CHAPTER 3 - DESCENT

Bliss Beaudrie's feet carried her to the washroom before she made a conscious decision about the destination. She'd never been told breaking down in the washroom wasn't allowed, and intended to capitalize on the knowledge. Watching her tribute fall apart was too much.

She leaned against the counter, trying to breathe.

It was always soul-crushing to watch her tributes in the arena, but there was something worse about watching Basal.

He was so morose, so hopeless. It was impossibly difficult to watch him acknowledge and accept his fate.

Watching him sob, then speak to open air after the D6 girl's body had been collected, was the last straw. To audiences, it looked like he was losing his mind. He'd get no sponsorships, no chance if he didn't wake up and start moving soon.

It also wasn't fair, that it was the truth. He was, clinically, losing his mind. He never should have been sent into the arena. Bliss shuddered, racked with guilt. Ever since her win eight years ago, the tributes Reaped from D7 have been abysmal. Too young, too fragile, or both.

Harlem Budd, her friend and fellow D7 victor, had tried to explain this was the cycle the Capitol followed, Reaping weaker tributes from out-districts with recent winners. The Reapings weren't entirely random, after all. But the knowledge didn't nothing to lessen her pain or guilt. If she hadn't won, maybe Basal wouldn't have been Reaped. She was already responsible for seven lost lives, seven tributes she'd failed over the years. Soon, she'd be responsible for eight.

She wished Basal had a chance, but solemnly accepted she would probably watch him disintegrate until there was noting left.

Bliss wished he hadn't survived the bloodbath.

…

Basal woke to the D6 kids arguing. The boy was sawed of at the waist, dragging his torso around, trying to swat the girl. The girl danced out of his way. She hadn't stopped bleeding yet, wounds in her chest and abdomen streaming.

"Kids, please." Basal said, lifting his face off the ground. They looked towards him. "No more fighting."

They looked forlorn that their distraction was gone, but with Basal up and about now, there was something else to focus on. He pushed himself onto his knees from where he lay face-down. Searing soreness lanced through his muscles, and Basal cursed himself for not doing more cardio before his time in the arena.

He looked back at the kids. Even if they were ghosts, he was glad for the company.

"We'll find something to do today so you aren't bored. How does that sound?" Basal asked.

Since the ghosts were stuck here, he'd take care of them. It was more than what he offered when they were alive.

The ghost kids nodded excitedly. Basal wished he knew their names. He didn't want to ask, fearing he'd offend them.

He dusted himself off, and stood. When he turned, something in his back and legs painfully clattered against the wall. He'd forgotten about the arrows.

Basal could barely feel the arrow shafts as he tore them from his muscles, mind too far gone. The wounds wept, but not steadily enough to be life-threatening. Basal figured he could ignore them. He ignored the slashes to his chest and arm as well, familiar with the burning sensation. They felt similar to cuts he'd inflicted on himself.

"Time to go. Maybe there's a playground around." Basal said to the ghosts, and beckoned them to follow him down the stairs.

When they reached the bottom of the turret, a glowing-white lobby greeted them. The glow from the air bouncing off the white stone hurt his eyes.

Movement put Basal on edge.

A boy ambled across the lobby, unfazed by Basal. Basal stared at the boy, trying to place what district he was from.

The boy reached the other side of the lobby, craning his neck to look through a window a few feet taller than him.

Basal was about to ask if he wanted a boost, but the boy removed his head from his shoulders and held it up high so he could peek through the window, himself. His spine snaked out of his skin as he lifted his head. Blood poured from the separation.

He plopped his head back down where it belonged, then walked back across the lobby. He nodded at Basal as he passed by.

Basal tried not to let it unnerve him too much. He knew the D6 kids were ghosts, but didn't like being unable to tell if other people he came across were alive or dead.

The kids followed as Basal exited the lobby, trying to find a playground.

…

Bliss retreated to the victor's lounge for a pick-me-up after she stopped shaking in the bathroom. The adrenaline was leaving her system, she craved caffeine as she crashed. She blinked sleepiness out of her eyes as she pushed through the lounge doors, and prayed the career victors weren't present.

A conversation came to an abrupt halt upon her entrance. She didn't have the energy to be offended. It's not like whoever was in here had reign over the room. She beelined it for the coffee maker.

"Bliss, hi. I heard you go by 'Bliss,' am I correct?" A baritone voiced asked as Bliss poured her coffee.

Bliss looked over to see Rhea Tilth, D11 victor of the 49th Hunger Games just last year, and Aramid Gauge, D8 victor of the 47th Hunger Games. Aramid was a year older than Rhea. They were both a few years younger than Bliss.

It was Rhea's first year mentoring. Bliss pulled herself together enough to be polite, sympathetic to the young mentors. The first few years were hell, or at least they had been for Bliss. The careers seemed to enjoy themselves well enough.

"Yes, you heard right. Rhea and Aramid?" Bliss responded.

The younger mentors nodded and smiled.

"Do you want to join us? It was getting a little stuffy in the mentor room." Aramid asked.

"Sure, thank you." Bliss would take any distraction she could get.

"I'm sorry about your tribute. I heard a career mentor say something about him losing his mind." Rhea said, bluntly.

Rhea's manner was a contrast to the other D11 members she was familiar with- both Violet Coriolis, a fellow victor she'd met after her Games, and Plum Sweet, her dear friend and alliance member during her Games, were more subdued.

"Thank you." Bliss tried not to show how much the situation bothered her.

"He deserves better." Rhea said, dangerously.

Bliss' eyes shot to his, and he looked confused under the sudden weight of her gaze. She mentally noted to have a conversation with Violet and make sure he'd explained the ropes of the Capitol to Rhea. It's not as if she disagreed, but there could be no blasphemy here.

Rhea interpreted her fear as frustration and apologized. Aramid watched the exchange curiously.

Bliss furrowed her brow. "It's alright. How are you find everything?" She asked in the most diplomatic way possible.

Rhea's expression darkened. "My tribute died in the bloodbath."

"Really? I'm sorry to hear that." Their tributes weren't in the same area, so Bliss hadn't realized.

"I'm just keeping Aramid company now." Rhea reached over and patted the girl's thigh. The gesture shocked Bliss, but Aramid reached down and grabbed his hand. They appeared to be quiet close.

"That's nice of you… And sometimes it helps to have a distraction." Bliss mused. "When did you meet?" She wondered, because they seemed too familiar to only have met at the beginning of this year's Games.

"We met last year at my victor's party." Rhea answered.

Bliss hadn't had a chance to speak with him that evening, but saw him being passed around from person to person. It never got easier to watch.

"He said he was going to write me a letter, and I didn't believe him." Aramid said. "But a week later, I got mail. Could barely read his penmanship at first, but he's improved." Aramid said jokingly. Rhea's face cracked into a small smile.

"I visited him a few months later. I've always wanted to see the orchards. Rhea showed me a bunch of pictures when I arrived at the D11 victor's village." Aramid continued.

That was another strange freedom the victors had. They were freely allowed to travel between districts, but only the other victor's villages. Never the interior district. And, of course, only by invitation from someone within the district.

Victor's villages were well-equipped and insular. There was a small shopping area at the base of each, where victors could buy anything they needed. The district employees that ran them never travelled beyond the base shopping centres of the villages.

"It's good to keep in touch with people who understand what it's like to go through the Games." Bliss thought the statement sounded awkward, but both victors agreed.

"I was wondering, if you know, what's going on with the arena? Where are the other tributes?" Bliss asked cautiously.

Mentors were banned from watching the tv cuts of the Hunger Games, restricted to viewing only their tributes through their monitoring station. It wasn't banned to share information, but those conversations were usually reserved for mentors with aligned tributes. She wasn't trying to take advantage of his freshness, though, and he could politely decline to answer.

It had been an utter shock to everyone in the mentoring room when they were shown an image- through each other their separate screens- of a cornucopia with only twelve tributes surrounding it. Nobody in the room had cried their tribute was missing, so Bliss figured there had to be multiple cornucopias in the same arena, or multiple arenas.

The careers had, unsurprisingly, gathered around each other's screens, and quickly understood what was going on. Most out-district mentors were still in the dark. Harlem's tribute had been raised around the same cornucopia as Bliss', so they couldn't help each other.

"I'll share if you do." Rhea said. Bliss nodded.

"As you know, the arena is white-washed and filled with gardens. I haven't seen-" Bliss started.

"Wait, what?" Aramid cut her off. Rhea and Aramid exchanged a glance.

"What do you mean?" Bliss asked.

"About the arena being… white-washed and filled with gardens?" Aramid said.

"Yes…?" Bliss was confused.

"Our tributes were raised up into hell." Rhea interjected, speaking for himself and Aramid.

Well, yes, the bloodbath was hellish, but that didn't mean her arena description was wrong. At Bliss' perplexed glance, Rhea spoke again.

"Literal hell. Red, fire spewing caves. Boiling rivers. Demon mutts on the stalagmites and stalactites. That's what got my tribute when he tried to run away from the bloodbath." Rhea said, sadly.

"They were raised into different stadiums." Bliss said, breathless.

"How does that work? There can only be one winner." Rhea asked.

"I think the question we have to ask ourselves is: when the time comes, will the tributes fall from heaven or will they be raised from hell?" Bliss said.

…

Days passed. Basal walked. Sometimes so slowly, he was barely moving. He saw fighting and gore all around him, tributes constantly eviscerating each other. If they came close enough, Basal swung small boulders he'd found on the ground. Most of the time, he swung through empty air.

There was one impact that landed, though. A non-career tribute who'd survived the bloodbath had come running at him with a sword. Basal had dodged, but not swiftly enough, a piece of flesh shorn from his shoulder. At the same time the other tribute swung, Basal had too, and the boulder in his hand cracked into her side.

The blow broke bones and winded the tribute; she lay on her back unable to gasp for air. Basal was instinctually about to finish the job, but her eyes snared his. It was his district-mate. Her eyes held the same expression Basal had seen on the deer's face, before his father ordered him to kill it.

Terror. Helplessness.

Small gasps worked their way into her lungs as they begrudgingly accepted air again. She sobbed as soon as her lungs allowed.

Basal took a step back, no longer lumbering over the injured tribute. She started scooting away. Painful minutes later, she made it to her feet and left as fast as she could manage, shooting Basal confused glances the entire time.

He was glad he didn't kill her.

…

The ghosts reminded Basal to eat and drink. He found bushes lush with strawberries, and gardens with slugs in the beds. There was a small stream of water as well that didn't make him sick.

Basal walked, foraged, rinsed and repeated. He thought it would be nice to live here, in this garden. It had everything he needed.

He stopped swinging at the violent forms approaching him.