Day Seven: Treacherous
Madison and Blake. Six girl, Four boy, alone on the savannah hell of their own arena.
It looked relatively nice, after the horrors of last year. Open plains, those lovely big trees you could hide in. All the better for Madison, and after her older brother had died in the Games she'd resolved she wouldn't be the second. She'd told Blake as much, he'd believed that. But there's still one more left, the little girl from Three who'd managed somehow to survive two weeks in this fresh hell of the plains. It's a credit to her, but they're going to be the last two and that means a kill. The Gamemakers will end this fight at some point, hopefully some point soon.
There was others, once. One's girl, Roxelana, who'd played beauty until she'd dropped the act and been all too good with a spear for anybody's liking. She'd got three at the bloodbath, before Blake had watched Madison stab her in the back and run. Reaper, from Eleven, who'd been all so big. Still didn't know what had got him, but seeing his face in the sky hours after a cannon had roared was all too good. A relief.
Kiga, from Two. Not a volunteer, nowhere close, but good enough that he'd been able to strike out on his own. He'd come with them from the beginning, the trio not trusting the Squad. And without Roxelana, it seemed, they'd collapsed. Enough faces lit up the sky on the third day, One, Two, Five's girl. The others had died, not that the trio who'd escaped had seen it. Just heard cannon.
So when it was the four of them, Madison had shown Kiga a cliff with such a good view, and Blake had shown Kiga the quickest way off the cliff. Namely, downwards, limbs spiralling until he was dashed against the rocks like an unwanted plaything. Three left, and they'd been making such a good team as well. Keeping each other safe from mutts, making sure there's no conflict that leads to their defeat, on the track. They've found the occasional breadcrumb. A discarded heel of bread, a torn scrap of tunic. They're getting close, she can feel it.
They've had the occasional mutt scare. First with the others, that girl from Seven who'd spoken so eloquently about wanting to get home. Wanting to get back to her dogs, and surely they'd commented on the cruel irony when running from the Cornucopia she'd run into a pack of the hounds that haunted the concrete-like maze of mounds to the south of the cornucopia. The trio, when they were still three, had found the torn body, barely alive and reduced to silent agony until Kiga's axe had sunk into her neck, and a cannon boomed.
Then with that massive scorpion, pincers clicking. They'd thought it was a rock, perched on it and laughed about how it was so smooth, so glossy-black. The stinger had gouged the ground inches from Blake's thigh. Wouldn't have been too much of a danger, it was only knife-sized, until the ground had begun to sizzle with whatever acid was inside that venom. After that, dancing outside of the range of those terrible strikes had been a priority. Kiga had severed the tail, and Madison had driven her knife into the head, while Blake locked trident against snapping pincers.
They'd run when similarly glossy boulders had been noticed dotting the area. Taken as much of the meat with them as they could carry, the silver parachute bearing cooking equipment (likely worth a pretty penny) would not have come without the knowledge of their mentors that the flesh was safe to eat. It tasted good, as well, like the kind of meat that Four got all too infrequently. Kept them sustained for a few more days.
That meat was up now. It would be over by the morning, given the red sunset rolling like waves, hazy and far away. It's gorgeous at any other time, but now that beauty is ignored in favour of staring up at the hordes of birds wheeling in the sky above a specific point, clearly. There's something there, and the pair break into a jog. Madison and Blake side by side, it's exhilarating. This'll be over soon. They're cut, bruised, injured, but they'll be home soon. One of them, at least. The other, well. Home in their own time, in a box.
Three's just lying there. Emaciated, pale and sunburnt. She wants it to be over, certainly, but still makes an attempt to crawl away like it will mean anything. The trident is leaping in his hand, it's about style as much as anything else, and Blake's running up in time to catch Three, stopping the girl. Kneeling down. Taking out his canteen, and with a nod from Madison giving Three water. No use for it any more. Tilt her head up, let the girl gratefully accept a drink. A dashing of water across her forehead, as is Four tradition.
"Hey, hey." No need to be cruel now, it's over. "Hey, kid. You want to talk a bit first? I'm Blake, this is Madison. Sorry about this, but." A nod, a frown from Madison. "I know. You want to?" "Yes." "Can I have a second?"
It's not ideal, but in Four last wishes should be respected. "Of course." A distance is stepped between them, but he can still hear the words. Goodbyes to mama, to papa, to Consola and Leda and Eledie. To her friends. Apologies for not getting Rowlatt a sixteenth birthday gift, but of course he was a Peacekeeper's bastard and from the shops. Her gift wouldn't measure up given where she was from.
Begging that they remember her, and the tears must be all the moisture she has left. Finally, she nods, and gives a whimper of fear but stays still when the trident drives deep into her neck. The cannon fires seconds later, and Blake can feel a stabbing pain in his back. Probably guilt.
Or Madison's knife, which sinks down again. He grabs her shoulder, feels a reflexive knee in his gut before she jumps back, out of range of a swinging trident.
"You... dirty... bitch." Blake's head is swimming now, swimming with pain and hate and lust for a revenge he'll never get. There's no revenge, not when treacherous Madison is standing back, and he can't move forward. "Sorry about this, but. Well. I want to go home."