Happy Bloodbath, y'all! Spoilers ahead!
PART I: THE LAUNCH
Pace and their stylist stepped onto the windowless hovercraft, escorted by Peacekeepers, and strapped themselves into seats. Pace had no idea where they were going to be taken. They were still wearing their pajamas. Their stylist would help them dress in the underground launch chamber. The clothes might provide a clue about the arena, but there wasn't much good a spoiler could do fifteen minutes before you saw the actual arena. If Pace didn't know how to approach it, it wasn't as though they could go back to the Training Center and do some more research. First, their stylist handed over their token. Apparently it had been approved for transport into the arena. Pace contemplated the little wooden dice and decided that they would rather have their siblings than a game piece. Not that they particularly wanted their siblings in the arena with them, that sounded like the worst possible outcome for everyone. The hovercraft ride was long and awkward. They didn't like their stylist, so they spent most of the ride contemplating what they might be flying over. Had the trip been ten minutes or two hours? It was hard to say.
Orpheus was pretty sure the arena was close to the Capitol. He'd drunk a full cup of orange juice before boarding the hovercraft and since he didn't yet need to use the bathroom by the time the craft began to slope downward in the sky, Orpheus felt relatively oriented. He touched the silken feather of the quill pen he had brought from home as his token. He was consumed with thoughts of the Bloodbath and getting great kills and supplies. It was going to do an amazing job, contribute to the Career alliance, and make everything worth it. He was ready to impress.
Haylia felt the hovercraft touch down on the landing pad. The floor hatch open and a ladder descended down into a cool metal tunnel. Haylia's stylist went down first and she climbed in after him. The first thing she noticed was the silence. The corridors back in the tribute quarters in the Capitol were always filled with noise as attendants shuffled back and forth, but the catacombs beneath the arena were dead quiet. Haylia listened to her own footsteps as she padded along the hall. There was a single door at the end of the hall. Haylia's stylist opened it and ushered her through, then shut the door with a soft click. Haylia jiggled the knob and discovered it was locked from the outside.
After taking a quick shower in the en suite bathroom, Brielle entered the dim room wrapped in a towel skirt. There were no plush bathrobes in this dimly lit steel chamber. Her stylist grabbed several garment bags off a wheeling rack and began to unzip them one by one. The first one contained a short sleeved beige shirt. The next contained a soft, heat-sealing quarter-zip in a brown camouflage pattern. Then there was a green camouflage raincoat. A thin puffer vest in the same green camouflage pattern went on last. There were durable pants in the brown camouflage. There were tough gray boots, a brown belt, and a beige boonie hat and brown camouflage neck gaiter. "These camos don't match," commented her stylist. "The arena's going to be interesting."
Genetrix finished blow drying Maize's hair and tucked it all up in a woven bun. She had her outfit on, along with the thin golden necklace chain she'd inherited from her mother and brought to the Capitol as her token. With her curls pulled back from her face, she felt too exposed. She had been proud of her training score, but she was afraid that the Careers might be gunning for her. She impulsively reached out and hugged her stylist. "Thank you, Genetrix. For everything."
"Of course, sweetie. I'm wishing you so much luck, but it's time, alright?" She led Maize to the tube in the corner. Maize tentatively stepped inside and jumped as it snapped shut around her. Was the trainer right? Does she really stand a chance? She feels the familiar tug of anxiety, more justified than usual. Once, someone told her that listening to a seashell could imitate the sound of the ocean. She never had the chance to try it out, but now that blood is rushing inside her head, she thinks she maybe understands. She just wants everyone to be okay.
Kenny pressed his hands against the glass walls. He had had a loose plan for the Bloodbath, and he tried to keep that in mind. He was going to avoid the Cornucopia, flee the scene as quickly as possible, and collect only any non-notable items close to his pedestal. He was going to find Ash, Pace, and Aspen right away and run away with them, unless it would pose a threat to his own safety. He thinks of Travis's Bloodbath death and promises that he'll do his best to survive. It's familiar territory for him, but what part of the Hunger Games isn't? He doesn't know if his parents can lose another son without shattering. The tube begins to rise under him. The ceiling hatch cracks in half and reveals a strip of blue sky. Kenny quietly makes peace with himself, wishes for the best, and lets the beans of sunlight touch his face.
PART II: THE COUNTDWON
Twenty-four identical platforms completed their ascent at the same time, locking into their final positions, equidistant from the golden Cornucopia. Never before had it more resembled a horn of plenty; in the desert wasteland stretching as far as the eye could see, the lifesaving supplies tumbling from its mouth would be the tributes' only respite from the harsh conditions.
It was a still day, with no wind at all. The sound of Pandora Mink's contralto voice shook the thick air. "Sixty," she announced, from invisible speakers. "Fifty-nine.
Fifty-eight. Fifty-seven." The Cornucopia sat in a clearing brushed relatively free of sand, surrounded by waves of dunes, ready to shift under the tributes' weight and reduce the fastest sprints to a universal loping stumble-walk. Tributes searched for their allies. Was that a friendly face in the distance? Was it Brielle, with her eyebrows drawn up in concern, flipping through a mental Rolodex of swear words? Shithole. This is what they call a shithole. Or was it Haylia, a Career who'd scored a ten in training, beady-eyed and on the hunt for fresh prey? Get the best weapon. Get the best kill.
"Forty-one," said Pandora impassively. "Forty." The tributes' hearts thrummed in their stomachs, renewed fear pricking at them. On the backs of some necks, sweat beaded. On others, despite the heat, gooseflesh rose up. Who would place last, become the first loser? Teenagers who had been toilet trained fifteen years ago suddenly faced a horrifying prospect: if they were stabbed, would they wet themselves? It had happened during the Bloodbath before, to tributes who had died and lived alike. They were reminded that there was no privacy in the arena. All baths and restroom visits would take place in full view of the cameras.
"Thirty-nine. Thirty-eight." Oh my God. I'm going to die thinking about pee. They refocused, straining for a good look at the bounty, but they didn't want to lose their balance. That had also happened before. The last incident had been nine years ago, when the District Ten Male tried to get a head start. The mines had blown him sky-high and parts of him had splattered all over Fleet Gloucester, the eventual Victor.
"Twenty-five. Twenty-four." Small packets of food and rain ponchos dotted the perimeter of the circle, consolation prizes for those too timid for the real goodies. Further towards the hub, there were backpacks loaded with much more. The most tantalizing items were concealed within the Cornucopia itself. They were the riskiest to get, but also the most useful. Was it worth it? Tributes weighed the odds. Could they run fast enough? Could they get away before the Careers killed them?
"Sixteen." Three-quarters of the minute had elapsed. Tributes who could see their teammates made eye contact, confirming their loyalty. Tributes who couldn't mentally rehearsed their rendezvous points: We meet a hundred paces out, in the direction the Cornucopia's tail points. The highest ground we can find, if you can't make it within a half hour, we'll have to move on without you. They prepared to make tough choices. If my allies are attacked, should I risk helping them? They thought of parents, loved ones, and friends. Ash pictured her father, weakly clutching a mug of elderflower tea, suffering through a migraine as he sat in front of the noisy, bright television. He didn't deserve to see her die. Kenny envisioned Travis's face, his rosy cheeks drained of color, eyes shut against bloodsoaked grass. Would he share his brother's fate? Maize's mind drifted to Aunt Chia's lean forearms, taut from years of kneading stiff dough into perfect loaves of bread. She hoped to borrow her aunt's strength, occupy that unpanicked headspace.
"Eight. Seven." Twenty-four tributes were poised to run, scanning their surroundings for useful items, potential threats. Odicci saw a perfect scimitar only fifteen feet away from her. None of her allies' weapons were in eyeshot, although she did spot a pair of strange arrows nearby. The other Careers would have to venture into the Cornucopia before starting to fight. They could handle themselves, Odicci decided, while she claimed the first kill of the Games. Aran was less confident. There was a glint of metal thirty feet away to his right, similar enough in size and shape to function like his usual seax, but thirty feet to his left, there was a large rucksack at the periphery. Which was worth more? He couldn't choose, but he had to. Whichever way his feet took him, he decided, was correct. He would rely on his instincts.
"Three. Two. One." The klaxon rippled across the arena, a low electronic whine. Twenty-four pairs of boots left their pedestals at once, racing in all directions.
PART III: THE CARNAGE
Jeremiah King, 18
Commencement Pedestal, Arena
D9M
July 6, 329 AEDD
During the countdown, Jeremiah had carefully scoped out the Cornucopia. While he was looking for a set of bagh nakh, he saw a pair of brass knuckles sitting atop a nearby crate. When the klaxon sounded, he leapt from his pedestal. He wasn't the fastest tribute, but his size allowed him to cover the distance in only a few long strides. The brass knuckles fit his hands perfectly—the Gamemakers must have placed them there especially for him. Danny and Vice had started off on the other side of the Cornucopia, but Xanthe was within view. Now Jeremiah watched as, across the clearing, the Four girl drove a scimitar into her chest. Jeremiah ignored it. He no longer needed a pity kid to drag him down, but he did have two more allies who needed him to get supplies for them. In the distance, one of the Career boys stabbed Xanthe's district partner. He was yelling to the other Careers: "Only two rapiers!"
Four swordsmen, two vulnerable in the absence of their weapons. Jeremiah headed for the Cornucopia, past the Eight girl's corpse, lying on her front in the dust. This was the perfect opportunity to get rid of one or two of his biggest threats. If they made it past the Bloodbath, sponsors would send them weapons and he would lose his advantage. The horn of plenty was abundantly stocked with rations of food and water, spears artfully leaning against boxes. In the Cornucopia, alone, was Nascha, the petite Career from District One. Jeremiah had seen her practice extensively with a rapier at the Capitol, but she lacked one now.
She barely had time to scream for help before Jeremiah's metal-enhanced uppercut snapped her chin back. She dropped in a pile at his feet, nothing but a bundle of clothes topped with a dark ponytail. Her neck had dislocated instantly and was now set at an odd angle. Sure that she was dead, Jeremiah used the solitude to examine the racks of weapons. He didn't see Vica's preferred type of knife, so he snagged an archery kit for her and chose a dagger resembling the kind Danny had used during training. He fastened the hip quiver and slim knife scabbards to his utility belt, then shouldered the bow and a rucksack of supplies that had produced a sloshing sound when he shook it: in the desert climate, fresh water was key to survival. He doubled back towards the mouth of the Cornucopia, hoping to make a quick exit.
Instead, he found Haylia twenty paces away, facing him. She was visibly unarmed. Confident in his abilities, Jeremiah patted his brass knuckles for good luck and bounded towards her. By the time he noticed the sash of throwing knives slung low across her hips, it was too late. The blade had already lodged in his throat, and down he went. Laying across the Cornucopia threshold like some kind of enormous draft stopper, his wheezing was amplified by the golden megaphone surrounding him. He sputtered, choking on his own blood. Suddenly, a swoop of blonde hair entered his sight line. "Jeremiah?"
He tried to respond, but only produced a wet, bloody gurgle. He knew he was going. He knew what he had to do to give his allies the best shot at survival. Strength sapped and neck throbbing, it took enormous effort to roll onto his side. He gestured, trying to convey his wishes. Danny, piecing together the instructions, bent down to lift the backpack off of Jeremiah by its exposed straps. He slid the long-forgotten stiletto dagger from Jeremiah's belt. "Vica and I could really use this." He glanced around and snagged a first aid pouch from a hook on the wall. "She's bleeding like crazy, but I think I can stop it. Tybalt. She clawed up his face real nice, though. Ruined his good looks. Who got you?"
Jeremiah grunted in alarm, pointing a trembling finger at the figure running towards Danny from behind. Haylia had returned, having acquired a second set of throwing knives. These came slotted into a vest. Danny turned, following his finger. He saw Haylia. Jeremiah swiveled his hand, indicating the sliver of light coming from the tail of the Cornucopia. A hidden back exit. "Mhairhh!" he garbled urgently. Danny caught his meaning.
"Thanks, man." He cast one last sorrowful look over Jeremiah before bolting towards freedom. Haylia withdrew a knife from her vest, raising her arm to throw, and Jeremiah, strength fading, lifted up his prone leg. Haylia, as he anticipated, was locked onto her target. She tripped over him and face-planted with an oof that might have been satisfying if Jeremiah wasn't seconds away from death.
He hoped Danny would make it. Or Vica. He thought of his family back home in District Nine. He moved his hand to his forehead, straining his sluggish muscles, and snapped two fingers out from his eyebrow. A last salute, so they would know how much he loved them. The gold Cornucopia ceiling flickered above him, fading into a fuzzy vision of Curtis's bronze-brown complexion.
Jeremiah's eyes fluttered shut against his grandfather's reassuring smile.
Twyla Behring, 13
Cornucopia, Arena
D3F
July 6, 329 AEDD
Twyla was in awe of the carnage surrounding her. The moment she saw Jeremiah go down, she knew all bets were off. But because she could see all the equipment Beemo could ever want inside the Cornucopia, she was ready to risk it all.
She waited, hiding in the shadow of an enormous bin until she had a straight shot at the Cornucopia's mouth and eyes on all the Careers, who had scattered and were now pursuing tributes in the distance. She watched as Nikita sprinted after his district partner, turning her back on the scream of terror and accompanying horrible clap, like the noise of a magazine hitting a hard floor, not the kind of noise she'd imagined a javelin might make as it met human flesh.
In this direction, she saw Vica, the Six girl, trying to drag herself into a shallow ditch behind a sand dune before anyone dangerous noticed the blood saturating her pants. One of her thighs had been cut to the bone. Was she hoping that her allies would come rescue her? Xanthe and Jeremiah were dead, and Danny was nowhere to be found. Twyla didn't have a very optimistic prediction about her fate.
The Careers wouldn't stay occupied forever. Twyla checked her path one more time and ran.
She crossed the twenty yards of packed earth with no incident and made it to the relative safety of the Cornucopia, then grabbed the closest items in arm's reach: a large backpack, a full canteen suspended from a shoulder strap, the official-looking toolbox labeled POISON DISTILLATION, and a set of emeici, which she slipped onto her fingers. Having spent only ten seconds or so inside, she was ducking back out when something tackled her from the side.
It was Nathaniel, the Four boy. She couldn't see his spear. Instead, he held a stout, short knife, rolled on top of Twyla, and brought it down towards her face.
Instinctively, her hands came up to shield it, and with them, her emeici. Nathaniel's wrist slammed down neatly onto the sharp point and immediately began gushing blood. He lost his grip on the knife and Twyla snatched it up, plunging it into his underarm. She tried to yank it out, but it stuck. Squirming out from beneath him, she abandoned it, tucking the toolbox under her arm and running. She stumbled over the sand, canteen and backpack thumping against her uncomfortably. Somewhere behind her, she heard Nathaniel roar in frustration.
The alliance was supposed to meet towards the Cornucopia tail, but Twyla couldn't go back. She hadn't seen Beemo, Brielle, or Tom, either on their platforms or otherwise. They were probably all at the agreed-upon meeting place, safe a hundred paces away in the opposite direction. Twyla hadn't seen their bodies on the ground either, which was a good sign, although she did see the dead Five girl.
Then she heard a noise she'd been dreading. "Twyla, help me!" shouted Brielle. There was a clang, as though a weapon had just hit the Cornucopia, and then a yelp from someone who was not Brielle. Twyla decided that she was a quasi-safe distance away from Nathaniel and turned back, observing the scene from a high ridge of sand. Odicci, Nathaniel's district partner, had trapped Brielle against the side of the Cornucopia and was recoiling from something Brielle had done to defend herself.
Six Careers were clustered in a semicircle around Brielle. Nikita grabbed Brielle and pinned her in place. Screams turned into whimpers as Tybalt handed Odicci the scimitar she'd dropped. Twyla stood, torn between the urge to help her friend and the knowledge that doing so would be a suicide mission.
Exhaling through her teeth, she faced front, put her fingers in her ears, and walked away with a million silent apologies on her lips.
Nikita Valeta, 18
Cornucopia, Arena
D12M
July 6, 329 AEDD
Nikita liked to imagine that he would have done the same to any tribute, but he was lying to himself. He'd killed Aspen for strategic reasons, really. He knew he had to perform well in the Bloodbath. It was frowned upon to kill one's district partner, and that made it the perfect symbolic gesture to declare his allegiance publicly. Renouncing his status as a District Twelve tribute would prove to the sponsors that he was a member of the Career Pack, on equal footing with his allies. Chasing her as she fled would send an even stronger message. By choosing to target a rebel, he strengthened his image as a loyalist Peacekeeper.
The kill had been important, but Nikita found no pleasure in it. Privately, he had hoped it would be satisfying, considering she had cost him his self-esteem on more than one occasion, but that made it even worse. He pushed his guilt aside, to be dealt with at a yet undetermined point in the future, and turned his attention to Nathaniel who, as Pack leader, had gathered the Careers to assess their progress.
Nascha had been killed by Jeremiah, the Nine boy, but Haylia had avenged her by killing Jeremiah. Odicci had gotten two kills, the Eleven girl and the Seven girl, the latter of which Nikita had assisted with, holding her still after her act of defiance, biting Odicci on the arm and ripping away a surprisingly large chunk of flesh. It was refreshing to see a tribute that went down swinging, more exciting for the viewers. Nikita had enjoyed these moments in past years, considered them exciting and suspenseful, but he was now disgusted at having participated in one of them.
Orpheus got the other Eleven tribute and the Five girl, claiming the distinction of being the only Career confirmed to have two kills without incurring injury. Nikita was fairly sure he got Aspen, but he knew he'd killed the younger Eight girl. He could see her body in the ring of pedestals, a spear buried in her back. Then the ambiguity began. Tybalt had slashed the Six girl and severed a critical artery. If she wasn't dead yet, she would be soon. He might have also gotten the Seven boy, but he wasn't sure. The boy had escaped before anyone could tell whether or not the wound was mortal. Nathaniel was a bit of a problem. He'd killed the Five boy, and maybe injured the Three girl, but she'd somehow managed to impale his wrist, then take his knife and stab him in the armpit. Nikita had never seen an armpit injury before, but as it turned out, it had screwed up Nathaniel's whole range of movement. It was his nondominant arm, luckily, but it was still going to be a major problem.
They wouldn't know who died until night fell and the photos of the dead tributes were displayed as the national anthem played. Until then, the Careers had a day to spend in the blazing desert arena, with sand hot enough to burn. He wonders what his family thought of his Bloodbath performance. He's thinking about his mother, Inessa, in District Two, how tightly she must have been gripping the tray of hors d'oeuvres, how high-strung she's always been just as the Games commence, how much more of that good kind of frazzled she'll be every time he crosses her screen. She's going to be so damn proud of him when he wins, but he knows she's already proud of him as he is, and that means a ton right now. He recovered. His old injury goes brittle for a moment. A reminder, a warning of what happens to arrogant Careers, and it occurs to Nikita that he's already murdered one or two innocent children, but he shakes it off like it's a fleeting tickle. It'll continue to itch at the back of his mind after the fact, but it's his turn to be Two's pride and joy. He has massive respect for her chosen—Tybalt's the cream of the crop, after all, and Haylia is just incredible—but Nikita Valeta, the spurned, forsaken son, is too blinded by the gleam of that Victor's crown to be concerned.
Hey y'all,
I decided to merge the launch and Bloodbath chapters because, um, I felt like it would be really niceys. So now that we've knocked down a good several tributes, sponsorship is opening. Please go to the tribute blog for more info—if you PM me with a sponsorship request for a dead tribute, I'll let you know. I left some ambiguity about which tributes are alive/dead because I think it's more interesting to find out when the tributes do, but I won't let you waste your points on dead tributes.
Obituaries will be going up on the blog in the next couple of chapters (day and night 1), but I'll also pop up a tribute tracker with injuries and inventory on there in the near future. Please reach out with any questions you may have, let me know what you're thinking, and welcome to the arena, friends!
—LC :)