"Run!"
Blythe's shriek is garbled but it has the desired effect. I turn, yank my hood up, and take off as fast as my legs will carry me in the direction of the cornucopia.
There is no time to think now. Before, we could outmaneuver the mutts by flinging ourselves from the broken building to avoid their deadly pincers but there's no outpacing this rain. Not when it's like this, beating down indiscriminately and dissolving anything or anyone unfortunate enough to be in its path.
The world has transformed into one of confusion and pain. Sand flies as we trample it underfoot, howling each time the raindrops find their mark. My hands are the first thing to go. I have no protection so my flesh sizzles freely. The smell is horrible, but worse than the smell is the pain, which feels like being stung by a wasp except the wasp is on fire and no amount of swatting will chase it away.
I try anyway, batting my arms uselessly in a desperate attempt to reorient myself within this new reality. It's not hard to follow the Gamemakers' motivations. This new terror is retribution for my actions last night with the sponsor gift. I threw away their poisoned water and now they have returned it tenfold, determined to eliminate me in the most excruciating way possible.
And excruciating it is. By now, there is no part of my exposed flesh that hasn't been burnt. At first, all I register is the feeling of something wet and cold hitting my skin. Then, it's like a switch flips and the pain begins. An insatiable kind of heat that tears its way through my cells leaving nothing but searing pain and the sharp, acrid smell of cooked meat.
When I stumble my way into the mouth of the cornucopia, I do so howling. I've barely managed to rip my acid-torn jacket off when Blythe follows in close behind. Unlike me, who can't seem to stop screaming, Blythe is as silent as a stone. She all but collapses on the threshold, curling up into a rigid ball that tells me her pain is already well beyond words.
From where I've landed, I can see a vicious looking set of sores lining her face and most of her body. Her jacket is a tattered mess of half-burnt fabric and her pants are all but gone.
One look at the wounds on her legs that were so recently inflicted by the beetle mutts and not the rain remind me of the poison currently pumping through our veins. How long did Blythe say we had? A day, maybe less. Is there any point in attempting to rouse her if our cards are already marked?
I rock back and forth where I sit, teeth clenched together so hard it's a wonder they don't crumble into dust. If I was back home, this is the part of the games where I would tune out. Mentally, at least. Slow, lingering deaths are always so much worse than the brutal efficiency of the bloodbath. On its own, the rain will not be enough to kill me. That honor will go to the poison beetle mutts.
I glance at Blythe again, fixating on the shallow rise and fall of her chest. Then a new sound makes its way through the rain hammering away outside. Screaming and footsteps.
Whatever half-baked plan I had of crawling my over to Blythe's side is wiped from my brain. I press myself against the furthest wall of the cornucopia and watch in silence as two figures I half recognise barrel towards the mouth of the horn.
The larger one skids his way inside and ignores Blythe's prone body as he rips off his jacket and backpack, hissing in pain. When he notices that whoever was with him isn't here, he hollers something. No, not something. A name. A girl's name.
For a few, long moments nothing happens. Then I see her. The girl from Ten collapses a few yards from our shelter, screeching for help. The boy, who must be her District partner, falls to his knees and shouts words of encouragement but it's no use. She's already fallen on her front and there's no sign that she'll be getting up anytime soon. The Gamemakers must turn the rain up a notch as it pelts down with renewed vigor, as if some great hand has tipped a bucket of the deadly stuff directly on her fragile body.
The screaming stops at once and is replaced with a terrifying gurgling sound. I hold my breath, waiting for a canon to fire but it doesn't come. Instead, what is left of the girl crawls around the sand in blind circles, begging for help. But no help arrives and neither does an end to her torture.
I want nothing more than to squeeze my eyes shut and will this away like it's just a terrible nightmare but I can't. Not when the girl from Ten refuses to die. I'm not sure how long it takes for her cannon to fire. All I know is that there is no body left for the hovercrafts to collect, only a pile of baby pink sludge.
When her district partner makes the mistake of looking at it, he snaps. The acid rain is still pounding away with ferocious force, so there's no escaping the cornucopia. But he finds another way to direct his rage.
Blythe.
The chaos of the past few minutes has roused her from unconsciousness and she stirs softly, letting out a low moan of pain. Perhaps the boy from Ten had a run in with her back at the training center, or maybe he simply hates her on principle. Blythe is a career tribute after all, and District Two has been slaughtering District Ten for years.
So when the boy reaches down, grabs her forearm and begins the task of dragging her broken body toward the mouth of the cornucopia and out into the rain, it's no surprise. It's revenge. No, not revenge. Justice.
But not to me.
I am badly injured, poisoned, sleep-deprived and severely dehydrated, but these are minor setbacks. The second Blythe's screams reach my ears, nothing else matters. I launch myself from my hiding place, barrel forward and shove the boy from Ten as hard and fast as I can.
He is easily double my size, but I've caught him off guard. Off balance, too, it seems as he loses his footing and stumbles directly into the Gamemakers' trap. Like before, the rain senses a new victim and douses him on contact.
He shrieks, body convulsing in an odd-dance. The air reeks of singed flesh and hair and I hold my breath as I reach for Blythe, dragging her back to safety. She doesn't make any attempt to acknowledge my efforts, only staring between me and the dying boy with an odd look on her face.
There's no time to assess it. The boy's screams have already faded into an all too familiar gurgle and I can't bring myself to watch as he dies. When I killed Pierce, it was an accident. My first instinct was to hide behind Blythe's plan and the unfortunate timing of it all. But this is different. This was my choice.
The weight of this revelation hits me square in the chest just as the cannon fires. It's so awful and so absolute that I drop to my knees and retch up the contents of my stomach all over my boots. Somewhere in District Ten, two families are cursing at their screens. And there will be no bodies to bury, nothing left to mourn. Because both their children are dead.
And I just killed one of them.
"Wren," Blythe croaks, drawing my attention.
She's maneuvered onto her front and appears to be dragging her broken body toward the boy from Ten's backpack. Something about the determination burning behind her eyes rouses me and I reach for it, tipping the contents onto the ground.
Right away, it is clear why the boy fought so hard to protect this bag. Unlike our own, it's jam-packed with supplies and sponsor gifts. I spot tins of stew, a set of immaculately polished knives and, best of all, four bottles of fresh drinking water. Unpoisoned and unopened.
I tear off the caps off two bottles at once, hand one to Blythe and drain my own with the kind of desperation only three days without water can bring. To receive a sponsor gift like this, the pair from Ten must have been a hit with the Capitol crowd. Maybe they were even favorites to win. What narrative has Caesar Flickerman been spinning about them? Star-crossed lovers, underdogs, or a tragic pair of childhood friends? And what is he saying now as he recaps their gory ends?
I chew it over as I reach for a second bottle. Then it hits me. I never even bothered to learn their names. A safe bet says half the Capitol didn't, either. Until now. Partly because of the gruesome nature of their deaths and partly because it's Caesar's job to keep people informed. No, not informed. Entertained.
Something cold and heavy works its way through my system as I follow the thought to its logical end. If the Capitol gives every tribute worth watching a narrative, what are they saying about me and Blythe?
I cast my mind back three days, ignoring the headache brewing behind my eyes. At least Blythe never pretended to be anything she's not. Dead-eyed and deadly, that's how I pegged her back at the training center. If anything, she's come off well by saving my life over and over again. Well, minus the murdering his district partner part.
And then there's me, the girl who paraded herself in front of the Capitol as an innocent. Finnick's words reach me from days ago. "You're an orphan who's been plucked from obscurity and dropped into the heart of the Capitol. They're your family now and you're their favorite daughter."
Favorite daughter? Surely I've lost that title by now. I murdered Pierce, betrayed Tressa, stabbed Jewel, watched the girl from Ten die, killed her district partner and robbed their corpses.
The rain draws to a close at the same time I draw my conclusion. There's no getting away from it, I am a monster. I even look like one, too. My face, which is unevenly cleaved in two, is now peppered with burns. I can feel bald patches where the acid rain has singed my hair away. And then come my legs which are covered in oozing, poison filled sores. I don't need a mirror to assess the damage. I am rotting from the inside out.
Guilt claws its way through my stomach as the trumpets go off and Claudius Templesmith's voice booms down from overhead. He congratulates the five of us that remain, then announces a feast.
"Each of you needs something desperately," Claudius says. "Today, at sundown, five backpacks will be hidden throughout the arena, marked with your name and district number. Inside is an item key to your survival."
Medicine! I look at Blythe to confirm what we're both thinking but she keeps her eyes trained on the sky.
"Be careful where you search," Claudius continues. "For some of you, this will be your last chance."
The weight of his words linger in the air for a few, long seconds. Then there's a burst of static and it's over.
"We're not going," says Blythe, settling against the cool walls of the cornucopia.
"What?"
"It's a trap."
I pull up the legs of my pants, pointing out the mess of blood and poison the beetles left.
"We don't exactly have a choice here, Blythe."
Her lip curls in a half-smile as she jerks out a shrug. "We don't even know where the backpacks are. We won't live long enough to find them."
"You don't know that."
"And if there's no medicine inside, then what?"
"Then at least we tried!" I argue, swallowing back the panic slowly rising in my chest.
"Doesn't count for anything," Blythe replies. "We'll still be dead."
"So what's your plan then?" I ask, throwing my hands in the air.
Blythe shrugs as her head lolls against the wall. "Stay here and wait for the others to die. With any luck, this whole thing will be over before the poison sets in and one of us gets to go home."
I open my mouth, intent on ripping this latest plan apart, but Blythe simply closes her eyes and sags onto her side. The slight rise and fall of her chest tells me she's still alive. That and the fact there's no cannon fire. But she won't be for long. Not unless I do something…
Blythe doesn't wake up. She doesn't die either but there's no sign of life coming from her side of the cornucopia, even after the sun sets.
I wait for an hour or two, alternating between cleaning out my wounds and searching the sky for any sign of a parachute. When my hands start shaking and vision blurs, I know the beetles' poison is starting to set in. And while I didn't pay attention back at the training center, I know my death won't be quick. Mutts and mercy simply don't go together and if the Gamemakers let us escape with our lives, they did it for a reason. The same reason Claudius Templesmith invited us to the feast.
To keep the audience entertained.
There's nothing interesting about watching two tributes roll over and die. I think that's why Blythe is so hellbent on doing exactly that. One final act of defiance, even if it comes at the ultimate price. But I am not wired that way. My motivations are uncomplicated. I want to survive, no matter the cost.
And so when no parachutes arrive and it's clear that Blythe is out cold, I force myself to my feet, grab my knife and leave the cornucopia. Sensing the finale is drawing close, the Gamemakers have lowered the temperature to an aggressive chill. Wind whips around the arena, sending sand flying in every direction and I can still smell whatever is left of the pair from Ten lingering in the air.
But I can't turn back now so I press on, stumbling toward a large cluster of buildings just west of the cornucopia. Blythe and I never got around to exploring this side of the arena and that was by design. Unlike the piles of rubble we've been hiding out in, the buildings here are much more in-tact. They remind me of the canning factory back in Four. Industrial, imposing and full of places to hide.
I clutch the hilt of my knife tighter as I cross the threshold of the first building. The idea of running into Tressa, Titus or Jewel sets my hair on end. Even before the beetles and the acid rain, my odds of survival in a one-on-one fight were slim. Now, I'm barely capable of standing upright.
But none of that is allowed to matter right now. So I force myself to scour the perimeter of the first floor, searching for any sign of a backpack. But there's nothing to find. No miracle medicine and no other tributes. Not recently, anyway.
It's only when I clear the space twice that I notice a muddled blood trail snaking its way up the stairs and toward the second floor. It's a bright arterial color, not the dull brown that would signal a long-forgotten encounter. And, while every instinct in my body begs me to flee, I can't help but follow it. Because blood means fighting. And fighting means other tributes. And other tributes mean backpacks.
By now, every camera must be trained on me and for good reason, too. My plan is half-baked at best and a death sentence at worst. But right now, it's the only plan I've got. So I sneak forward, concentrating on making my steps feather-light and silent. It's hard, given the sand that crunches under my boots with every small movement, but it turns out I don't need to worry about making noise.
Jewel is doing plenty of that already.
Her body comes into view just as I turn the corner on the first floor of the abandoned factory. The glass shard I planted in her eye is still there, protruding from a gory looking wound. But it's the least of her worries. Her torso looks like it's been attacked by a wild animal, practically shredded to pieces. There's so much blood, I can barely tell where her injuries end and her body begins. The sparkling girl from the chariots is long gone and, in her place, is something unrecognizable. Something that should have died a long time ago.
She lets out a low, guttural moan as she swipes for a backpack marked with my district number. I can still see the bright, white nail polish on one of her fingernails. It's not an attempt to alert anyone of my presence. If I'm being honest, I'd be surprised if Jewel can register anything outside of her own pain. No, she's trying to get away from something.
From someone.
That's when I see Titus. Like Jewel, he's also practically unrecognizable. Somehow, he looks even bigger than he did before we entered the arena. It's only when I see the blood smeared across his mouth that I put together why. Titus hasn't been starving like the rest of us because he's found an alternate food source. Jewel.
The horror of the situation mixed with the smell of rotting flesh and fear melts my resolve. I take an instinctive half-step back, planning on running at full pelt for the cornucopia. But fear has made me reckless and my boot comes down hard on a shard of glass.
Crunch!
The sound grabs Titus' attention and his crazed eyes whip up to meet mine. Jewel is cut loose in an instant.
There's no time to formulate an escape plan. And even if there was, my brain clearly isn't up to the task. The narrow corridor in front of me shrinks to a pin-point and instead of seeing one blood-soaked Titus barrelling towards me, I see three. We smack to the ground in a tangle of furious limbs just like we did back in the training center when the scores were announced. Like before, Titus makes straight for my throat, his massive hands intent on squeezing the life out of me.
"I've been waiting for you, Medler."
His distorted voice reaches my ears but it's like we're underwater. I can't coordinate my body quick enough to unseat him. I can't scream either. All I can do is scrabble around in the dust, trying desperately to locate the knife I dropped during our struggle.
My hand has just wrapped around its cool hilt when Titus makes the connection. He releases the pressure on my throat, gets up and brings his boot down hard on my forearm. Whatever animalistic sound I let out must bring him pleasure as he smiles, satisfied, before delivering another swift kick to my ribs.
I should be grateful for the poison slowly working its way through my body. Sure, I can barely see three-feet in front of me with the pain, but it does dull the edge each fresh blow brings.
"Where's your mentor now?" Titus practically sings, circling my huddled form.
"Where's yours?" I spit back, a surprising amount of venom in my tone.
This small act of defiance earns me another kick, the kind that sends stars reeling through my vision.
My knife. If I could only get to my knife maybe I would stand half a chance. But there's too much blood and the ringing in my ears makes it hard to take in just about anything.
Except the sound of cannon fire. I reach for myself instinctively, as if to determine that I am, in fact, still alive. Only when it's clear that I'm not dead, do I realize that the cannon wasn't for me. It was for Jewel. Her body can't be more than a few yards from mine, glass shard glinting in the moonlight.
Not exactly a knife, but it'll do.
I roll onto my front, heaving my body towards Jewel's as fast as I can. The glass shard cuts into my palm just as Titus wraps his meaty fist around my angle, yanking us free of one another.
But it's too late. I use the momentum of his pull to swing myself around, burying the bloody shard deep into his thigh. There's a howl of pain as he drops to his knees, staunching the wound instinctively. And, while it's clear I've done some damage, this isn't a killing blow. It's a distraction.
Next comes the knife. I scramble around on the floor, seeking it out but there's too much blood and dust and fear to assess my surroundings quickly. If only I had a few more seconds to gather my bearings. But I don't. Titus is already back on his feet and practically foaming at the mouth.
I brace for impact, using what little time I have left to send a silent message to the people watching this scene unfold. To Clara, who I know I have let down in a million different ways, and to Finnick, who I hope knows that none of this is his fault.
But Titus' body never collides with mine. Instead, there's the distinct sound of a hard object meeting something soft and squishy. Like rain slapping on cobblestones, like a brick to the head.
Blythe. Blood soaked and barely standing with her arm raised and a bloodied lump of concrete locked between her fingers. She all but collapses at the effort, sending me a half-nod through heavy lidded eyes.
"What the hell are you doing here?" I manage to get out, crawling to her side.
She shrugs, panting between words. "Figured I owed you one."
Owed me one? I turn the events of the past few minutes around my head, imagining her waking up in the cornucopia alone, following my footsteps in the sand and dragging herself up here to find me seconds away from cannon fire.
Then I wrap my arms around her instinctively, even though I know she probably hates it. How many times has Blythe saved my life since we entered the arena? And how am I ever supposed to pay her back?
To my surprise, she doesn't hesitate. She just hugs me back so tight I'm sure my ribs are about to give out.
"You have to finish it," she says after a few long seconds, nodding towards Titus' prone form. "You know that, right?"
I pull myself free, looking over my shoulder at what remains of my district partner.
This is the part where I should find my knife and put Titus out of his misery. A quick, clean death. It's what I've been trained to do back in Four. No one appreciates a butchered fish carcass. No, I know exactly how to do it so that Titus won't feel any pain.
But I can't bring myself to see it through.
And it's not a weak stomach that sways my decision. It's not a tolerance for violence, either. It's a taste.
I make my way towards Titus' body, kneeling over him so that I'm sure he can see my face. What a sight we are, so far removed from the dazzling district partners at the opening ceremony. My body is a mess of old wounds and freshly inflicted ones. Sores, burns, bruises, you name it. Titus, on the other hand, is so slick with blood that his skin tones in with the faded maroon color of his jacket. There's a seriously impressive dent in his temple that tells me he won't be recovering any time soon. All he can do is lay there, watching me watching him die.
"Do i-it." He forces out, practically choking on his own tongue.
This is the closest to a civil conversation we've ever had. I tilt my head, considering this exact scenario playing out in reverse. Would Titus give me a quick death? Would he show me mercy?
No, I think. We both know he would tear me apart in a million ways before my cannon fired. Just like he did to Jewel.
"Let's go," I say, grabbing the backpack marked with my district number and hobbling back toward Blythe.
She squints her tawny eyes in confusion, assessing me carefully. If it was anyone else, maybe I'd expect judgment. But not from Blythe. Instead, she just sends me a nod.
"You're sure?" she asks, as I pull her to her feet. "You won't get another chance."
I pause for a moment, listening as Titus' gurgling breaths grow shallower.
"I don't need one."
Titus' cannon finally fires just as I finish injecting the first dose of life-saving medicine directly into my wounds. I can't tell which is worse, the pain of the beetles or whatever the Capitol has cooked up in their labs. It feels like liquid fire, purging the toxins that have been happily tearing their way through my body's natural defenses. Blythe watches me like a hawk, clutching her needle between her fingers.
"Are you seriously waiting to see if it works?" I ask, smearing the excess medicine off my calves with the edge of my sleeve.
She tilts her head, inspecting me carefully. "Clearly."
"And when's the last time you saw the gamemakers poison anyone at the feast?"
"Well, there's a first time for everything."
I shake my head. "Wouldn't be a very entertaining game then, would it?"
Blythe finally relents, injecting herself with a serious amount of suspicion. "Depends on who's watching, I guess."
There's no way she can know about Snow's threat, but the insinuation alone sets my hairs on end. He must be glued to his screen right now. And suddenly I'm back at the presidential mansion, nose filled with the scent of blood and roses, stomach churning. I see the tape of Finnick and Johanna, hear the casual threat delivered across the solid oak table, feel my limbs grow heavy with dread.
I'm so preoccupied that I practically jump out of my skin when the anthem blares out across the arena and Jewel and Titus and the pair from Ten's faces light up the sky.
"Final three," Blythe says, resting her head against the wall.
She doesn't look any better, even after the medicine. Her skin looks pale and waxy in the moonlight and I can see her wince with every breath. Clearly the acid rain did a number on her.
"Final three," I echo back, tearing myself away from Snow's office and back to the present.
"How do you think Eight's holding up?" she asks, staring beyond the walls of the small room we've huddled into.
"You mean Tressa," I correct automatically.
Blythe rolls her eyes, as if using Tressa's actual name would take a supernatural effort from her side.
"Same difference."
"I don't know," I answer. "But a good bet says the odds are more in her favor than ours. She wasn't at the feast."
"Chicken," Blythe mutters.
"You didn't want to go, either."
"I couldn't move, what's her excuse?"
"Maybe she got caught in the rain, too."
"I hope so."
I can't tell if the thought of Tressa covered in acid sores makes my stomach turn, or if it's simply the thought of her out here all alone. If Pierce was alive, she would have died protecting him. But now? Now she's got nothing left to lose.
I reach for Finnick's necklace instinctively. Only when my hand touches the space it normally occupies, there's nothing there.
"Shit," I say, scrambling to my feet. Where is it?
"What?" Blythe asks, immediately on high alert.
"My token, it's gone."
"So?"
"So, I need to find it."
"Don't be stupid, Wren, you can barely stand."
"I'm serious," I shoot back, swaying in place as I scan the room for any sign of the spiral shell. "It must've come off at the feast."
"Then it's as good as gone."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do. Now sit down before you fall down."
I shake her command away with my hand, already making for the exit.
"Wren!"
"I'll be right back," I call over my shoulder, commanding my blurred vision to settle. "Just stay here."
"Like I have a choice! Wren-"
I don't wait around to hear the rest of what I'm certain is an insult. I can't lose Finnick's necklace. It was a gift, a sign of our deal and I'm sure as hell not leaving this arena without it. Luckily, Blythe and I didn't make it too far from the feast before we ducked into our small room. I'm pretty sure I'm within shouting distance as I drag myself into the abandoned factory and up the stairs to the first floor.
Titus and Jewel are gone, but there's a distinct pool of not-quite-dry blood where they lay. I do my best to ignore that part, scanning the ground for any sign of the necklace. Between the sand, broken glass and general debris it's a challenge, but eventually I spot the spiral shell hanging from a twisted lump of concrete.
"Gotcha," I whisper, balling the leather cord into the palm of my hand. Something warm and hopeful blooms in my chest as I put it on.
I can do this, I think to myself. I can make good on my promise.
And maybe it's the truth. I've done awful things in this arena, I know that. But I know why I did them. To get back to Clara and Finnick. To beat Snow. To live. And while I know there's no going back to the girl I was before the gong rang out, maybe Finnick can help me figure out what comes next. Because that was the deal, right. Do what I have to do to survive and learn how to live with it later.
I double back on my tracks as quickly as my body will allow me, imagining the look on Blythe's face when she sees me still very much alive and triumphant.
Only, that's not what I see at all. Because she's not rolling her eyes or sending me a quick-witted insult. Instead, her tawny eyes are wide and alert, fixed on a point far beyond me. Her hands, pale from exhaustion, are not buried in her jacket pocket where I left them. Instead, they are locked around her throat.
Her throat, which is carved wide open.
Tressa meets my eyes in a second, knife raised and frantic.
"I didn't mean to-" she starts, voice breaking horribly. "I didn't think- I just."
She throws her knife down in the space between us like she's been burnt. And I watch, body tight as a bow string, as Blythe rolls onto her side and chokes out the last few seconds of her life.
"Wren, I never meant to- I'm not a killer. I just- I just want to go home."
There's no denying the innocence in her tone. But I can't square it with the scene playing out right in front of me.
"You killed her," I say, voice barely above a whisper. "You killed my friend."
That last word must trigger something in Tressa because her pale eyes suddenly focus into something hard and accusatory.
"You killed Pierce."
"It was an accident."
"An accident?" Tressa fires back. "You set a trap."
"It wasn't for him."
"That's not what it looked like."
I flash of Pierce's eyes worm their way into my head, just as Tressa takes a half-step towards her discarded weapon.
"Blythe never deserved to go home, Wren. And you know it."
Unlike the rest of Panem, Tressa doesn't have the benefit of watching the past few days unfold from my perspective. So how could she ever hope to understand why her words do nothing to placate me? How could she possibly know they've done the complete opposite.
I can practically hear Finnick's voice in my head telling me to go for the knife. Make it quick, stay alive. But whatever started back in that factory with Titus takes root and before I know it, I'm lunging for Tressa's throat.
My body screams in protest as it slams into hers, sending us both to the ground.
"Wren!" she shrieks, clawing at my face with blood crusted nails.
The speed and ferocity of my attack has caught her off-guard. And it's just as well because anyone weighing up my odds of winning a straight-fight knows they're not good. Tressa already had a few pounds on me before we entered the arena and she looks miraculously unscathed considering we're in the final three.
"Stop!" She screams, trying and failing to bat my hands away as they tighten around her throat. "Pl-please."
But I won't stop. I can't. It's like my body is on fire with adrenalin and all I can do is squeeze and squeeze until I feel her go limp under my body. It's only when the struggling stops that I come back to my senses and realize where I am, straddled across Tressa's chest, teeth gritted together in a snarl I've only ever seen on the faces of careers.
But there is a price to this small moment of hesitation. Tressa's eyes fly open and she jams her fingernails into one of the sores on my thigh. I yelp out in pain, giving her just enough room to unseat me. Then I'm back on the ground, face up as she takes my place.
"I told you to stop!" She howls, closing her hands over my throat.
And there's no room to bargain now. Because I know she's not really looking down at me. She's seeing Pierce. Or, more specifically, me looming over his fragile body as he died. The girls from the training center are long gone. I'm not sure what to call the things that are now in their place.
But I've been in this position before, all too recently. So instead of spending my last few seconds trying and failing to unseat her, I choose a different path. My right hand flies out, searching for something solid. A lump of concrete, a twisted piece of rebar. In the end, it settles on a brick. But there's no way to know that as I slam it into the side of her head.
The first blow stuns her. The second brings her down entirely. The third, fourth and fifth are pure adrenalin. And I'm not sure about the rest. All I know is that I keep going, even after her cannon fires.
In the end, it's the sheer exhaustion that gets me. I sink where I sit, clutching the bloody brick. Then I see a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye.
Blythe!
I scramble toward her on all fours, pulling her head onto my lap and doing my best to apply pressure to the gaping wound on her neck.
"Hold on," I say, blood and snot pouring down my face. "Just don't go, okay? Please don't go."
She lets out what I think must be a laugh and grips my wrist with her free hand.
"I -I"
"Shut up," I command, feeling my palms grow slick with blood. "You're not dying."
Another gurgled laugh.
"Please," I let out between gritted teeth. "Please, okay? I can't do this without you. I don't know how, I don't know-"
"There-there-"
Fuck! Whatever my hands were doing to stem Blythe's wound, it's useless now. Anyone with half a brain cell can see she's well past saving. But I can't bring myself to admit it.
"There's n-n-no-"
"Stop talking!" I shout, watching my tears mingle with Blythe's blood. "Just stop, please. I need more time, I need-"
"W-without. There's n-no without."
I frown, trying to make sense of what I know must be her final words. This isn't the first time Blythe has said something utterly cryptic, but the slackness in her jaw tells me it's the last.
Her hand falls away from my wrist and flops onto her chest just as the trumpets start to blare.
"Ladies and gentleman, I am pleased to present the victor of the Seventy-third Annual Hunger Games, Wren Medler! I give you - the tribute from District Four!"