery of ghosts and him, a boy who is unraveling.
Because what is he supposed to do now?
He should be perfectly calm. If he is anything, he's relentless, infallible and hardworking. He has never left a project unfinished. Right now, when it feels like his thoughts are a cyclone, he clings on to that single pillar of himself.
He does not want to die. He will not stop until he finds some resolution, some closure. He has to understand. He suddenly wishes for some way to unwind this knot of discomfort tightening 'round his heart; he wishes for a canvas. He's never painted before, yet perhaps he should try something new; what could it hurt? If he is so multi-talented and unparalleled as he claims, he should take to painting naturally.
Besides, there's nothing else to do in this place that feels too silent after the riotous collection of chaos that occurred only hours before.
He is doubting everything else, and he needs to feel powerful and secure, so he dips a brush in the old-fashioned jar of paint and experimentally swipes it across the canvas. It is at once a leap of faith and a plea for familiarity. He has never painted, and knows that he will probably fail, yet he can't bring himself to stop as he brings a scene to life.
It is only fitting that he does a self-portrait. He paints himself, dark tanned skin, head reclined back as he stretches out in the sand, bathed by the glow of the sun. He sees it all in his mind's eye, a star-touched painting of awe-inspiring grandeur.
The real result takes longer than it should, with him glancing over his shoulder in slight paranoia every few seconds. This is, after all, a death match, and not usually the backdrop with which he uses for his art. Yet it feels strangely right; since nothing makes sense, this feels like only the right time to do something most out-of-character; try something new without knowing he will excel at it.
Nonetheless, it does finally finish it, and it's not perfect. In fact, beside the works of wonder done by his role models, it looks childlike. Yet... for his first painting, it is certainly not terrible.
He can't help but be critical of the work, picking out each detail that could be better. It's... it's imperfect, and that's obviously unacceptable. He should really just take it down from its easel and call it a waste of three hours.
Still... a part of him is soothed, some untameable energy temporarily quenched, for this brief moment of artistic exercise. To bring something slightly beautiful into this world is a slight consolation for his heartache.
So he doesn't take down the painting, a sign of his imperfection, yet still a slight comfort. And he rests just a bit easier, if not with a small amount of wonder as he rests in this idea of not being without flaw.
...
Wren Camphor, 15, District Seven Female
"I was right! I told you it would work out!" Wren cannot help but do a little victory twirl as her and Cady walk away from the marketplace, arms full of loot.
Cady chuckles quietly. "You did. Look, I never said that your plan was bad. I just suggested that... well, maybe running straight into the melee where seven people got killed might be dangerous."
"But we're unscathed!" Wren says, unable to keep a squeal from her voice. "And we have stuff!"
Cady grins; it seems she's learned to humor Wren's antics. "Yeah. We're looking pretty good."
Back at the stage, Wren saw the giant pile of weapons just waiting to be picked up. She saw the fierce-looking Careers who were picking off other kids like it was nothing. But that didn't deter her—why would anything deter Wren Camphor? She grabbed Cady and they booked it out over the stage, the wind blowing in their hair, and Wren's never felt so free. They're both fast, wily little creatures. They are free spirits, neither of which have ever been pinned down, and today was no exception. They scored the weapons and managed to escape right under those stuffy Careers' noses. Now they're hurrying away from the marketplace, where they collected as much food as they could carry.
The only two things that even slightly sour Wren's mood are the fact that the market was already picked over when they got there, and the totally useless items being sold there. Little sculptures and art pieces, books and paper, spools of fabric... but no wire for traps, no poison, and no trees for her to climb. Wren can bet that the Gamemakers are having a laugh up in their lab, leading them astray like that. The way they made it sound, they'd be out in some desolate wasteland where survival skills would be of utmost importance. But here is this almost idyllic little metropolis, complete with marble tiles that gleam in the sun and an aura of absolute luxury.
One would think that should put Wren at ease. Yet something about it offputs her.
And the more she thinks about it, the more frustrating she is, her mood shifting like the flip of a coin.
She huffs and stomps her foot, which resounds off the tiles beneath her feet. They've neared a fountain, which depicts a noble-looking man who holds a crystal cup, which overflows with clear-blue water. "There are no trees here!" she says.
"And no pigeons," Cady agrees. "No arcades."
"No high ground!" Wren continues. "I was hoping for someplace with a good view over the other Tributes."
Cady smiles slyly. "I think... I think I have the perfect place."
Cady leads them across the square, toward the very tall building with its spires that pierce the sky. Wren gapes. She's never seen anything quite so... white, and imposing, like some castle out of a storybook.
"What is this place?" asks Wren as they draw up before the door. A sheet of taper is taped just below the ornate knob.
Cady pulls it off. "'A list of grievances,'" she reads. "It looks like some complaints against... against a church of some kind. Something about indulgences?"
Wren leans forward. "Like... someone wrote things they hated about this church and taped it on their door?"
Cady grins. "That's what it looks like."
"Wow."
Cady puts the list back. It is an open sign of rebellion, something you rarely see in Panem. But this isn't Panem anymore, it's a relic of some bygone time. And this mysterious person's grievances are not against the Capitol, but a church of some kind. Religion was another thing to go when the war ended and the Capitol won. Wren never paid attention in school and never cared much about the whole ordeal in the first place, but... there's something encouraging about this bold show of opinion. It feels like a personal encouragement, meant just for them—these two underdogs just trying to get out of here.
They push open the door, which gives an enormous creak. When they enter, their footsteps echo, giving the impression of a dozen walking feet.
"Well," says Wren, her naturally loud voice bouncing around the room. "We'll have to find a way to get up at the top. Maybe there's a window we can use to watch everybody."
"I guess stealth won't be our friend," says Cady, her voice quiet enough to avoid the echo.
Wren laughs, patting Cady's shoulder. "Who needs stealth? We're gonna take on the Careers, as soon as we can. I'm not gonna sit around here and wait."
Cady stares at her for a moment. "You're... you're joking, right?"
Wren schools her expression to mimic that of the studious angel depicted on the wall. "Dead serious."
Cady giggles. Wren snorts. The Bloodbath was a stressful ordeal, and Wren can't stop her slightly strained laughter from flowing for at least a minute.
Cady brushes tears from her eyes. "Why are we laughing?"
"Dunno."
"You really want to confront the Careers?"
"Yeah. Why not?"
Cady studies her for a moment. She looks up at the vaulted ceiling, the pulpit and the rows of pews. Then she heaves a sigh.
"Of course I'm in."
Wren grins, inexplicably relieved. She doesn't know what she'd do without Cady, a steadfast friend in the midst of what Wren has to admit is chaos. And not the good kind.
When Wren's stressed, she deals by being reckless, making big, bold moves. And if people aren't cool with that, they can leave.
But Cady... she gets her. And she trusts her. And that's... it's absurdly comforting for Wren, to have a partner in crime.
"So, how do we go about this plan?" says Cady.
"Well, first, I guess we have to eat and sleep and stuff."
"I guess. If we have to."
Wren grins. "Sarcasm! Didn't expect that from you."
"And after that?" Cady prompts.
"Then we take on the world!" Wren shouts. The guys in the mosaics seem to scowl at her in disapproval, but she just glares at them, a flame of defiance igniting her veins.
"But Wren... I appreciate the enthusiasm, but there's five of them and two of us. Maybe we need more friends first?"
Wren sighs. "I guess more friends wouldn't hurt."
Cady nods. "I know there are some kids who are alone. Maybe they'd like to join us?"
Wren pumps her fist. "Who wouldn't?"
She's never felt so confident in her life. Maybe she shouldn't be, seeing as it's a death match and all, but right now... well, Wren Camphor feels like she could take on the world.
And the world better watch out. Because Wren is almost never wrong.
...
Blade Cassidy, 18, District Six Male
The Capitol certainly has a sick sense of humor.
They made a mock-up of his original outfit as the Masked Killer, some kind of costume. They must've somehow figured it out, that he was the man behind the killings of criminals around Six for the past year, and he's surprised they didn't put him in prison. But the Games are a sentence in their own right, he's discovering.
They left the stage after the action died down, in hopes of finding a more sound place to settle. Blade is fully stocked with a scimitar in hand, and for a moment it feels familiar. Like he's back in Six, reaping vengeance in the night-soaked streets.
But he killed in Six. And he hasn't killed here... yet. That's going to change soon, whether he likes it or not.
At first, he saw these Careers as just another band of criminals. They were evil to be eradicated, one more way for Blade to enact justice. From the first moment of joining them, Blade's planned on betraying them, if not killing them.
Yet how could he kill Marquis, with his merry grin and endearing confidence? And Naya, the binding that holds their entire operation together? What of Alessio, with that oh-so-familiar look of sadness in his eyes, and his interpreter at that? Tremor... well, Alessio wouldn't have a problem with betraying him.
"Giant building over there!" Marquis says, waving in the general direction. Alessio's hands move rapidly in his effort to keep up. His sign language is shaky, but it works in these circumstances. "Wanna camp there?"
"Why not that church?" asks Tremor. His movements are undeniably smooth, his expression so calm after having killed two innocent children. The Capitol must love him.
Alessio leans forward. "That's a church?"
"Whatever it is, it gives me the creeps," says Marquis. "It looks too... boring."
Blade almost smiles. It does look a bit somber, with its pure white walls. This town itself is awfully chilling; it feels as though it should be teeming with people, and yet each street echoes with emptiness. The only people there are the statues which stare at them with stony expressions from each street corner, and the masks don't do much to offset the strange tone.
"The other building, then," says Naya. "It's close, and it looks like a factory of some kind. Maybe it has supplies."
Nobody protests. They fall in behind Naya as she practically marches on ahead.
They pull open the door, and Blade is immediately hit with the sharp, odd scent of ink, paper and metal. It's a strange combination, reminding him of something very, very old. Alessio's eyes are wide, and Blade can't help but share his awe as they enter the building.
It turns out to be one large room, packed to the brim with objects. In the center is a very strange contraption: two metal plates, a sheet of paper, ink and a large collection of small letters which appear to be movable. The whole thing amounts to be about five feet long, three feet wide and seven feet tall. Stacked along the walls, from floor to ceiling, are books; bound in lather, which seem to be made up of elegant script on parchment.
Every soul in the room is taken aback, to some degree, by this large and foreign creature. Marquis is gaping, running his fingers along the type, which slides beneath his touch. Naya is examining it carefully, and Tremor looks calm but for the slight, interested raise of his brows. Alessio is wide-eyed and unmoving. Blade cannot help but feel dwarfed by this enigma, this beast of metal that seems to have no gears or wires to make it work.
Marquis speaks, and it takes Alessio a moment to break from his trance and sign.
"They made this... a long time ago? Like, back in the ancient times?"
"But what does it do?" says Alessio.
Tremor and Naya gather close to the machine, and Naya eyes the ink and letters. Blade can't help but join them, and Alessio and Marquis are close behind.
Soon, they're all gathered around the mechanism, which seems to baffle even Tremor. It takes several hours of them to even figure out how it works, hours which are probably wasted. Still, they've killed a fair amount of people today, and so perhaps they deserve this little break, to marvel at the strange and alluring device which looms over them.
It takes a lot of trial and error, but eventually they figure it out. Blade can't credit the discovery to any one of them, because for that moment, they worked together like a well-oiled machine, their minds seeming to be linked. Of course, it wasn't without conflict, but Blade's always felt this sort of disconnect between them all, something that didn't click—and for a moment, that seemed to fade.
The paper went between the two plates of metal, and the movable type on top of the sheet. By using ink and the pressure of the metal squeezing against the paper, a line of sharply printed letters was able to form on the sheet.
"So it... makes a copy. Printed text, on paper," says Marquis.
They stand back and admire their work. Even Blade can't help but feel a small amount of accomplshment as he eyes the neat letters now printed on the paper. This... obviously can't be used for anything important in the Hunger Games, but that doesn't make it any less impressive, in Blade's eyes.
Tremor scoffs dismissively. "The Capitol has much more efficient ways of doing things," he argues.
Still... to be faced with such a clever device in so ancient a time is shocking to Blade. He shouldn't let himself be drawn in, because at its core, this is simply the Capitol's playground. Yet he wasn't expecting such moments of beauty in this dark place. To see them is at once disturbing and oddly hopeful.
They all seem to shake themselves out of the spell and move on, as they search for somewhere to sleep. They end up lugging the books outside, where they'll likely be ruined, but it frees up a lot of room for them to sleep, albeit tucked against the wall. The printing machine looms above them as they all start to prepare for sleep.
"Who takes first watch?" says Naya.
Blade and Tremor jump up at the same time; Blade cannot guess Tremor's motives, but he himself does not want to let his guard down in case of treachery... though that seems less likely than he once thought it to be.
The two boys stare each other down. Blade feels an unannounced anger boiling within him. What right has Tremor to look so haughty and self-important, just another of the Capitol's lapdogs blindly following orders? How dare he kill innocents without so much as a blink, and still pretend that he's noble? He who kills and justifies it for good must be some kind of monster.
But... that's exactly what Blade does. He shudders and looks away.
Tremor gets first watch—he looks more victorious than he ought to—and Blade sleeps fitfully, just as he always does. He dreams of a boy who looks more like a monster, hiding behind a black mask, with blood on his hands.
...
Felicia Simmons, 16, District Eight Female
Buck... just killed a child.
Buck, the love of her life, her partner, killed a twelve-year-old. And Felicia Rae Simmons does not quite know what to think, what to feel.
Of course, killing him was necessary. The little boy had tried to steal Buck's supplies. If Buck hadn't taken action, he might be dead.
And if Felicia were a good partner, a good ally, a good woman... wouldn't she love him anyway, despite all of his faults, despite all signs that he does not love her back? (Is she being a fool?)
She is always a fool. Nobody has ever taken her seriously, nobody has noticed her intelligence. She was destined to be nothing but a trophy girl, a pretty face. Yet that's not helping her get out of this moral conundrum she's somehow managed to get herself into.
Perhaps a few weeks ago, when she was on that train on what she thought was a high-speed track straight to her dreams, this wouldn't have bothered her. She'd have tucked it away in some box inside her mind so that she wouldn't have to look at it. She would've said, "but he's beautiful. But he loves me."
And she's still saying that now, she still should be. Because what else is there—what's the alternative?
They're sitting smack-dab in the town center, with the theater gleaming off to their right, and a few other buildings surrounding them. Everything is open and clean and sparkly. Felicia cannot help but be swept up within the beauty of it all. It is a perfect scene for romance.
In front of them is a brazier and a stack of books. Buck is bent over the brazier, apparently attempting to use the books as kindling, or something. Felicia wouldn't know about all those technical fire terms.
Well, she shouldn't. She does, because she remembers every little thing that the Capitol taught her, and this was one of the most basic teachings. She could probably start that fire by herself, if... if it wasn't like this.
Felicia feels like a traitor to her own self, because she doesn't even recognize her innermost thoughts right now. She is deviating from what she wants to think, and that's forbidden and uncomfortable and—
"You killed a child," Felicia says quietly.
The brazier erupts into flame. Buck straightens.
They probably shouldn't be sitting in the town center beside a blazing fire, bright enough and prominent enough that any one of those buildings could be in range, yet if Buck thinks it's best... perhaps it is.
"I did," says Buck. His voice is neutral, almost devoid of tension.
Felicia hesitates. She should probably say something dumb and flirty and utterly Felicia, like 'you were oh-so-noble and big and strong back there, bravely defeating that defenseless twelve-year-old boy!' But she doesn't.
"Do you feel guilty?"
Buck sighs. "Felicia... I don't know how to say this. Sometimes... sacrifices have to be made when it's for a good cause. Not that killing is a good cause, but well, my family needs me back in Ten, which means I have to win. Which means I have to kill people. And it's not easy for me to reckon with either—it's a hard job. I don't like doing it."
Real pain crosses his face. Not that Felicia would ever call herself a good judge of character—she'd flirt with any man that came her way, really—but Buck Taurean looks genuine as can be.
But he also looks so relaxed. As if this is obvious, just another day in the life for him. He does not look rattled, as Felicia probably would.
Buck glances down at the cobblestones. "Guess we'll have to sleep on the ground."
Felicia looks down at her many-layered dress, pure white, with petticoats and everything. It is glamorous, gorgeous, and looking at it brings a smile to her face. It puts her at ease.
She stretches out on the stones, her bride's veil giving her a small cushion against the rock-hard ground. She closes her eyes and blocks out the world.
But then she opens them again, to stare at Buck's dreamy eyes as he pulls off his fine coat and balls it beneath his head. He has pulled off his stag's mask—"Too tight," he complains—so that she can see the placid features of his face. He looks so easygoing, so suave, as if the world were just a stream that he could gently sail through. Felicia wishes for so many things in that moment. She wishes for love, and for eternal beauty, and she wishes that someone would look at her and want to be with her. She wishes she were desirable. Not just her dress, or her appearance, but her, in entirety.
But Felicia's learned some hard lessons in her weeks away from home. And the most important one: dreams are just that. Felicia doubts she will ever see them come true.
Buck sees her gazing at him. He smiles, teeth and all. It's a kindly smile, a lighthearted one. There is no signs of treachery in his gentle eyes, no gleam of wickedness. Felicia can convince herself that even the best people sometimes commit crimes, and that doesn't make them bad, no... it's just that good people sometimes have to do bad things so that they can achieve more good things. Right? Does that sound stupid?
It really does.
Felicia is startled by clicking shoes. She watches as an unfamiliar man makes his way to the center of the marketplace, dressed in impeccable fashion, holding a strange sort of guitar, and with a jaunty look on his face. He is bright-eyed and sharply-dressed, a showman or a businessman, most certainly. Yet there is something stilted about his movements, something dead in his eyes, like a puppet on strings.
"One of the Capitol's toys," Buck says, but even he sounds uncertain.
The man jumps up on a small box and calls out, his voice so sharp and clear that it seems to echo across the whole village.
"Alas, we mourn the fair young ones that passed on to the next life today!" he cries. "Poor children, gone before their time. Would that you would all escape such a fate! I do hope that you are smarter still, then to die upon first gracing the stage. Lo, the seven souls who left our midst..."
The crier then launches into a poem. Yes, a rhythmic poem. It is so dramatically delivered and with such elegant words that Felicia almost forgets that he's speaking about real people, and dead people at that.
"The limelight, it is tempting, but heed my simple plea: don't enter it too early, or banished you shall be."
The herald-or-whatever-he-is has a rhyming couplet for each of the deceased Tributes, apparently some sort of warning for those still left. The poems are cheeky and pretentious and altogether ridiculous, and yet something within Felicia thinks they are beautiful. Laced with tragedy, and yet delivered with such pomp that a touch of humor can't be missed... well, it's certainly an odd way to be memorialized.
"Silly," says Buck. "Honestly, they could have at least had some respect for the dead."
Felicia wonders what her couplet will contain. What will they say about her? Will they lament her ugliness, or say that she was too intelligent for her own good? Or will they perhaps scoff at her naivety? The tragic, lovesick girl who was so blind that she beckoned her own death...
She shivers in her dress. Death had once seemed so distant, but now it creeps down her spine, whispers doubts in her ear. How could she possibly make it out of here? She is a stupid little girl who will never be remembered.
"Buck," she says softly. "Would you... would you die for me?"
She has to know. Because she's certain she'd die for him in a heartbeat.
But Buck doesn't answer. And Felicia does not sleep for a very long time.
...
AHHHH hi hello, forgive my excitement but this chapter was extremely fun for me to write and I'm just very happy that we're here, in the Games! I hope you are all having a lovely day and that you're staying safe and doing something you love! This week, we have CHARACTER DEVELOPMENT, which I do hope isn't too out-of-character, but I have enjoyed setting some arcs in motion and allowing the characters to change a little, although I hope it's not too much. We also got to see a lot more of the Arena! To give credit where credit is due, this Arena was heavily influenced and inspired by the Renaissance in Europe, with some other things sprinkled in there. I've had it in the works for a long time, ever since learning about it back in April-ish, so I've been having a blast writing it!
Now, it is once again time for the poll results! Miss Jacqueline Baylor of District Ten has once again taken the crown! Congrats SakuraDreamerz! In second place we have Naya Illumina, Luz Contreras and Asa Trevino! In third place, Caldwell Kingsen, Blade Cassidy and Buck Taurean. Once again, I want to thank all you awesome submitters for giving me such a wonderful, fabulous cast to work with.
This chapter was the longest yet, reaching 5k, which was a milestone I haven't yet crossed! Not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing lol, but you can expect chapters of about this length or longer for the rest of the Games. This chapter was also a bit heavy on set-up and character development, but the action will be picking up fairly soon! Next chapter is Day Two, so stay tuned for that. Thank you all so much for reading, and I'll see you next chapter!
Much Love,
Miri