CHAPTER 1 – FINIS / INITIUM
Tackle Auger (D4 Victor of the 46th Hunger Games)
We're six miles into the run, a familiar route winding through the coastal hills of District 4. It's enough distance to have found a rhythm; a harmony between pounding feet and blood, controlled breath, and mental clarity. I am the best version of myself when I run- judicious, pragmatic. My values and beliefs are crystal clear- I am myself, in my purest form.
Today, my heart beats faster than normal, spurred by tension growing inside my chest. The waiting period is the worst. Before the Hunger Games, in that cement trap below the arena, my heart beat just like this. Before inevitable violence. At the Games, it wasn't my choice. Now, in a way, it isn't either. Circumstance dictates consequence, and rational people act as they do. All that remains is foolishness.
I whip ahead of Riel, expertly navigating the terrain. There are reasons I've maintained status of one of the best Academy Leaders in D4, and my fitness plays no small part. I am the fastest man in D4, able to best any student or adult in endurance running or sprints. My body is a machine, and as long as I treat it with care, it serves me.
The course we traverse is used by academy students and adventurous public alike, beginning on a dirt path through rolling hills, then ascending across the edge of a rock face on a path carved into the stone. The edge drops into the ocean. If one were to fall, the swim back to shore would be miles in length.
Riel commonly challenges me to these sprints. He hasn't won in well over half a decade, but always asks. I comply every so often- by giving into some of the man's requests, I can usually avoid the worst of his petulance. I wish I could fire him, but he has a contract with the Capitol- a lifer at the academy. Riel, my former trainer. My former surrogate father.
The path pitches upward indicating the beginning of the most dangerous section. Loose stone is indistinguishable from hearty bedrock, weathered over time. One wrong step, and the rock, then you, pitch into the sea. It's a gag trainers use on academy first years just before summer break. Most fall. The ones that don't get bragging rights. Few drown. It's the nature of our academy, sink or swim.
Last night I rigged several stones. It took hours, I felt mad squatting and lying on the cliff's edge, trying to precariously balance larger rocks on smaller stones underneath. I hoped Riel and I would be the first ones running today, or that if someone else chose to run the cliff's edge route at the crack of dawn, they were a strong swimmer.
My hands start going numb, adrenaline and fear the culprit. The nagging thought of failure clouds my rush of endorphins. Waiting time is over. I can't help but remember how I felt when the glass tube closed around me, and the metal plate raised me into the arena.
I jump over my planted rocks, balancing on the balls of my feet, sending gravel cascading into space. I hear rocks grind and the sound of rubber skidding over stone. Behind me, Riel gasps. I expect to hear a scream, and a splash; I expect to jump into the ocean after him and wrestle him down into the depths. But when I turn around, I see the old bastard clutching his knee, laying on the narrow path.
"Tackle. Help. I think something popped in my knee." Riel says, voice strained.
"You're getting too old for this course." I reply, contemptuous.
Riel rolls his eyes, only concealing his anger at my judgment because of his need. "Come here, boy."
I crouch beside Riel, then extend a hand. He reaches for me, groaning. Salty wind stings my eyes. His hand clasps mine. Not a second later, I have Riel in a headlock. It was entirely unexpected, he doesn't react until my forearm clamps over his windpipe.
"What the-" Riel chokes out, abruptly cut off by an increase in pressure over his throat.
We struggle, but my arm never leaves his throat. His neck pops as he tries to wiggle away, but he's no match for my youth, my strength, my position. For the first time in a long time, I feel in control. I squeeze hard. Riel squeals. If I crank my arms up and to the right, his neck breaks.
"This was a long time coming. You know it." I say, crushing his throat.
He begins to smile, a smug, pompous expression. "Y-y-you-"
I release the headlock by a fraction of an inch, allowing him to speak.
"You're worthless." Riel spits.
I dig me knees into his ribs, and he groans with pain.
"I want to thank you, though, Little Showman." Riel continues.
Heaviness worms its way through my gut. I freeze at the use of my old nickname.
"I want to thank you for the memories... and the movies. My friends and I have enjoyed them... for years." Riel chokes the words out.
For some reason, the words bring me back to life. I tighten my grip on his throat. He's not making sense, and the confusion leads me to panic. I can feel my muscles start to shake. Riel cranes his neck and notices the expression on my face.
"Keeps my memories fresh. It feels like we met just yesterday." He barely manages to say through the constriction over his windpipe. He licks his lips.
Hatred and shame burn my heart, and suddenly I can't breathe. Suddenly, his weight on my body is unbearable. In one swift motion, I release the chokehold and kick Riel. He slides off the ledge, leaving track marks with his nails on the stones. I hear an impact, then a splash. He hits a rock on the way into the water. I lean over, practically convulsing because of how hard I'm shaking, and look below.
Bright blood swells through the water, leaking from Riel's skull. Tendrils of red snake through clear blue. I wasn't expecting such a violent demise, but I'd be lying if I said the end he met wasn't satisfactory. His expressionless face rolls to the surface before his body sinks. Eyes that once held such maliciousness, now devoid of anything at all.
I don't know if I feel better. I don't feel worse. Knowing I'll never have to see his face again brings me peace. At least, I think it does.
My chest heaves, and I sob so forcefully I vomit over the cliff's edge. My heart hurts.
I get up and start sprinting, unwilling to feel the emotions bubbling up out of the deepest pits of my brain. I start too fast, exerting too much stress on my lungs. I can taste lactic acid, a metallic twang fills my throat. I run as fast as I can. My lungs don't recover. I taste pure iron.
The stone path descends to a sandy beach. Surfers dot the horizon. I spot a fellow victor waxing his board. Felix Cast, Victor of the 21st Hunger Games. I'm thankful it's him. He's polite, respectful. I sprint towards him. He meets me halfway.
"There's been an accident." I double over and vomit again.
"Tackle, hey, what's going on?" Felix gently squeezes my shoulder. I jump. His hand falls back to his side.
"I was running with Riel. He fell." I say, still doubled over, trying to recover. My muscles tense, cramps threatening. I shouldn't have pushed so hard at the end of the run.
"So, we have about an hour until that old man makes his way back to shore?" Felix joked.
"Felix, look at me." I stand up straight, a head taller and a foot wider than the older victor. My tone captures his attention. "He slipped off the edge and hit his head on the way down… He's dead." It doesn't feel like I'm saying the words as they leave my mouth. Somehow, I though I'd fail… but it's real. It's happened. He's actually dead.
Against my will, another sob escapes my chest. It's a foreign sensation, I never let myself cry. Not that I'm "letting" myself now. The sobs feel as involuntary as the explosive vomit.
"Please, get help." I force the words out. Felix looks conflicted, not wanting to leave me. "Please." I say again.
"Okay. I'll flag down some peacekeepers. Are you sure he's dead? Is there any chance he's alive?" Felix asks.
"No." I shake my head, thinking of the blood in the water. "He's dead. They need to recover his body before the tide pulls it away."
"Okay. I'm sorry, Tackle." Felix says, giving me an empathetic glance, before sprinting inland.
I fall to my knees. Other beach goers take notice of my emotional state. An academy staff member, outfitted in a teal swimsuit and matching cover, comes to me and asks what's happened. I can't speak. Shame, pain, and anger hit me like a truck. I have to get out of here. I rise, and apologize, saying I have to go find peacekeepers. I stumble away, not hearing her response.
I don't know what's wrong with me. I've wanted him dead since I was a child. Why don't I feel better?
Mali Cypress (District 4)
Water streamlines my body, guided by bladed hands and proper posture. The skin on my face ripples as I fly through the ocean, tide pushing my back as I swim to shore. I glide, moving so quickly I leave a wake behind. I dive below the surface, breaking form, as a wave crashes overhead. I open my eyes and peer at the reef. Nearly two decades of practice has desensitized my eyes to the salty water. It still burns, eventually, but it's worth the pain to stare at the colorful fish and lithe dolphins. I'm glad for the movement, exertion quelling my jitters.
I'm going to miss home. This will probably be my last swim until after the Games. Or it will be my last swim, ever. Tomorrow is the Reaping Ceremony, and I am the chosen volunteer. At first, the announcement brought elation, especially when my best friend was chosen to volunteer by my side. It's all I've worked towards, for almost a decade. Ever since my home burned and with it I lost everything- except my life. I'm not shy to admit it, I'm exceptional now. It wasn't a surprise to anyone when I was chosen. I find myself uncharacteristically nervous, though, especially after this morning.
Riel's funeral was short and sweet. I wasn't particularly close with him. I can tell Tackle didn't like him, even though he never explained why. Tackle's like my older brother, so I don't associate with people he openly dislikes. He's too courteous to be rude, generally, so he must have a damn good reason for feeling averse to Riel- especially because the man practically raised him after he joined the academy. Riel's sociable enough, but truthfully, he acted like a clown. Some people found him charismatic, but I didn't find him charming. His personality combined with the fact Tackle didn't like him made me give him a wide berth. Because of Tackle's distaste for the man, I found his mood during the ceremony surprising.
Tackle, as leader of the academy, gave a eulogy. It was moving. Usually stoic, he was barely able to speak without stuttering or staring off into space. His eyes, usually burning with life, looked about as dead as Riel's. His skin was pallid. He looked sick. It worried me.
I hope he's able to pull himself together before the Games, considering he's assigned to be my mentor... I don't want anyone else, though, I grew up primarily training with Tackle- but I can't afford a lapse of focus. Not now, not with my life on the line. I don't know if the thought makes me selfish.
During the ceremony, I couldn't stop staring at Riel's casket, wondering if they'd already crafted one with my measurements in the case I do not win. I'm strong, but I will not let hubris get the best of me. Not like that asshole, Jet, from last year. What kind of animal taunts a mentally ill boy by sawing another boy in half? I still shudder when I think about it. Watching Jet get his skull bashed in felt like justice, though I'd never speak those treasonous words aloud.
I know I'm capable of winning, but I do not consider myself better than my future fellow tributes. I have to watch my back in order to fulfill my destiny.
Today, as the sun rose, I stood over my mother's grave and I promised her I'd win, just as I'd always planned. Since I was a child, I dreamed of getting us off the fishing boat, hiring maids of our own instead of being them ourselves, living in victor's village without a care in the world. My mother sacrificed everything to keep me safe. Although she won't be able to physically join me in victor's village, I know she'll be there in spirit. I hold onto the mental image. I will not die.
I kick my feet, finally resurfacing, drinking in a breath of fresh air. Water streams down my brown curls. Finally, I swim far enough to touch ground, and begin bound-diving to shore. The movement is exhilarating. I leave thoughts of funerals and death in the water.
There's already a crowd forming around the magnificent beach-side amphitheater. I find the bag I stashed earlier and retrieve my dress, woven with teal flowers. I quickly dry off and change before the ceremony begins.
It isn't ideal to have a funeral and a wedding on the same day, of course, but the Reaping is tomorrow. The wedding's been planned for months. Riel's untimely death meant today was the only day to accommodate both ceremonies. The rapid succession of life events has created chaotic energy in the amphitheater, I can feel the hum moving through my chest like a melody.
I turn when I hear someone sniffle. An academy trainer hugs another- Riel's friends. I feel guilty at my lack of emotion surrounding his demise, but it's unnerving to see academy professionals so emotional. I turn again at a cry of excitement, a flower girl seeing the arrangement she's meant to toss down the aisle. I turn again at the sound of my best friend's voice.
"Mali!" Wyatt calls from halfway up the amphitheater, turning heads with the volume of his voice. I roll my eyes and run over.
"Hey." I say, sitting beside him.
"How was the water?" He asks, touching my dripping hair.
"Peaceful. Maybe a little too peaceful. Gave me some time to think." I reply, kicking the floor.
"About what?" Wyatt says gently.
I shake my head, and think about what to say. The ceremony is about to start. I shrug. "Let's talk later."
He raises a brow. "You okay?"
I flash him a smile. "Fine." I don't think he believes me.
The groom enters the pavilion, wearing an embroidered teal suit. A hush falls over the crowd. He takes his place center-stage, beside the officiator. Music begins playing. From the top of the amphitheater, a figure emerges wearing a white dress and teal-flower vail, woven so intricately her face is entirely obscured. The audience cranes their necks and she floats down the stairs with the grace of a victor.
Aelia Carmel, Victor of the 38th Hunger Games, is wedding a pastry chef.
She's Tackle's friend, probably his only friend besides me. He's pleasant with everyone, but doesn't seem to trust more than one person at a time- himself included. Aelia flicks a strand of my wet hair as she passes, and I laugh. I'd bet my victory in the Games she's hiding a smile beneath her veil. I have fond memories of her, apparently she was more of a hardass during her time as leader of the academy, before she passed on the post to Jig.
By the time I was old enough to meet important adults, Tackle was leader, taking over just two years after Jig's victory. Two victories for D4 in such a short period of time brought us honor, but Jig's been sore ever since because of his short academy legacy. Tackle's victory and leadership seemed like a cosmically timed transition, as he's been helping take care of me since I arrived at the academy. He's an orphan too. He boarded at the academy, just like me. I think that's why he watches out for me. He was a friend before he was a victor, trainer, and leader. I still see his soft side sometimes, when no one else is watching. The rare occasions we hang out and play video games, his smile reaches his eyes, he seems to fully relax in his chair. It's opposite to the stoicism and tension that he presents as his public personality. He's authoritative as a trainer, demanding.
Aelia is almost whimsical. She doesn't have to hide anymore, she didn't have to pretend to be something she wasn't to fit an image the Capitol preferred. She's not a figurehead anymore, she's just Aelia. I remember the few nights she convinced Tackle to blow off steam, to be "bad," hitting fruit with a baseball bat off the roof of the academy. I'll be forever grateful he brought me along. I respect Aelia, she taught me find pockets in between death match preparation to breathe. To stare at the stars in the sky. To remind myself I'm human.
When Aelia reaches the pulpit, the officiator lays a net woven from long grass over the couple. They say their vows. I scan the crowd, looking for Tackle. I sigh, not seeing him. He should be here. Wait- there. On the edge of the crowd, almost standing separate from it, is Tackle. He grips his elbows, hugging himself, statue-still.
I tried talking to him after the funeral, but he brushed me off, assuring me everything was fine. I don't like when he puts up walls. It's his way, though. There's been a time or two it almost seemed like he was going to open up about something, but anytime he gets overwhelmed, he shuts down.
Leaning against the wall, he looks shut down. I wish he had someone to talk to. Despite our best efforts, Aelia nor I can get him to open up. After he and his wife split last year, something in him cracked. It's like he fights to be present, like there's always something else pulling focus.
My own unease grows. Aelia's getting married. Who's going to watch over him when I'm in the Games? Who's going to watch over him if I die? What if I… die?
The sound of children's voices singing breaks me out of my thoughts. It's our ancient wedding song, lyrically comparing marriage to a journey at sea. Aelia and her soon-to-be husband touch each other's lips with seawater. The officiator removes the net. They kiss. The marriage is sealed. Cheers erupt from the crown. I turn back to look at Tackle, but he's gone.
"Hey, let's go for a walk?" Wyatt says.
"Sure." I reply, scooting out of my seat.
We amble down to the beach. Once the sand is under my feet again, I feel calmer.
"What's on your mind, Mali?" Wyatt asks earnestly.
There's a storm of thoughts, but only one seems relevant. "I want you to know I have your back, until the end. It would be an honor to fight with you in the final battle."
"Are you scared?" Wyatt asks.
I nod.
"I am, too." He replies quietly.
I grab his hand, tears swelling in my eyes. I didn't cry at the funeral or the wedding, I don't know what's gotten into me. Wyatt notices, and straightens up.
"Mali Cypress, you've been the best friend a boy could ask for. It's been an honor to grow up training with you. It's an honor to compete in the Games with you. I will protect you with my life until the final battle." Wyatt's tone is serious. "One of us will bring honor to our district this year, I can feel it. We will bring honor back to the Games."
I reach over and pull Wyatt in for a hug.
The implications of last year's Games are still to be seen. Anybody paying attention to the broadcast could tell it was heavily edited. The victor's public punishment, and the fact the Capitol sent staff to the academies is D1, D2, and D4 to oversee "training" methods, spawned a horde of outrageous rumors. Some rumors were silly, gallows humor, but some were appalling.
The general consensus is that Lustre Elysian, D1 Victor of the 50th Hunger Games and Second Quarter Quell, is a rapist. The Capitol never confirmed the rumors, but I've personally eavesdropped on the D4 victors speaking about the matter. Apparently there's been a significant amount of "juicy in-fighting" in D1 this past year.
"I'm nervous about the gamemakers." I say in a low voice. "It's been on my mind for weeks, I feel like I'm going crazy."
"What's making you nervous?" Wyatt asks, lowering his tone as well.
"After last year… I feel like it's going to be rough. They're going to test us, especially the careers." I reply.
"How do you mean?" He asks, furrowing his brow.
"I don't know… that's what making me lose it. It's going to be a hard year to win. An out-district kid could take it." I admit.
"Don't think like that, okay?" Wyatt says. "One step at a time. Reaping. Training. Bloodbath. Then we go from there."
"Sounds like you have it all figured out." I say.
Wyatt appraises me. "I know it's going to be difficult. We have each other, though. Till the end?" He holds out his pinky
"Till the end." I say, taking his pinky with mine, promising.