9.
The tributes were dressed in warm socks, black hunting boots, brown trousers, long sleeve light blue shirts, and a black jacket with a soft inner lining. Their trackers were implanted, they were put in their own individual tubes, and were now being raised into the Arena.
Alexandrite, whose long blonde hair was being held back in a braid, thought about the night before. She had practically ripped her dress off before aggressively wiping her, or rather, the stylists' makeup off with a warm washcloth, disgusted and angry. Only when she got back to her room did she wonder what would happen to Cameo and Silver, if anything would at all. Would there be a public outcry the way there had been against her family? She doubted it. She'd wanted to hurt Silver, but she still cared about Cameo, even if they never really talked anymore, having decided a long time ago that they didn't have anything in common any more. Anyway, what did it matter? It was done.
Hair still wet after the aggressive shower that she'd taken, Alexandrite sat at the end of the dining room table and ate a large piece of chocolate cake, savoring the taste of every single bite. Children always dreamed of having cake for dinner, but it was just one of those impractical things that never happened. Then again, so was, for the longest time, for her anyways, getting reaped. Besides, this could very well be her last night on Earth so it was kind of the perfect thing for her to be eating right now.
Randomly, she looked up and much to her surprise Grant came in and just looked at her, his expression unreadable.
"What?" she demanded in a tired voice.
He didn't say anything. He just sat down on the other side of the table and ate a large chicken leg. She could be wrong, but it was almost as if he was trying to, maybe, comfort her with his presence. And the strangest thing was that it was working, just a little. For the first time since getting reaped she didn't feel like the daughter of traitors. Just someone who maybe needed a friend, or at the very least someone who kept her company when she would have otherwise been left alone with her dark thoughts of tonight and tomorrow.
Then again, he might have come out here just because he was hungry and they happened to be in the same room together. Either way, she was actually happy that he was here. They didn't say anything to each other all night, or the next morning, and not when they were being taken to the Arena. When was the last time they'd spoken directly to each other? What had been the last thing they'd said. She couldn't remember.
Now here she was, in this tube, and as she was being raised up, she suddenly found it very, very hard to breathe. It was happening. She was going up. She was being taken up to the Arena to face who knew what and whatever it was could kill her instantly.
This is not for children.
It really wasn't. Honestly, who was the sick monster who had thought this was the equivalent to not wanting to be treated like slaves and acting accordingly?
This is not for children.
And why was she being punished? Why were any of them? None of them had even been alive when the rebellion happened. Royal probably hadn't even been old enough to even be a rebel and he was still here, forced to pay the price for someone else's war.
This is not for children.
She was angry. She was scared. She was so many things. But when the countdown ended, she couldn't even imagine how she would feel or what she would do. She may die right away, she may not get another chance to do anything ever again. She knew what she had to do.
The second she was out of the tube, she didn't think, didn't even take a good look around to make note of her surroundings before the tears came pouring out of her eyes and she shouted at the top of her lungs, "MOMMY, DADDY, JETT, JASPER, ELECTRA, I LOVE YOU!"
…
Nona prayed the night before. She prayed that she would be strong enough to win. She prayed for a quick death for Servius and all of the other Careers who had become, not necessarily her friends, but definitely her allies. She even decided to pray for Inga, though she didn't put quite as much of her heart into that one. In truth, she was actually hoping someone got a lucky shot in on her or else she might slit Nona's throat in her sleep.
Then suddenly an idea came to her for the first time since she'd been reaped: that there was a possibility that she might not win. Call it arrogance or confidence, but she had just refused to entertain the possibility that she could fail. She was determined not to fail, but still.
So she placed her hands together and prayed for her family. She prayed that, however this ended, her mother and grandfather would be okay. They would be taken care of, that her entire district would be taken care of. If she couldn't win, she wanted Servius to win, it was only fair.
She wished Servius luck the next morning, and he did the same for her. She held her short hair back in the same tiny bun that she'd worn for the reaping. As the tube was about to rise, she decided to pray one last time. As she did so, she remembered Grandfather's last words to her, what she'd sworn to God that she would do for him.
"Please promise me that you will not take a life unless someone is threatening to take your own."
"I swear to God."
She'd sworn to him. She'd promised him.
I swear to God.
She couldn't just win in there, she had to do it without killing anyone unprovoked.
I swear to God.
She knew that was easier said than done.
I swear to God.
She promised. She swore. She'd sworn to Grandfather.
I swear.
"I swear," she whispered to herself just as she rose to the top.
…
Latia pushed past everyone and locked herself in her room for the rest of the night. Or at least she tried to. She felt a gentle knock on her door.
"Go away," she barked.
"It's me," Wicker called through the door.
"Oh," Latia sounded like she was pretending to consider it. "Well, in that case, go away."
"I think what you did was really amazing."
Latia rolled her eyes. "I probably put more of a target on my back than there already was."
"Can I come in please?"
"No. Look, if you're worried about any hard feelings, don't. Whatever happens, happens."
"What's going on? Days ago we were actually allies and now we're strangers? What's that about? We're both District Fives."
"Because the Other One was right. We're not friends. In a matter of hours it's going to be a free for all."
"Yeah, and I don't like that." Wicker spoke with stubborn determination. "I don't like that they put us in a position where we have to go up against each other. I know you think I'm just this selfish jerk who stole and didn't care about the consequences…I was. I am. I just…I wanted to forget about life for a little while. Real life. Me and my friends did. We were all gonna be power plant workers and nothing else. Not artists, not musicians, just anything that's absolutely necessary for survival. That was…disheartening to me. I know you think that sounds dumb, but I just wanted to leave. I wanted to go somewhere else, even for a short amount of time. Even if it was just in my head."
Latia frowned at the door. She couldn't hate him for that. She could even understand. It was exactly what her parents wanted. Their dream was to see the world beyond Panem, see what it's become. And they wanted her to see it too.
She opened the door and saw that his expression was as tired as hers. She saw no reason not to be honest right now. "I'm scared. And I'm sad. And it just feels like I'm being attacked from all sides and I can't focus and do what needs to be done. I feel everything and nothing all at once and…I want to fight, I do, because I don't want to just take everything that's been done to me and my family. But at the same time, I don't see the point. What am I going back to?"
"Friends?" Wicker suggested.
Latia shook her head. "My best friend was reaped in the games last year."
Wicker's eyes went wide. Latia nodded.
"I haven't let myself think about him," she admitted. "I don't want to think about him. I don't want to think about my parents. I don't want to feel. I know what I don't want, but I don't know if I have it in me to actually fight."
Wicker nodded sadly. "I'm gonna fight to the end. Because why the hell not? They can all go to hell, remember?"
He smiled and she couldn't help but wrap her arms around him and hold him tightly in a big hug. She also couldn't help but sob for the first time since learning of her parents' deaths, since getting reaped, since Philo got killed during the Cornucopia battle last year. And Wicker just let her cry, let her cling to him, and she was so grateful for that. She could have been mistaken, but it really felt like he needed this too.
When they woke up the next morning, the two gave each other one last hug, wished each other good luck before getting their trackers implanted. Her hair, as much of it was left, was being held back in a short ponytail. She stood in the tube, took a deep breath and accepted that this was it, it was time for her to die. If not in the next five minutes, then soon, maybe this same day.
We can go anywhere.
For some reason now she remembered her mother's hopeful words as she made Latia look down at and memorize the map, like she'd done so many times before. The way she said it, it was almost like she was making a plan. Like she intended for all of them to leave Panem someday. Then the Capitol got the last laugh. The last person who knew about their maps, who had memorized them, was about to die.
We can go anywhere.
The words were stubbornly insistent as she was taken to her death.
…
Inga had wanted to give Patch a hard time and interrogate him about his condition, but Woof had firmly intervened, insisting that a Peacekeeper stand by at all times, keeping her away from him.
Inga glared and darkly informed him, "You know, I'm sick and tired of you blatantly favoring him. You're not gonna be able to protect him in there—"
"Yeah, that's nice," Woof said dismissively. "Caesar, Ebony, would you please take her back to her room."
"Yeah," she nodded, mocking them both. "I need to be well rested for when I slit his little throat—"
Ebony and Caesar each grabbed one of her shoulders, but she held her hands up, as if trying to assure them that she wasn't going to put up a fight, feigning innocence. Then she was escorted back to her room.
When they were all alone, Woof leaned in closer to Patch and whispered, "You're dying, aren't you?"
Patch looked up at him and nodded wordlessly.
Woof pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Okay. That makes a lot more sense. A lot more sense. So this, all of this, it's just one last stand."
Patch nodded again.
Woof groaned. But he placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a gentle, comforting squeeze.
"I might be contagious," Patch warned him in a quiet voice.
A thunderous laugh came from Woof's throat, which at first made Patch jump, but then he started laughing too. He wasn't quite sure why they were laughing, but he was happy about it.
"You worry about this now?" Woof asked, smiling
"Well…" Patch said, intentionally cheeky.
"Maybe you'll get everyone else sick," Woof suggested, letting his hand drop from Patch's shoulder. "They die off, you're the last one standing."
Patch shrugged. "That is assuming I don't drop dead along with them."
"She's right, you know." Woof looked him directly in the eyes as he said this. "I do hope you win. I am rooting for you over everyone else."
Patch nodded, grateful. "Thank you. For everything."
Woof nodded back at him.
Patch was loaded into the tube and the second it closed, he instinctively hit it with his open palms, eager to get out. But the stylist encouraged him to remain calm and to breathe, which he tried to do.
We're all kids.
You're going to regret this the minute you walk into that Arena. The minute you enter that city. You will. You know you will.
My only real hope for you is that it will be quick. So quick you don't even feel a thing.
Patch took a deep breath and straightened up, determined to look as strong as possible when facing the other tributes. If Inga or any of the others wanted to come for him, he would look them dead in the eyes, defiant to the end.
One last stand.
…
Emmer didn't know why he decided to keep his notes hidden in his shoe. He had even less of an idea how he was able to get it past his stylist. But the second their back was turned, he slipped the folded piece of paper into the boots he was meant to wear in the Arena and was in the process of putting those on when the stylist turned back. He did it. He got away with it.
He didn't know what good having these notes would do, but something told him that he would need them in there. What he'd been told hadn't added up. He said as much to Isley before he'd been taken away to the Arena.
"Are you sure they scrapped your design?" Emmer asked.
"That's what they told me," Isley said, his arms folded defensively across his chest. He didn't look like he appreciated the reminder of the snub.
"You're sure?" Emmer pressed.
"Why would they lie about that?"
"So you don't prep us," Emmer said instinctively.
Isley didn't have a response for that, so he tried to change the subject. "Just…remember what I told you. And remember, know your strengths, and yours is your mind. Try not to lose it in there. From what I've heard, it's pretty easy."
It was the first compliment that Isley had given him. Perhaps he was feeling sentimental in this eleventh hour.
In the tube, Emmer looked up, desperate to get a view, even just a peek of what exactly he was in for.
They can't make us do anything. We do have control. And we do have at least some say in how we live and how we die. They don't.
Emmer tried to remember this as he got a good view of the place that could very well become his tomb in a matter of minutes.
…
"I'll be in there with you," Rex promised Marrow, placing his hands on Marrow's shoulders as Marrow prepared to go into a tribute tube.
Marrow wanted to be relieved, but he couldn't help but question it. All these allowances they were making just for him, it didn't make any sense. And had he said goodbye to Hedy? Had she hugged him? He was sure that she had, but his memory of the event was a little fuzzy. Why was it so fuzzy? Did he thank her for everything that she had done for him? What if he hadn't? Damn his silly stupid head.
"You can't be in there with me," Marrow informed him. "You can't. You're not a tribute. You…there's no way you would be allowed here at all. No one else's friends and family are here, why would they make an exception for me? I'm…I'm not special. You're not here with me. You never got on that train. You never left your cell. You might not ever have existed."
"Who are you talking to?" his stylist asked, taking a step back, looking concerned.
Marrow purposely looked away from her as his eyes started to well with tears. His answer came softly, and he hated how pathetic he sounded. "No one. I'm talking to no one. I'm just…being silly."
He went into the tribute tube without needing to be led. He wanted to get this over with.
That's what happens.
That's what happens.
That's what happens.
That's not going to happen.
Marrow felt his fists clench at his side. He was angry and embarrassed. He hated his silly head that seemed to want him to be pointed and laughed at all the time. That wanted to get him killed. That wanted him to be alone.
That's not going to happen. He was in control. He was strong.
You're strong. You're capable. You can do it. I know you can. You will make it out. If anybody can…
He was strong. This, he knew beyond a doubt, was the truth. Silly head or not, he wasn't going down without a fight.
…
Woof almost didn't want to watch. Really, what would be the point? He was sure that he knew how this would end. That lunatic would kill that little boy, if one of the other criminals in there didn't do it first. Or his lungs would give out and his body would die all on its own. Not only that, but he really didn't feel like watching Inga slice through all those other tributes with a smile on her face and doing that until she had a crown on her head. He was actually hoping that one of the Careers, maybe the girl from Two, Nona Elwes, won instead. She did have a higher training score and she seemed less sadistic than Inga was. The last thing the world needed was to have one more monster running around. What a sad day this was. Not only was he forced to be a mentor to future tributes, but he was now actively rooting against one of his own.
He felt someone's warm fingers lace through his. He looked up and saw that it was exactly who he wanted to see. Her long brown hair was held back in a neat bun, granting him a pleasant view of her heart shaped face, which had become sun kissed, owed to an extended amount of time she'd been spending outdoors gardening, trying to make her own dye for clothing. She had deep hazel eyes, and under the right was a large dark birthmark that almost looked like a bruise or face paint that extended all the way from the right side of her nose to her right earlobe. Some thought it was an interesting tattoo at first and complimented her on it, wanting to ask what it was meant to be so that they could get one just like it. But Fostoria had never gotten a tattoo in her life and didn't plan on ever getting one. It was simply a rare facial feature that she had been born with and had absolutely no desire to remove or add to, something that was fairly rare in a city that loved cosmetic surgery so much it could be considered a passion or hobby.
Woof had won his games when was sixteen, and the next year he had become a mentor, and once the games were over he couldn't get out of bed for weeks. The next year he dreaded having to be a mentor again. But then he met a stylist in training who was the same age as him, Fostoria Blight. He was despondent and she was anxious over making a good impression. She'd also gotten assigned District 8, forcing them to spend a lot of time together. Four more Hunger Games later, Fostoria had become the official stylist for District 8 and the two of them had become good friends. They sent each other cards and letters for holidays and birthdays, she visited him in the Victor's Village in Eight, and he saw her whenever it was time to go back to the Capitol for the Hunger Games. It was the only way he was able to bear going back, getting the chance to see his friend.
Then by the 20th Hunger Games he realized that he didn't want to go back home just yet, wanting to stay with Fostoria just a little while longer, even if it was in this damned city. It was through this extended stay that he realized just how much he didn't want to leave her. In fact, his chest felt heavy at the mere idea of leaving her again. They stood out on her balcony towards the end of the summer and shared their first featherlight kiss. In truth, all their kisses and so much more afterwards had been just as chaste. But he cherished every single one and he knew she did too.
Five years later he still considered himself as much someone's husband as he did the first time their lips touched. Neither one was in a hurry to get married, however, and certainly not to have children. They weren't quite sure if their children would be considered citizens of the Capitol or of the districts, leaving them uncertain if their children would be forced to participate in the Games. They decided to prevent this question from being broached however they could.
Now here they stood together in what had once been his tributes' apartments. For this she had decided to wear a long sleeved, v-neck corduroy pinafore dress and thigh high riding boots, which were now sitting next to the couch since her legs were up as she nuzzled into his neck. He'd simply worn grey sweatpants and a too big blue shirt.
"I hate this part," Woof exhaled.
"I know," Fostoria agreed. "And this may sound strange, but it always feels like we're parents left alone in the house after our children leave. Does that make sense?"
"Honestly? Yes. A little."
"Although in this case, I will admit that I am…" Fostoria bit her lower lip looking ashamed. This year she had been the stylist for Inga and he'd quickly advised her before they'd even arrived at the city that she would need to lock up all the sharp objects and keep them as far away from her as she and her prep team possibly could. "Relieved that I won't have to be alone with Inga for any longer."
Woof chuckled a little, the feeling warming him. "I can understand that."
"But that poor boy," Fostoria shook her head. "Thirteen year olds. Twelve year olds. I don't understand it. Why so young?"
"Why at all?" Woof pointed out to her.
They'd had this discussion before. When they'd first met, actually. And just like she had back then, she looked at him with a somewhat guilty expression. It had amazed him that there were people in this city who weren't actually stupid or greedy for entertainment. In fact, some were worker bees who had to pay their rent and keep food on the table just like everyone else. The Capitol wasn't all wealth and privilege. Well, at least not the kind that he'd been forced to entertain when he was a tribute, and even long afterwards. Then why were the games still going on, he wondered? If these people were ordinary, if they had the same values, if not the same worries as his fellow district citizens, then why couldn't they see the inhumanity of all this? Fostoria hadn't had an answer for him then, and she didn't have one now.
Fostoria bit her lower lip thoughtfully. "Have you…have you thought about my suggestion? I know you don't like it here. I know it's not your favorite place, but…do you like District 8 any better? And…I'm here. I can make this place…feel more like home."
He looked up at her. She was trying not to sound like she was pleading, but it was clear how much she wanted him to stay. In truth, anywhere with her felt like home, even in the Capitol. Even here, right now in these apartments. But he would feel almost like a traitor, living here, the place that had demanded his blood, that had killed the girl that had been merely twelve years old when she was reaped, who had died while he had lived. In his dreams he and Fostoria lived somewhere far away in a little house on the outskirts of Panem, not Capitol, not district. Nowhere and somewhere. A Haven.
He gently took her hand, brought it up to his lips and lightly kissed it. He lowered her hand and looked her in the eyes.
"I don't know," he answered honestly. "I don't know. Will you give me a little more time? Please?"
She looked disappointed, but she patiently nodded her head.
He gave her a grateful smile. "Thank you. And thank you for being here."
"Of course. I don't know why you're surprised that every year I'm invested. You know those are my tributes as much as yours."
"Even Inga?" he asked coyly.
"Shh, it's starting."
Her purposely avoiding the question made him smile and was enough to make him momentarily forget where they were and what they were about to watch. They eagerly sat there and waited for the tributes to rise up in a u-formation, just like they had for Woof's games and all the games after up until the 20th. For five years the screen would show the tributes rising up and standing on platforms, but there were twenty-four individual screens, four rows of eight showing each tribute standing in an empty room and a brief moment where the camera glanced on each of their faces
This year each tribute did not get their own room, they were all in a u-formation and there was the Cornucopia, in plain view for all of them to see at once. They appeared to be in a place that just had four concrete walls with nowhere to run.
"What is this?" Fostoria asked, confused, jumping slightly at the District 1 girl's surprising outcry. "What, are they planning on all the children killing each other right there?
Woof didn't have an answer, as he was just as confused.
But Tiberius Isley Longwell wasn't. He recognized where those tributes were almost instantly.
"That's my design," he realized out loud, almost not believing it. "That's my GODDAMN DESIGN!"