Chapter 33

The next day passes in a daze.

I feel like my thoughts are coming from somewhere else, a million miles away.

I am but a husk of the human being I was with Rubis.

Without shock or the slightest trace of urgency, I realise that I am hungry. Starving, in fact. When did I last eat?

I casually glance around me for any food in my vicinity.

No crispy roast dinner or steaming lasagne presents itself, but there is a pigeon nearby, with only one leg and a mangled tail.

Maybe I could catch it.

Before, I would have been opposed to the senseless murder of animals for food.

But nothing matters anymore.

Mustering all my courage, I dive towards the pigeon.

It flutters out of reach.

Oh well; I'll starve.

Like I said, nothing matters anymore.

Half-formed thoughts drift through my head, of how I can survive and win the Games. My inner voice shuts them down.

Why think? Why do anything? Nothing matters anymore.

I drag my feet, wandering with no particular purpose. I don't know how many times I circle the arena. I don't care.

Pinty doesn't show her face. I can only imagine that killing Rubis took it out of her, and she is regenerating strength to come for me.

Let her. I don't care.

Over the course of the day, one thought rises repeatedly amongst the fog of depression.

Rubis' dying wish.

That I kill Pinty.

To my somewhat-detached surprise, I don't squirm at the idea as much as I thought I would.

Granted, it still repulses me to think about killing a little girl, but at the same time, how could I go against Rubis' demand?

The Capitol will have their finale. One way or another, District Twelve will have their victor.

And I will die of shame anyway, if I don't obey my cherry-bakewell-sugar-puff.

Doing my best to clear the fog from my head, I summon to mind Rubis' gorgeous face.

The steely glint of his eyes gives me a new burst of resolve.

I was wrong. One thing matters.

Winning the Games.

For Rubis!

Then I can go back to indulging in my nihilism.

And the sooner, the better. I want nothing more than to starfish on my bed, bury my face in tear-sodden pillows and ball at the top of my lungs.

I decide to look for Pinty.

I pass by a children's playpark at least five times, without thinking anything of it. But as the sun begins to set and I approach it again, a small silhouette is perched on one of the swings.

Pinty meets my eyes as I approach. She has dishevelled hair, a vape hanging from her lips and the elastic of her eyepatch is frayed.

I'm sure I don't look much better.

Of course, I am still the handsome specimen I have always been, but I can't imagine that grief is doing good things for my complexion. Hopefully the cameras capture my soul-wrenching beauty as a youth harrowed by loss.

Pinty says, "Man was wondering when you'd pass by again. Ready to get done-in?"

"No." I say, calmly, "Are you?"

"Nah, blud. Man's gonna shank you to bits, trust. The vape store in District Twelve is waitin' for me to keep it in business, you get me?"

I swing open the yellow gate, that is shorter than my hip.

Pinty hops off the swing and discards her vape. It falls into the uncut grass.

"You took Rubis from me." I state, "Even though we're basically family, I can't forgive you for that."

Pinty snorts, derisively.

"Fam, are you mad? We ain't family."

The sting of her words doesn't penetrate my new titanium walls.

I hold my sword in front of me. My hand shakes slightly.

Is it guilt, for facing a weak little girl?

Is it fear of defeat?

The light-weight sword trembles with the slightest shiver of movement.

I steady my hand.

Then I press the button that lights up my sword with a thrum! of blue energy, for extra intimidation.

Pinty gives me a gruesome sneer.

"Come at me then, fam. Man's gonna chin you up, innit."

She lunges for me. Two knives appear in her hands and I have to drop my sword to catch her wrists, as her blades fly at my face.

Pinty snarls as she struggles against me. Her knives cut my forearms and I grunt with pain.

Where has my apathy gone? This fucking hurts!

I spin and fling her off of me. She lands six feet away in a cat-like crouch, before springing up again, knives poised.

I dive out of the way and retrieve my sword. I raise it just in time to catch Pinty off-guard as she bares down on me. My blade would slash open her side, but her puffer-jacket protects her.

I stand to face her.

This time when she lunges, I am ready. I feign left, then swish my sword upwards in an arc that smacks into her left forearm. With the flat side of the blade.

Nonetheless, one of her knives goes flying.

Pinty ducks under my blade and rams my sword-arm with her shoulder. At the same time, she drives her knife into my stomach.

I cry out and double over.

She yanks the knife from me and rugby-tackles me to the ground. My sword waves uselessly in the air.

I try to rotate it in my hand, to impale her back. In my haste, I drop the sword. It bounces as it lands in the grass.

I use both hands to wrestle Pinty's knife away from her, to no avail. She drives a bony knee into my stomach and blood spurts out of my mouth.

I barely have time to register the coppery taste, when Pinty's vape explode in the grass next to us.

She is caught off-guard and thrown off of me.

The battery-fire spreads quickly through the long, dried grass and weeds.

Pinty and I roll away from the flames, both injured by the explosion.

I am coughing on my hands and knees, crawling to my discarded sword, when Pinty leaps onto my back.

I take a knife to the shoulder-blade. With a raging battle-cry, I launch off the ground and flip onto my back, pinning Pinty beneath me.

The blade of her knife is lodged between us. She wriggles, but she can't shift my weight.

Nor can I turn on her without letting her escape.

Then she twists the knife and I scream as it slowly slices my back.

Pinty jerks this way and that.

I breathe hard, trying to keep her pinned, all the while feeling the pressure of her knife.

Eventually she jerks an arm free and wraps it around my neck. She presses her forearm into my throat. I fruitlessly struggle in her grip.

Try as she might, Pinty is not strong enough to stop a slither of air making it in and out of my windpipe.

With a grunt, she pushes me upwards with her body and – in the split-second that my weight is diminished – jerks the knife from between us. It cuts a long line in my back on its way.

Pinty has me now, unarmed in her grip.

We shift and roll as the flames creep towards us. Fire licks my skin as we smother patches of smouldering grass. But Pinty holds tight.

It is all I can do to wrench one arm free. Not that Pinty cares. She is armed.

She whispers in my ear, more ferociously than the crackling flames, "Happy Hunger Games, innit."

She stabs me in the chest.

The knife protrudes from my shirt, an inch to the right of Rubis' wooden heart, that I couldn't be bothered to remove.

I fall limp as blood bubbles up my oesophagus and starts to choke me.

Pinty wriggles out from under me, just as flames reach us.

She leaps out of the way and it is all I can do to sit up. My trousers melt to my skin. The flesh on my legs crackles.

I try to scream but no words come out.

Pinty stands triumphantly, watching me die an agonising death.

Then her grey eye flickers.

It drifts to one side, becoming unfocused.

"Wha…" she drools, "Wha's happ'nin'…"

She sways. Then, as if in slow-motion, she keels over sideways.

Sticking out from her waist is a tranquiliser dart.

Among the smoke and the heat, in the thralls of our struggle, I managed to extricate just one arm.

That was enough to pull Rubis' dart from my pocket, and stab Pinty in the side.

But it won't change anything.

I have knife-wounds in my chest, shoulder and back, and my legs are being slowly barbequed.

Every synapse in by body is roaring with pain.

The hovercraft will reach Pinty and deliver her to victory, faster than the flames will consume her. Then another will haul my charred, once-handsome body into the sky.

The capitol anthem plays.

Am I dead? Has Pinty won?

Perhaps they know the result is inevitable and they are going to put me out of my misery.

There in the sky, distorted by smoke, is the beautiful, wonderful face of Rubis, beside the number eleven. His death projection.

As acrid smoke drifts in ribbons, the giant Rubis in the sky mouths a message to me.

"Kill Pinty for me." He implores, just as he did as he died, "Kill her."

Rubis' face fades. The anthem stops and the stars return.

It is the sign I need.

Rubis is watching me from above.

I wrangle as much determination as I can muster and force my body into a crouch.

Skin popping and bones blackening, I stand, with the fluidity of an arthritic crone.

But my heart is pure and youthful.

It is love that spurns me on.

I take an agonising step towards Pinty's stationary form. She has fallen onto a rubber mat, by the climbing frame, so the fire will not spread to her.

When I reach the mat, I collapse to my knees. My body is such a wreck that I am surprised when my joints don't snap right off.

The rancid smell of burning plastic fills my nostrils as fire probes the edges of the mat.

Pinty's eye is closed.

Coughing, bleeding and shaking, I take the knife from Pinty's floppy hand.

She murmurs, "Don't you dare."

Her eye cracks open, glaring hatred.

Pinty says, "Man will mash you up, you get me? I will kill you. I will make you feel the pain of messin' with me. You don't have the balls to see what I'll do."

Dumbfounded, I rasp, "You're awake? But the tranquiliser-"

"Man's had much worse than this in my bloodstream, no cap. Don't talk to man about your janky class-B drugs."

I swallow. My throat is like sandpaper.

Pinty's knife threatens to slip out of my hand. I ignore the sweat and my trembling limbs. I tighten my grip around the knife.

"I'm sorry, Pinty." I say, "But I have to avenge my lover. You killed the only thing that mattered to me."

She replies, "Oi bruv; what happened to man bein' an innocent child, or whatever?"

That catches me off-guard. I had forgotten, amongst the bloodshed and violence, that Pinty is a victim in this situation, too. She is only a child – her brain isn't fully formed yet. Her morals have yet to be installed properly.

I drop the knife as Pinty struggles to keep her eye open.

But my weakness is fleeting. The agony firing all over my body reminds me that I am close to death myself, and if I win the Games, the Capitol will put me in a nice, painless coma until they have patched up my fatal wounds.

Pinty must see the resolve in my face.

She says, "Alright, fam. At least kill me with that clapped plastic sword you've been swinging around all game."

"My light-sword-ber?!" I exclaim, remembering that I have a glorious weapon to win with.

I hobble over to where my sword lies in the grass and pick it up. Luckily, it has not melted.

If it had, I don't know how I would impale Pinty with it.

Using all my effort, I stand up straight above her.

This strike has to count. I won't be able to manage another movement after bringing all my weight down into a lethal crouch.

I channel all my focus on what I'm doing this for. The most important thing in existence. The thing I value above all else.

I scream, "FOR MIDNIGHT!!!"

A surge of energy courses through me.

I plunge the sword downwards.

The trace of a thought nags at the back of my mind.

Everyone has been saying my sword is plastic.

My arms jolt to a stop as the sword hits Pinty.

I pant with exertion and fall to the ground.

That's it. That was the last visage of energy I had in me.

Pinty is screaming so loudly, and belting such profanities, that she can only be overacting. I hardly dare look up, if it means she is making a fool of me.

I strain to draw my gaze to Pinty, to see the results of my actions.

There is blood everywhere.

The sword sticks hilt-up, out of Pinty's stomach. The point is buried so deep that it must be driven into the mat beneath her.

I blink, groggily, not quite believing what I see. Perhaps the foul stench of burning rubber has frazzled my brain.

Excruciatingly, I haul myself an inch or two closer.

The sword has transformed. The blade is twisted into a lethal spiral, like a giant, gleaming drill. Even now, it whirs around and around, tunnelling into Pinty's flesh.

She violently jerks and shakes, splattered over and over with her own blood.

I feel the colour drain from my face.

This is the most barbaric thing I have ever seen.

I grab Pinty by the shoulders and shout in her face.

"I'm sorry! I'm so, so sorry! I didn't think my high-tech-Capitol sword would be evil! Please forgive me, or else I'll feel bad for the rest of my life!"

Pinty roars, "YOU WANKER! YOU BLOODY MELT! I WILL KILL YOU. MAN WILL BLUD YOU UP!"

I sob, with a mixture of remorse and fear.

Pinty's hollers gradually become hoarser, until her voice is barely a croak.

Her last words bubble up through the blood in her throat and spray my face with scarlet.

"Man will haunt you forever… You're bare screwed… no lie."

Then, with one final lurch, she spits out a long, "Pussiooo…"

Pinty's eyes roll back. Her breathing stops.

A trickle of blood worms out of the corner of her mouth, as my sword – the deadly drill in disguise – grinds to a grisly halt.

Then, BOOM!

The cannon cements my victory.

That's it. I'm the only one left.

I inhale deeply. Acrid smoke fills my lungs and I choke over Pinty's corpse.

I lift Pinty's head into my lap and gaze down at the girl from my district, who I have just killed.

An innocent girl.

A single tear plops from my wobbly chin onto her eyepatch. It makes me think.

The Capitol took the innocence from this girl. District Twelve forced her to become a violent, impulsive devil, but who knows what she would have been like in another world. Maybe she would have liked ponies instead of pirates.

I lift a burnt and bloodied hand to flip back her eyepatch. In a swell of compassion, I want to show the rest of Panem the sweet, fragile girl I know; the real Pinty, face unmarred by cheap fancy-dress.

I gasp as I see what is under her eyepatch.

An empty socket!

Pinty's closed, sunken eyelid is almost as disgusting as the twisted metal spike sticking out of her abdomen. Three deep scratches are gouged from beneath her eyebrow, across her emaciated eyelid to her cheekbone. The eyeball inside is shrivelled and crusty.

I gag.

Are those cat scratches? We don't have cats in Twelve – they all starve, other than that mangy beast kept by little Primrose Everdeen. Buttercup, I think she called it?

When did Pinty get into an altercation with Buttercup?

The pieces fall into place. Pinty's coarse language, I can excuse. Her affection and skinning of rats, I always discounted as an unfortunate coping mechanism. Even the killing of her parents is unsurprising, seeing as it's their fault she's poor.

But picking fights with an endangered pussycat? What's her excuse for that?!

I look into her face for an answer.

It is then that I really see her sneer; for the first time, realising that it isn't a mask.

They say cats are a great judge of character. I think, at least.

And I am far better than a cat.

I stand shakily, leaving Pinty's head to loll onto the rubber mat.

I look up at the sky, just as the speakers crackle to life.

There comes the sound of crunching apple-seeds, before Minnesota's voice resonates to me alone.

"Congratulations, Midnight Abernathy. You have somehow outlived infinitely more savage competitors and made it further than we wanted you to. I suppose that's what we get for keeping you around for comic relief. Please make your way to the hovercraft, to prepare for your victory celebrations."

A hovercraft buzzes overhead and lowers a ladder to the ground.

Feeling nothing but numb, I step over burned debris to the ladder and grab hold of it.

The world around me is so hazy that I barely register the rushing wind, as I am lifted fifty, then a hundred feet into the air.

I look at my torn limbs on the steel rungs, specked with blood. I could so easily let go; fall and forget everything I have learned about the world, myself, Pinty…

I could join Rubis.

I have to admit, the afterlife is not something I have put much thought to. I hope Rubis and I end up in the same place, wherever that is.

I can apologise to him, properly.

With a deep, shuddering breath, I relax the muscles in my scarred fingers and lean back, offering myself to the wind.

My hair and clothes whip around me, but I don't fall.

Through my hazy thoughts, I register the electrical current running through the ladder and into my hands, sticking me to it.

The ladder gradually retracts and my head rises into the cavernous underbelly of the hovercraft. I turn my head to see a white-coated medic pumping a syringe into my already-shredded arm.

My eyelids droop, as the arena sinks further and further out of sight.