Chapter Twenty-Eight - "New Friends, New Opportunities"

"You okay?!" Clancy asks me.

At least, that's what I think he asks me.

Truth be told, I'm not paying attention. I'm too preoccupied with trying not to die from sheer fear.

My ears are ringing and like a plucked rubber band, my world continues to stir uncontrollably, causing me to see double of everything, Clancy's head included. From our little niche under the study table, I watch as our 'home away from home' devolves into a mess of shattered and upturned furniture.

And as the roof gives way with a loud crash and a torrent of dust, I wonder to myself for the millionth time really and truly how our being here came to be. What did we do to make it so that the universe put us through this? I shout out in shock, only to relax when I realize it's Clancy as he grabs me and spins me so that he and I are face to face.

"Emery! Are. you. okay?!" he yells at me. With all the commotion, his voice sounds so tinny in my ears.

"Yes! Yes!" I rasp back in reply, all while staving off the urge to throw up due to the constant movement. I shake my head, which feels a million times worse with everything going on around us. I feel like a plucked string, my vision wobbling uncontrollably. "I just…I don't want to…!"

Die.

The tiredness, the fear, the constant feeling of dread…I don't understand how even the toughest of tributes - Careers - manage to bear through the Games despite everything thrown at them!

Clancy pulls me in and holds me close and suddenly, my world becomes a lot more stable. I can still feel the vibrations but at least the double vision is leaving.

"It's going to be fine," he says loudly into my ear. "You're doing great so far. Keep it up!"

I feel a sense of warmth wash over me for the briefest of moments. Yes, for now, at least. I think. If you weren't here, I'd be…

I shake my head once more and decide to shut my eyes and focus on my breathing, waiting for what feels like hours until the vibrations stop. Clancy and I exchange hesitant looks before slowly creeping out of our crevice. Shielding my eyes from the light creeping in from the open hole that was our balcony, Clancy takes a firm grip of my hood, prompting me to gasp and glare at him.

"What?" I whine.

He points to the open groove that splits our loft in two. If he hadn't stopped me, I would've taken a nasty tumble to the bottom. I inwardly twinge.

If you weren't here, I'd be dead.

"Clean your glasses," he says.

"Oh, right…" I listen to him, fishing out a looted cloth from one of the many buildings we've visited. If that's one thing this arena is good for, it's the abundance of things left behind by the millions of people who called this place home. There's plenty of things to use for our own benefit...if you look closely.

With the whole outside of the loft choked with filmy dust there's no point placing my glasses back on. Instead, I listen to Clancy's command to dawn our masks, watching as part of a building nearby crumbles, crashing loudly onto the street below.

Poison gas, gargoyles, wild animals and now earthquakes. What else do the Gamemakers have up their sleeves?

Behind his mask, Clancy gives me a weary look, as if he can read my mind.

"It's only going to get worse, Em," he says.

I know that. I think. Even with you by my side, I don't know how much more I can take.

I shrug. "Are we safe?"

Sighing, Clancy nods. "Yeah…We're safe."

I feel my communicuff vibrate, raising it to my front to see Vi and Pax projecting from it.

"Instead of being plain old 'safe'," says Pax.

Half-startled, half-confused, Clancy frowns. "What-?"

"Why not flourish instead?" Vi finishes.

"Especially in a Games such as these."

Clancy isn't having any of it, sighing heavily. "First, you try to kill us, and now you're offering up advice?"

"Oh come on, Clancy. When have they ever swindled us?" I reason.

Since the Games began, the holograms have offered sound advice. They explained the mystery box system, advised us not to rely on said boxes but to use the arena as well…I trust their every word.

"What brings you to us now?" I ask them. "Some more good advice, I hope?"

Their projections flicker, each of them showcasing wide grins that make my body run hot with anxiousness.

"Better. An opportunity, more like," says Vi.

"An opportunity in which the window to receive it is closing quite fast," adds Pax.

A cannon fires, causing us to crane our heads toward the sky. As quick as I glance down at my wrist, the projections disappear.

Clancy's shoulders droop. "They didn't even explai-"

"Clancy," I nod towards his activated cuff. "Your wrist."

Behind the mask, I watch his brows furrow while he consults his communicuff. He quickly makes his way toward the open groove. I hesitantly follow.

"What's going on?"

"Apparently our 'opportunity' is a hundred meters that way," he explains. "When Gamemakers are giving you a hand, it's best we latch on to it. Give me your hand, the fissure's passable, just hang on tight."

I obey my brother, allowing him to quickly navigate us down the two-floor hole, using wedged furniture and solid ground to quickly shimmy down onto the ground floor. The street is barely recognizable, what with all the destruction from the collapsed buildings coats the road with a snow-like dust, which rises to our knees with each step we take.

It makes me wonder what the rest of the arena is like.

We turn left, trudging our way down the street until we come face to face with a pile of rubble at least twenty feet tall. I'm quickly overcome with a sense of worry. There's no way we're getting through this. If walking down this street is like wading through water, climbing this monstrosity would only swallow us whole.

I quickly scan around. Surely there's another way around…

Stumped, Clancy consults his communicuff once more.

"The objective is straight ahead, I'm not sure how-"

"Clancy, look!" I point towards a gap in between the buildings. An alleyway. "Maybe there, perhaps?'

Clancy nods in approval. "Good eye. Now quickly, let's go."

Clancy takes the lead once more, navigating us through cramped spaces and manageable piles of rubble until we're behind the collapsed building that redirected us here in the first place. We face the same problem - a large pile of rubble. But at least we could see over this one. Great minds seem to think alike when Clancy and I spy a nearby dumpster and use that to get us on level ground with the rubble. Clancy prods his way over the mound while I awkwardly use the window sill of the building opposite, putting my small size to good use.

When we finally navigate the mound. A cannon fires overhead. My wrist vibrates violently.

"Hurry!" Vi and Pax yearn in unison. "Hurry now!"

"They really want us to take this opportunity…" I say dryly.

I try to come up with scenarios in my head. An 'opportunity' can mean anything in the Games.

I don't have time to ponder when Clancy urges us forward, rounding a corner until we are opposite our side of the street. I couldn't help but notice the bloody footprints leading into the set of buildings off to the left.

Blood means conflict. Blood means death. If my stomach wasn't knotted up before, it is now.

"This way," Clancy calls, as I join him in entering and navigating the cramped stairwell, caved in by the earthquake.

The bloody footprints fade, but I know that they lead wherever Clancy ends up taking us. We're halfway up the stairs when we hear three loud thumps followed by a clattering of something against the floor.

Reaching the second floor, Clancy withdraws his kukri and motions for me to keep quiet. I obey, heart pounding through my ears as I hear the faint sound of a struggle further down the hallway. I listen closer. Yells of pain, cries, swearing.

My stomach immediately begins to ache again as I follow Clancy down the hall, fumbling with my handgun as he turns to face the door in question.

Without hesitation, he breaks the door off its hinges, shocking me once again with his Career-like display of strength.

We enter the room and I freeze, startled at the sight before me.

There's blood everywhere, furniture upturned.

A Twelve lies dead in a pool of it off to the side.

It's what's happening in the middle of the room that captures most of my attention.

Two tributes are engaged in a melee, a Twelve versus a Two judging by the color codes. I immediately recognize him as Greer, due to his distinctively bald head.

Kukri in hand, Clancy strides forward.

"Emery, stay back," he commands.

Startled by our breaking in, Greer turns to engage Clancy, his face looking as if he were mauled by a mutt - all bloodied, bruised and cut open.

I barely catch his wide, startled eyes as he raises his hand into the air, stupidly trying to block the blow Clancy is about to strike him with. The blade comes down and Greer loses it, clutching his stump while screaming bloody murder. Greer's screams are silenced as Clancy strikes again, the blade fastening itself into his neck.

Ripping the blade from out of him, Greer crumples to the ground, gagging and writhing from side to side as blood sprays from out of him, soaking his uniform and the ground around him with each movement.

Clancy positions himself over him, blade rising overhead.

I don't watch, turning away and tearing my mask off in a desperate attempt to breathe. There's a harsh sound of blade striking flesh as Greer's cannon fires in an instant. I turn around again, averting my eyes from the scene in front of me.

It's then that I spot Syndra.

"Syndra?!" I scramble towards her, nearly falling flat on my face thanks to the blood pooling on the ground. "Oh my Gods, Syndra, you don't look too…good…."

She doesn't look good at all.

Just over a week ago, she was full of life, optimistic, wanting to do the best with what she had. Now, she lies slumped against this sofa, gun held limply in her grip. Her skin is as pale as wax, bright blue eyes dull and unfocused, her uniform soiled with blood and dirt.

Smoothing down her hair with a single hand, tears sting at my eyes and I let them flow.

Syndra's dead.

But if Syndra's here, then…?

A bout of loud, hacking coughs compel me to crane my head towards Clancy as he attends to none other than Ms. Spitfire herself: Zenobia Rivendell of District 2. I barely note the other body - Quinn's - before making my way to the most famous tribute in these Games.

I pat down my coat pocket, where my diary resides. I'm going to have a lot to write about tonight.

Zenobia looks a mess, her uniform torn and soiled with mud, her face bruised and bloodied in various places. Her eyes are unfocused as she dry heaves, Clancy quickly turning her on her side, pulling her hair back as she vomits the contents of her stomach onto the already polluted ground. Clancy seems annoyed, glancing up at me, Greer's blood staining his face.

"This is our 'opportunity'?" he scoffs, scowling as he tries to tend to Zenobia. "Not much of an opportunity, if you ask me…"

"On the contrary, making new friends opens up plenty of avenues," says Vi.

"Avenues that would've been available to you anyway if you were more willing to accept the hand extended to you prior," adds Pax.

"They're right…in more ways than one," I say, moving to aid Clancy.

As I move Zenobia's hair from her face, I notice that her ear is bleeding. I instead choose to use my canteen to wash her mouth out of the vomit, and use a wad of gauze to stem the bleeding.

"How do you know?"

"Come on, Clancy. This is her '12' score in action!" I explain, gesturing around the room. Scenes of her private session flash through my brain, but I opt to keep such gruesome scenes to myself. What Clancy sees here is enough proof. I gesture to the bodies of Greer and Quinn. "It's obvious Zenobia, Syndra and their group were attacked by Justin and his people. She was well on her way to killing both of them before we showed up. And who knows what she went through to get here?"

Clancy offers a grunt in reply, turning his attention back to Zenobia. It seems the emergency is over as with a long, laborious sigh, her eyes flutter shut. Her chest continues to rise up and down, as if she had just finished the exercise of her lifetime - which she did.

She had a bigger group. The likes of Cicero, Maximus and Daphne come to mind. What happened to them?

"Pax is right," I say, assuming that the worst has happened to the others. "We should've allied with them-"

"And then what?" Clancy snaps back, gesturing to Syndra's fallen form. "End up like them?"

"You don't know that, Clancy," I counter. "And don't dismiss her like that. It's rude," he glares at me and I return it right back. "And besides, they were our people. Imagine all of us together. We could've gone so far..."

"You could only go 'so far' before the inevitable. Don't be naïve," Clancy says, rolling his eyes. "The end result would be the same, if not worse due to attachment. Attachment to people who would very well turn on us on a dime if it meant saving their skin above all else."

I lower my eyes toward Zenobia as a moment of silence washes over us, mindlessly looking over her dirtied features.

He doesn't know what he's talking about.

Sure, being a singleton during the Games has its benefits, but imagine having all the Capitolites together, with Zenobia. Chances are we would've done very well. I'm not stupid, I know what has to happen. Only one wins. But how does he know how we would fare if we joined them since the beginning?

We should've joined them.

I find myself staring at Clancy's blood-caked face, fumbling through my many pockets to retrieve a rag.

"Here," I say.

He quirks a brow, accepting it. "What's this for?" he points to Zenobia. "Her?"

"You got blood on you…" I say. And it makes him look like that tribute three years back. Wade Rankine. The one who smashed the other tribute's head in with a brick. And to think I thought that was somehow 'great'...

He murmurs his thanks, clearing the blood off his face. As he does this, I get lost in watching him.

Greer marks his second kill in the Games. Mother and Gran always called him a "gentle giant", much like how Father was. I figure that's just one side of him. The gentleness. If one reads the stories, we all know that giants aren't known for their 'gentleness'.

I stir again when our communicuffs begin to beep. A glance at the map notes that the holograms updated it with a location - direction and all.

"I don't know about yours, but my map has another objective on it. We obviously can't stay here," he says, scooping Zenobia into his arms. "Gather all the gear you can and let's get a move on. Before others show up."

Wordlessly, I begin collecting everything I see. I start with two, blood-soiled yet fancy-looking blades that you can slip right onto your wrists. I notice a little lever and flick it, gasping as one of the blades transforms into three, claw-like prongs. Greer favors axes, which immediately makes them belong to Zenobia. I twist the gauntlet back and forth, wondering how many tributes have fallen to these. Clancy turns around, presenting his rucksack to me.

"Come on, Em. I'm keen to get out of here."

"Okay." I place the gauntlets inside and continue scavenging, recovering bullets and packets of food from Greer and Quinn, as well as two rifles, pushing back my aversion to the blood and grime that coats both guns. Tacking these onto Clancy's rucksack, we begin to leave without a word.

Until I stop, pivoting back from the hallway to face the room proper.

"Em," Clancy calls from the hall. "What are you doing?"

Ignoring him, I make my way over to Syndra's fallen form, all while recalling the moments we shared back in the Capitol.

It's the first time she tried to recruit Clancy and I that sticks out the most.

Despite heading into the Games, she strode over to our corner of the gymnasium with the brightest of smiles as she extended her hand and introduced herself as Syndra O'Shea. I knew then and there she was good company.

I kneel down to her level, closing each of her slightly gaping eyes one by one. My mind drifts off to a living room in District 1, wondering if her parents are watching at this very moment.

Tears well up in my eyes.

"Emery, for Panem's sake…" Clancy moans. "Leave her be-"

"She would've done the same for us!" I snap at him. "I know that for a fact."

Even though Clancy politely rebuffed her offer, instead replying with a 'loose alliance' if we had met in the Games proper, she still invited us to Dinner with the rest of the Capitolites.

As I secure Syndra's revolver onto my belt, Clancy scoffs.

"I know she's one of us, but you barely knew her for a week!" He sighs again as I ignore him. "What, are you going to get these two out too?"

I make the mistake of looking directly at the deep gash in Greer's face, and the vacant bulging eyes that accompany it.

I glance over at Quinn's fallen form. Slumping against the kitchen island, her jaw is slack and her eyes wide and vacant. In my short years of watching Hunger Games, I've never seen that much blood flow from someone before.

I avert my eyes again, focusing squarely on Clancy.

"No," I reply. "They brought this on themselves. They can stay right where they belong. Just go, I'll follow along behind you."

Another sigh leaves him as he turns and leaves. I turn my attention back to Syndra, unable to get that first meeting out of my head. I cup my arms under both her armpits before dragging her as gently as I can out of the apartment. She's heavy, bloody, but it's worth it.

"Come on, Syndra," I soothe, heaving as I pull her into the hall. "This isn't the place for you."

November 24,

Day 8

What a day…

The holograms directed us to what appears to be Zenobia's hideout. They said again that new friends open up opportunities and they were right. Watching her train, I knew that '12' was well earned, but clearly she knows a lot more than killing.

I almost broke my neck trying to get past the sofa she wedged into the stairwell. I figured that was her design. Another funny thing is that while searching the flat, we found her stash of loot hidden away in the kitchen cupboards. Little food and lots of spare clothes.

Though I don't need one, there are plenty of spare pens lying around. Not just cheap ones. I just scored my fourth pen by scouring through the kitchen. Seeing all these ancient knick-knacks lying around reminds me of the times Mother would take me to Bountiful's Flea Market. People would pay to go on excursions to derelict cities to sell wares left behind due to the Apocalypse. An odd thought, taking items from houses that still had bones in them.

These are very good pens. Fountain. Thanks to Pluto, I have ink to charge them and use them at will. Though I'll never part with them unless life has other plans, I wonder how much they'd fetch?

…

Not wanting to be followed, Clancy made us wait a couple of minutes before tending to Zenobia. No one has come, otherwise I wouldn't be writing right now.

Zenobia's clothes were muddy. I don't need to be in the Hunger Games to know that dirty clothes in the arena are a bad mix. Don't get me started on her hair. It was nice on interview night. Now it's an absolute mess.

Clancy left the taking off her clothes and changing to me…naturally. The underwear, although clean enough, I decided to leave for her to change…naturally. She had a lot of bandages underneath.

That's when the sponsor items came in. We got SO MUCH stuff, it's crazy! Most of it was for Zenobia. Pieces of clothes to replace the muddy ones, healing balm, some pills, ammunition.

I say 'we' because we got sponsored stuff too. Food. Lots of it. I saw a rerun of Finnick Odair's Games before the Third Quarter Quell. I'd say that Zenobia getting this stuff, alongside those gauntlets, trumps that a million times.

Clancy said that we made a "Really good friend".

I agree.

As I write this passage, my mind races like tracker jackers in a nest. I mean, is it really a surprise? We've seen her join us in the actual tribute apartments and not the basement. She was the only tribute to really get applause during the interviews, in fact she was the only tribute anyone ever talked about with glee.

I want to say it's unfair, but this was supposed to be a Games about punishing the Rebels. Zenobia Rivendell is no rebel. I think back to her beautiful dress on interview night - especially the golden cameo of Panem's national emblem. She's no rebel at all. Dare I say it, but she's what Katniss Everdeen was. These gifts all but confirm it.

We cleaned her up as much as we can. Bandaged her ear, rubbed her wounds down, boiled some water to wipe down her face and hair. I did the changing of her clothes. I even took the liberty of finding an old brush to fix her hair because why not?

I'm with her right now. She's sleeping like a stone. I would too. She dodged a major bullet today.

…

Cannons. IIIII IIIII ten cannons…Like a bloodbath within itself. The portraits are coming. The relatives from District 1 are dead. I wonder how that happened?

Syndra's sweet face.

A boy from District 4, Clancy's age.

A girl from District 7.

Daphne…

Two boys from 9…

Greer…Theta…Quinn… The group of Thirteens are on their last legs.

Zenobia's group is gone, barring Maximus and Cicero.

Clancy thinks the earthquake will kill them soon, if the Thirteens didn't get to them yet.

…

Another cannon. Maximus is dead.

He was just as big as Clancy, if not smaller. Only an earthquake can take someone like Maximus out. Or another tribute got really lucky because of it and just finished him.

Forty-five tributes are left. Just a week ago, we had ninety-six. Nearly two whole Games have come and gone. I feel like I'm in a whirlwind. Two days from now it might be thirty…and then nineteen. I can't help but wonder where Clancy and I fit in the grand scheme of things.

And that's that.

From the widescreens displaying the arena and its various inhabitants, my eyes shift to the throng of Gamemakers manning their stations. Eyes wide with anticipation, they hang on to my every movement.

I can't blame them, as I'm right there with them.

The past twenty-four hours we've been attending our stations, manipulating the arena as if we were about to crown a victor when in fact we've barely reached the halfway point. If you ask me, the Games have barely begun.

I give them the words they've been hankering for. "All clear," I announce. "Take the time now to replenish yourselves. With these tributes, who knows what'll happen next."

With that, the Gamemaker HQ relaxes with a loud chorus of sighs. Technicians that were hunched over their consoles minutes ago were now reclining in their chairs. Our mad dash to preserve these Games are over…for now, at least.

Panem knows she isn't making it easy for us…neither are her pursuers.

Vi and Pax appear before me, smiling ever so brightly. Despite our creating them to serve as an 'autopilot', I still kept the staff on alert anyway.

"Colonel Rose, as requested, the various alliances have been effectively scattered," says Vi.

"And according to the vitals, some seventy-five percent of the tributes are afflicted with wounds," says Pax. "Do you require any other actions?"

I grin from ear to ear. "Good, good…" I reply. "Give them a day's respite, then release more mutts into the fray."

These Thirteens are a crafty bunch. If they had their way, The entire area would be there to ambush Zenobia and her alliance. They tear through mutts like paper, too. If they weren't so essential to the narrative, or so spread out throughout the tribute roster besides Twelve, they'd be all dead.

With a regal bow and a delicate curtsey, the holographic children dissipate.

A cannon fires, silencing the headquarters.

Downing my cup of lukewarm coffee to the last dreg, I watch as a hovercraft lifts Maximus' battered body into its belly. It's a shame, yes, but he played his role impeccably. Definitely a moment that will be showcased on 'Top 20 HG Moments' countdowns for years to come.

The body isn't even cold yet as on the leftmost widescreen, Caesar Flickerman and his panel of Hunger Game junkies are spinning a tale for the fallen Capitolite-now-Elevener, describing his 'triumphant display of bravery until his last breath'.

"After this, no more."

I turn around to see President Choudhury at my heels. Her prized adviser, Gideon Montresor, stands obediently behind her.

I spare him a quick glance, letting out the quietest of scoffs. With every powerful person, there's someone behind the throne, keeping them together. It's funny. Just last year he was a lowly bureaucrat, something to do with data. Now he's chief of staff to the President…only after being begged to stay.

What's his angle?

I turn back towards the screens, watching as they replay Maximus' last stand. The earthquake has ravaged the entire area. Most of the Capitolite alliance is dead. Zenobia has long been saved by Clancy Smithson and his little sister. The remainder of the Thirteens, ready for blood, spotted him and encircled him. Despite the odds, Max held his ax at the ready and waited for one of them to make the first move. An excellent scene.

"No more what, exactly…?"

"Capitolites."

I can't help but sigh, quickly transitioning into a playful scoff as I turn to face them. "They're not 'Capitolites' anymore, Madam President. I thought the theme going forward was atonement? Those 'Capitolites' aided the Rebellion."

"We figure that deportation to the Districts is a fate worse than death," says Gideon, adjusting his wire-frame glasses. "If you've frequented any social circle around here, we know that to be true. Furthermore, if these Games have shown us anything, it's that the Capitol-born tributes selected are still Capitolites…At least those here think of them that way."

I frown. "They're children of rebels. The very same people, Madam President, you said would grow up to espouse the same traitorous virtues that almost tore us apart. What difference-?"

"But not Rebels themselves," Gideon interjects. "This year, out of a cohort of ninety-six tributes, eighty of them picked up a gun and fired in anger, easily. The Capitolites selected this year were collateral damage. You saw their interviews, the audience perception here in the City?"

I shrug, hastily calling for a nearby Avox carting around refreshments and collecting a glass of drink. Capitolite-turned-district citizen or a born-and-raised one, I don't care. If I had it my way, I would draw from here in the Capitol as well. Drawing until every trace of rebel lineage is gone. Gideon eyes me from behind his spectacles, as if he's reading my very soul.

"What?" I ask him while downing the glass.

"The ball is in our court," he says. "but we still need to keep in mind that perception should be considered."

"Speaking of perception," chimes Choudhury, "I have concerns about Zenobia Rivendell."

My incredulous shrug nearly causes me to toss my glass into the air. "Madam President…."

"Now, I've let you have free reign so far," she continues, raising a gloved hand. "I wouldn't come to you if my claims were unfounded. A few days back, a drunk Rebel moseyed his way to Ms. Rivendell's Academy and opened fire. At the gates of course, but it was an attack all the same."

"Not to mention the holdout regions," Gideon adds, adjusting his glasses. "Despite our jamming attempts, remnant leaders watch from their feeds and continue to espouse their poison. Our sources predict this could lead to one last desperate push. A push we can ill-afford."

"The Games are supposed to have an air of impartiality to them…"

"The other tributes have had their day in the sun," I counter. "The bloodbaths, Mags' grandson barely making it out of the tunnels…"

"I'm afraid Ms. Rivendell is shattering that perception."

"Like it hasn't been shattered before?" I rebut with a scoff. "Enobaria Golding, Gloss Ritchson, Finnick Odair?! The-two-who-shall-not-be-named?" I smile like a Cheshire when their looks of concern falter. "So what, you want me to sick a mutt on her?"

The President, unease, exchanges looks with an equally perturbed Gideon. "No…"

"She's going through the ringer like everyone else!" I say, launching my hands into the air and letting them flop back to my sides. "Look, HG 74 wasn't that long ago, friends. This time, we're prepared, for the narrative is of our design. The holdouts will wither, naturally, and the people will see our girl slaying their rebels and submit. We've won half the battle by winning the War anyhow-"

"I think you have your euphemisms mixed up, Colonel," says Gideon. "What battles are there to be fought if we, like you said, won the war-"

"Let me finish," I interject. "Is it obvious who we want out? Of course. But like I said, sure we won the War, but we need to mop up. Put the wounded animal that is the Rebel movement out of its misery. The Games for the time being are our new battlefield and she is our soldier. This is her show now. Loyalist Panem needs this."

"What of Clancy Smithson, among other malleable neutrals?"

"Well, despite my 'main argument' just now, I do have some contingencies in place," I explain. "For these Games and beyond. With your green light, they could simmer tensions, make the Districts compliant for a few years…"

And solidify my legacy.

This seems to garner their attention as I watch the two exchange looks yet again. It's the President who gives me a nod of confirmation.

"I would like to hear about these 'contingencies', Colonel."

I grin from ear to ear, gesturing to my office. "Please, follow me so we can discuss in earnest. As you know, I'm all for atonement to its fullest extent. But I am aware that there are…concerns. Which is why I think a little 'reconciliation' could work wonders - an offset, if you will."

November 25,
Day 9

I think last night was the only night I slept properly in this place. Watching more Hunger Games than me, Clancy figures that after major events like earthquakes or numerous deaths, the Gamemakers allow the dust to settle.

When I told him about my sleep, Clancy had the gall to tell me that this was probably the most comfortable arena any tribute was going to get ever again. Easy for him to say. His time with the Academy gives him a slight edge. Sleeping outside, jumping into ice water…

Despite the abundance of abandoned bedrooms in this place, they're all filled with mildew and layers of dust.

The next time I lay my face onto a bed - a proper one - I'll never let go of it for a week, maybe even more.

Our 'new friend' is healing up quite nicely. There are a couple of shiners around the eyes and cheek. Luckily for her, she has some balm here. A note on one of the cans says apply hourly, so I will.

…

It's afternoon now, an hour past. No cannons have fired but I do hear the occasional gunfire. Since last night, we've been hearing loud crashing. Clancy and I assume it's buildings finally going down following yesterday's earthquake. As I write this, I feel a sudden wave of insecurity knowing that we're on the highest floor of this tenement building. I mean, we slept here so I suppose things are good for now.

Clancy hopes that some of the others are still stuck in the rubble. I can't help but agree. More tributes trapped means that they eventually die. More tributes dead means a few more left standing until Clancy and I…well…

I don't like thinking about it. And here I go, writing about it.

I think it's smart to acknowledge my fear. There can only be one and he's my brother. While it's good to be realistic, I think it's also good to just…live until the Games run their course, so to speak.

When it comes to our 'new friend'...It's odd how quickly this medicine works. The swelling's gone down almost completely. Her cuts and scrapes look tender, so unlike the bleeding, angry wounds of yesterday. Clancy wagers that she'll be up and running shortly, but I can't see her getting up for another day. She sleeps like a baby. It's probably the medicine, but I can't help but think Zenobia's been on her feet since day one. I've seen her perform.

She babbles about her parents…a boy named Paulus. Interesting.

I mean, If it weren't for Clancy and I, she wouldn't be here right now. And now she's with us. Before we met her, I wasn't sure what this arena had in store for us. Something tells me we're going to see a lot more conflict, something that makes my stomach twist just thinking about it.

But if Zenobia gets this much stuff on a whim…How hard can it be to survive, really?

If Clancy, the biggest tribute this year, has her back, the both of them should make a great team. He said so himself back in the Capitol. He was just afraid about getting me into more unnecessary trouble.

…That brings it back full circle, doesn't it? They would make a great team, but what about me…?

Clancy says his only true purpose is to protect me for as long as possible. Maybe through the whole thing. But I'm a tribute as well, am I not? I should be protecting myself.

Can I protect myself? I'd like to think I can. I barged into Dawn's house dressed in only a slip and armed with a kitchen knife. I went through that horrible camp, too.

…I feel like I'm going in circles. Telling myself everything is going to be alright when it obviously isn't.

You know, I told myself I would ride this train out until the last, yet here I am writing page after page about what might come next. It's only proper to 'get it all out', I guess. With Zenobia, who really knows what might come next? So it's only proper that I continue to write.

Speaking of Zenobia, she should be up soon. And when she does get up I can't wait to sit with her, talk with her, find out what her goals are.

I know so much by observation but not by actually talking with her, which I'm sure will be a treat… or so I hope. During our time in training, she came across as very angry. That's natural on the account of what happened to her during the War.

I'm sure she'll be more than willing to talk to us. I mean, something tells me that Zenobia could use all the friends she could get in an arena like this.

TRIBUTE DISTRIBUTION AS OF DAY 10:

D1 - 3

D2 - 5

D3 - 6

D4 -3

D5 - 5

D6 - 6

D 7- 4

D 8 - 4

D9- 2

D10 - 3

D11 - (ELIMINATED)

D12- 5

(!) - 8 years ago, during the Christmas of 2013, I had created a OC fic, my first fic, in which a 12-year-old from District 11 had gotten reaped. I had since deleted the story, but now she lives on in this alternative universe that I have created. You might've seen her in works such as "Emery Means Brave"... You're no longer a Rue clone/Mary Sue, Emery Smithson! She has been added to the "Allies" section of the blog. You can also find art of her in the "Gallery". I would love to hear what you think of her design(s). I wonder if she was envisioned differently.

(!) - Her brother (who may or may not have an uncanny juxtaposition with the 74th Games D11 Male...), Clancy Smithson has been added to the blog under the same "Allies" tab. Just as old as Emery, but minor in character, Clancy first started out as a love interest to Emery all those years ago. Kind of cringe...and kind of weird too, all things considered...

(!) - For ease of reading, I have separated the characters tab into "Central Characters" (Zenobia, family and friends), "Movers and Shakers" (The lovely Viondra and Capitolites and so on) and "Foes" (The Thirteens and significant tributes)

All these can be found at atonement76 . weebly . com

I am back. To whom it concerns, I apologize for my absence, this semester was pretty heavy, but I made it. Updates should be faster, seeing as I have some prewritten already, but they need to be "tuned up". Seeing lots of people from Pakistan, Greenland, Cyprus reading this. Pretty cool. Wherever you are, thanks for checking in and reading. I believe that's about it. Once Atonement is wrapped up, I have some projects I would like to post afterward. I'm debating between starting a victor's list, Panem's origins, or a new story from the point of view of another victor from a brand new "District". Look out for that if you'd like.

Coming up next...

"A quick check of my communicuff, coupled with the darkening sky tells me that it's unlikely the Gamemakers will try something now. I figure I'm right when the commotion outside stops and the arena is quiet again. The thought of fighting again so soon makes my stomach twist. It's too soon to start up again.

And then my wrist vibrates."