CHAPTER 2 – TRICKLE / FLARE

Tackle Auger

Aelia looks so beautiful. I'll treasure the image of her gliding down the pavilion stairs in her dress and veil; such elegance, such joy.

I can't bring myself to mingle, so after the vows are said, I slip away. The past twenty-four hours have been surreal, I can't stop hearing the sound of Riel's skull cracking against the stone.

I rush home, then change into exercise gear. I only ran five miles this morning, instead of my usual seven. I felt too-lightheaded, forgetting to eat supper the night before. And lunch, perhaps. Come to think of it, I didn't eat yesterday.

I have to make up for the lost distance. It makes sense to do another five miles, instead of just two. Who runs just two miles? The exertion will help clear my head, it always does. I force a protein drink down my throat before leaving.

The pounding of my feet against the pavement destroys my thoughts. Anytime something bubbles up, I run faster, focusing solely on the strike of my sneakers, on the mechanics of my body. Before long, I reach a valley, then a stream. Deciduous trees bloom over the pathway, providing a canopy of shade. The shade's coolness washes over my hot skin, glorious relief.

The wind whispers in my ear. I want to thank you, though, Little Showman.

My heart starts beating faster than it should, disrupting the meditative rhythm.

I'm free now, why is this happening?

I run faster, trying to erase the intrusion. The words etch into my brain, though, and sink. They sink so deep, they fall into a hole- a hole just for memories containing that nickname. I'm ten years old again, running through the forest. Away from danger, away from pain.

I'm not paying attention, a tree nicks my cheek. Blood trickles down my face. I hear Riel calling my name, I hear him gaining distance. Come here Little Showman, you can't hide. I run faster. I'm not fast enough. He tackles me to the ground.

Impact.

In real time, I'm on the ground. My scalp is on fire. I reach up and feel blood in my hair, then feel liquid trickling down my face. I crane my head up, and see a tuft of dark brown on the tree branch that clotheslined me.

I can still hear Riel's voice. I can smell his sweat.

My chest tightens, I can't breathe. I gasp and whine, trying to fill my lungs with air; an embarrassing scene. I can't stand the feeling of dirt and gravel on my skin. I feel filthy. Tears trickle into my hair. I lean over and vomit. Flopping back down, I force my eyes to adjust, to focus on the sky.

After an eternity, all I can hear is the wind in the trees.

Blood drips down my face as I sit up, almost pulling me back into the memory. I'm disoriented, struggling to form thoughts. I should go home. No, I should finish my run. No, Mali needs me, and she needs me healthy. Tears sting my eyes again at the thought of her potential loss. She's the closest thing to family I have. I can't ruin myself before the Games, no matter how tempting.

The thought of sitting at home alone makes me shiver. It can't be long until the Victor's Dinner, though, I won't have much time to kill. I can keep it together. I'm not exactly looking forward to an evening of socializing, but the event is customary in D4, and the boisterous energy will hopefully tire me out enough to sleep.

I try to gather the willpower to stand, but I feel utterly empty. I wish I could stay here, and never be asked to get up again. My head pounds, I wonder how bad the laceration is. The flow of blood has almost stopped, and though I'm sure I look gruesome, head wounds bleed a lot. Frustration blooms in my chest, I feel pathetic.

Rough bark scratches my palm as I push myself up. My head spins. I don't feel concussed, I just haven't eaten enough. The feeling is familiar.

Pounding footsteps draw my attention. I glance down the path and see Jig approaching, apparently going for a run himself. Damn it. I don't hate Jig, but we have an adversarial relationship. He hates that I won the Games just two years after him, hates that barely anybody remembers his time as academy leader. His immaturity knows no limits.

Jig glances towards me. Fuck. Now, I can't try to blend into the landscape and hope he passes by. His face twists into a smug expression, and he closes the distance between us. "If only the students could see you now, klutz."

I try to wipe the blood from my face, self-conscious. I don't have the brainpower to form a retort, instead I shake my head and run in the other direction. I make it only a few steps before blackness encroaches on my vision. I slow to a walk, trying not to pass out. My fists curl into balls, frustration mounting. It's my own goddamn fault I feel so sick.

"Dude, you look like shit." Jig says, following me.

I hold onto a tree until a wave of nausea passes. "Leave me alone, Jig."

He gives me a once over, shrugs, and takes off. As he runs away, he calls back, "I'll send peacekeepers to retrieve your body if you don't show up for dinner."

Jerk.

I crack a smile, though. I'd rather he ran away, than press me with questions.

Before long, another runner intercepts me, and refuses to leave at the sight of my bloody face. I don't know her, a member of the general public. She recognized me by reputation, of course. I've yet to become used to the celebrity status that accompanies victory. We part ways at the doorstep of victor's village, and I assure her I'll call a doctor. I thank her for her kindness, and she blushes, then leaves.

I make it home, force another protein drink down my throat, and feel a bit sturdier; no longer on the verge of losing consciousness. As calories enter my body, emotions trickle back in, no longer starved out of existence.

I have no reason to feel torn apart. I accomplished my goal, I should be happy. I never have to lay eyes on that piece of shit ever again. I'm free.

It's still all I think about, though, inescapable memories of Riel. I thought his death would make them stop. Every time I close my eyes, though, I see his greedy smile.

Mali Cypress

Wood palettes, broken furniture, and great logs are stacked twenty feet high, then drenched in gasoline and lit aflame. Burgeoning flames kiss the air as the bonfire catches. Academy students of all ages attend the beachside send-off for the tributes, as is the customary for D4. A party before the Reaping, to celebrate our success as chosen volunteers. Wyatt and I are the guests of honor.

The flames roar to life, and I can feel heat on my face. I take a step back, fear and adrenaline sending shaking pangs to my muscles.

I hate fire. I hate everything about it- the unpredictability, ferociousness, disregard for life. The speed of which it destroys.

I don't consider how I'll handle an arena filled with fire. The hellscape arena from last year scared me so badly, I couldn't sleep for days. The only consolation was the knowledge the gamemakers don't usually repeat arena styles sequentially. I pray for anything but flames, including frozen tundra.

"What do you think the arena will be like?" I say to Wyatt.

He looks at me curiously. "Try and take you mind off it. This is our last chance to enjoy ourselves and not think about the Games, until they're over."

"Fine, I'll leave it... If you answer the question." I say. He rolls his eyes. "I know you've thought about it, come on, tell me."

He shakes his head, chuckling. "Fine. I think we might be going to a jungle."

"Why?"

"Just seems like something different from previous years. It's been a while."

"Fair enough."

"What about you?"

"Maybe a cityscape. The year I joined the academy, the Games were held in that arena made from partially collapsed buildings. Apparently, it had good ratings. The victor sure got banged up. We haven't seen something like that recently, either."

"Well, what do you want to bet?"

"Hmm?"

"Let's make it interesting, have some fun. Winner gets to pick the stage for our final battle, glorious as it's going to be."

"So, whoever's right about the arena wins the bet?"

"Yeah."

"You better hope I win, you don't know what suits you- lighting, backdrop, none of it." I say playfully, poking his shoulder.

He swats my hand away. "We'll just have to wait and find out, won't we."

I chuckle. We stare at the monstrous fire again.

"You really think it'll be glorious?" I ask.

"If we choose so." He says. I wait for him to elaborate. "We can choose honor and dignity. We don't need to act underhanded to win."

"You really believe that?" I ask. "I don't think it's that simple."

"What do you mean? I think it's crystal clear- don't act like Jet, don't act like Lustre."

"I hear you. That's easy. What about the gray areas? What if you're starving? What if someone's suspicious?" The anxious words tumble out of my mouth.

"Look, we know how to take care of ourselves. We're not going to lose who we are."

I want to believe him. I thought I'd be more excited at our party, but all I can feel is apprehension. "I don't know how to prepare, there's so much unknown."

"Take it one step at a time. All we have to focus on, right now, is hanging out with our friends. Then tomorrow, we'll find out who our competition is... I'm here for you, Mali." He squeezes my shoulder.

"I'm here for you too." I say, looking into his eyes.

"I know."

I reach over to pull him in for a hug. Someone douses the fire in gasoline, making it flare. I jerk back, tripping over my feet, panicking, adrenaline surging through my system once again.

I hear screams of people burning to death inside my head.

Someone laughs, some fifteen year old.

I see red; anger and flames. I jump to my feet and bound over to the kid who laughed at me. I sucker punch him, popping him in the nose. It starts bleeding immediately, and he falls to the ground. I expect awkward silence, or gasps of judgement, but instead, the slightly drunken crowd starts cheering.

Wyatt approaches, "accidentally" kicking sand on the kid. Under the weight of both our gazes, he shrinks. The kid scoots away, then walks off, muttering to himself.

"You okay?" He whispers.

I can still hear chimes of people screaming for their lives. "I need a drink." I say. Someone hands me a bottle. Being a volunteer has its perks. Sipping dulls the noise in my skull. I drink enough to quiet the screaming.

Wyatt and I dance and spar with our cohort well into the night, past our curfew, after the younger kids have gone home. I think of Aelia and her fruit and baseball bats, moments of joy carved out of an uneasy life. I pay attention to the sound of Wyatt's laugh, the gleam in his eye as he jokes. I don't want to ever forget it.