Victoria Madsen, 17
Victoria Madsen was horrified at what she'd become. She was so very fucked. If the Capitol had been ignoring her, now they would despise her. She committed a grave sin. She murdered her district partner in cold blood. If she had anyone to talk with, she could have explained herself. It was dark; it was loud. It was hard to tell who she was looking at in the middle of a thick gray downpour. Tall, blonde. She could easily have mistaken him for Nikita. She could have lied. But that was not what happened. The truth was this: he abandoned her at the Cornucopia and left her for dead because she had asked him to, but now she was tired and angry. She lost her temper.
The river that brought her to the jungle at the start of the Games suddenly reversed direction when she got on the boat she made. The Gamemakers saw a chance to bring tributes together, whatever their reasons may have been. The result was a girl from a shitty district that nobody cared about killing someone she liked in a moment of regret.
She had looked at her arm. She looked at it a lot in the Arena. The three notches were a reminder that her indiscretion had killed everyone she'd ever loved, and now she had done it again, only worse. She needed a fourth notch, but that wasn't right. That was her body keeping a toll. That was her admitting weakness, but, she realized, if she ignored everything her mind was screaming at her, she could salvage the situation. She still had a chance. She could make it out of the Games and make it right, but she needed to project confidence, not regret. She was one of eight tributes still alive. Seven more to go. What did she know about them? More importantly, what did they have to work with?
1, 2, 3, and 4 were all Careers. Were they still working together? That was bad news for her if the answer was yes, but any living Career was a threat. They had experience, supplies, weapons, and resources. 5 was the Three girl, who had outlasted whatever killed her allies. Vica didn't assume that she was injured. Overestimating someone was better than underestimating them. If she was hurt badly, well, that would just be a nice surprise for the Vica of the future. (She could be Victoria soon, she promised herself. Just a little while longer. Please.) 6 was the Nine girl with the high training score. She was the scariest outlier. She probably had a weapon. 7 was the Twelve girl who hated her district partner and was hated back. Vica had seen her get speared during the Bloodbath. Her being alive meant that she was popular enough for sponsors.
There was a lot to overcome. She needed a plan, and she had no ideas. The best she could do was hope for a lucky break while she figured out what direction made the most sense. The river seemed like a safe place to stay put.
She didn't know she was being hunted, or she might have handled things differently.
Nikita Valeta, 18
The night after Haylia died, sleep came rough and possessive, like the reeds at a river's bottom, ensnaring your feet and pulling your nose under. Your hair floats like a mermaid's and your lips blow soft pearly bubbles to the surface. The water makes your skull heavy. Thick. Stay down, it coaxes. It wraps its arms around your waist and sways you close to its chest. Stay right here with me. Sleep in the Arena was a solace both brittle and temporary. It tempted Nikita in its depth. It consumed him.
Final Eight. The time is nigh. You must choose. What sort of a man lets himself stray from his purpose in life?
It wasn't love, the night said. It was delusion. It was cheap lust for the plush life of dependency that he was setting himself up for.
A coward, that's what.
Insanity is a father. It comes loud down the stairs in its coat and boots, sits up late at the kitchen table after you've been sent to bed. It fades into mundanity, a figure disappearing as its calluses harden and you grow up. And then one day it sits down at the dinner table and reminds you you're not the invincible king you play at being on the schoolyard, and you're not doing as well as you should be. You look up from your desk during class and realize you're floundering in comparison to your classmates, and that you have to do better. But it only takes once, and then you will never, ever be satisfied again.
Lieutenant Valeta, sir, present and accounted for, sir! Right this way, sir. Yes, Commander Albertine, sir. Sir. Sir.
What was Orpheus? What was Tybalt?
A good soldier is never distracted, boy. Chin up and shut your mouth.
How did anyone know what was right in this world?
Fifty more, Cadet. You don't speak back to your supervising officer again, hear me?
Why had he even joined up in the first place, at Morrow Academy?
First place goes to Nikita Valeta.
What use was eighteen years' worth of blood, sweat, and tears without a final payoff?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
How much time did he have left?
Where do you see yourself in five years, Cadet?
Why was nothing ever enough?
Don't work so hard, honey. You'll hurt yourself.
What good were people who didn't understand?
District Two thanks you for your service.
Our District Two Male, predicted to place first, Tybalt Alistair Martell!
This hanging will be supervised by Lieutenant Valeta, District Two, distinction of exemplary discipline.
Why did Aspen hate his guts, anyway? Why did the other Careers think they ought to be in charge? What did Orpheus do to deserve his suit of armor?
If you don't like it, do something about it.
After all, somebody had to.