She'd been six years old when she first saw a man die in her mother's home.
Sure, she'd often hear of deaths in the streets, raids and riots with casualties, even shooting outside her window, a constant drumming pop-pop-pop her father would always hide her ears away from. They never came inside. The Capitol soldiers were the only ones who did, and they always had their guns strapped to their hips, hands more occupied with the wooden bowls of soup or stew or beans that her parents had made extra of specifically to account for any Peacekeeping visitors. They often had their visors laid to the side, and despite the dried blood on their uniforms and chins, they'd crinkle their eyes and smile at her as she talked away with them, rambling on with no filter. They really got a kick out of the things she'd say. They were kind.
Usually, she'd retire to bed and sleep clear through the night (unless a shooting broke out, of course, but in their corner of the quarry village, those were only a once a week thing, and after a while she learned to sleep through them like Six probably slept through the constant trains). It wasn't bullets that woke her. It was voices. Like any weary-eyed child, she'd slipped out of bed and rubbed her eyes through the house, bare feet pattering over the wood. She remembers hearing her mother's voice through a door left ajar, the door linking their house and the blacksmithing business her mother ran.
When she stuck her face in the crack, the cold was clear, crisp, biting. The front of the blacksmith shop had a liftable sliding door, like the garage doors they kept government jeeps in. The open wall gave her a solid look at the rocky mountains outside, at the patches of snow reduced to slush from marches and tussles, at pine needles wriggling under the weight of the wind. It blew in and dried her eyes, made them icy in their sockets.
The eyes of the three raggedy strangers seemed just as raw from the air as hers felt. Two men, one woman. The latter had a smooth machete in her hands, and with her fingerless gloves, she ran a fingertip over the flat edge. "This is good work, Kovach," she said, hushed, hoarse. "And the knives?"
Her mother nodded and grabbed a black roll of cloth from a table. It looked thick. When she shoved it into one of the men's arms, the contents clanked and clattered inside. "That's everything you asked for," Theia Kovach had said, "and I hope you decide to pay up unlike my last customers. They raided everything and this is all I have to give you."
This much was true. Her parents had woken up one day to find their shop completely ravaged and devoid of inventory. These people seemed decent; the other man drew a hand from his pocket and counted up coins carefully in his open palm before dipping them onto her mother's table where the bundle once sat.
"I have to thank you for your interest in my work," her mother'd said, scooping the change into her hand. The glow from her forge still burned and illuminated the room in hellish orange. "There's nothing I enjoy more than serving rebel customers. I love showing my support." She crossed the room and handed the money to her father, who Ellie had just noticed leaning up against the far wall. After counting out everything to double-check, he lifted his chin and released a three note whistle.
It happened quickly. The men who ate soup with her came crashing in, visors down, guns removed from their hips. There were five of them. The rebels knew what was happening and immediately lifted their hands in the air in surrender. The man dropped the bundle of knives but the woman kept a tight hold on her machete. They forced everyone down by the shoulders to their knees. When they made an attempt with the woman, she swung out. Her blade lodged in the armor of the soldier, but never cut any deeper. She didn't have any time to pull it out because they shot her, point blank, in the forehead. When she fell, it was like she had no functioning muscles anymore. She slumped and bled.
The man who'd held the knives tried to make a break for it, but they shot him too. The last one stayed where he was, but when a Peacekeeper twined gloved fingers through his oily brown hair and yanked his head back, he began to cry and sputter. "Please, please. Let me go. I didn't even wanna fight. They forced me to help, they'd kill me if I didn't. Please. Please!"
But they still stuck the barrel of a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Where Eloise stood, she took the brunt of the spatter. It sprayed her pink pajamas; it splashed warm and sticky on her cheeks. All she did was blink.
A separate Peacekeeper, one that'd stayed out of the action, stepped over to her mother and handed her a jangling sack. "For your troubles, ma'am. Thank you for your cooperation." Her returning smile was forced, but she seemed content with her earnings. The only distaste she seemed to show was towards the bodies and the blood pooling over the concrete towards the doorway to their home. Then, she saw Eloise. Her eyes widened and her mouth twisted in horror. "Oh, honey."
Eloise, unbothered by the blood misted on her clothes and face, merely grinned up at her mother. "You got the bad guys."
The arena reminds her of this night - and the many nights following that played out in much the same way - in Two. It reminds her of Two in general, really. Perhaps it is Two, and once she climbs out of the caldera, she'll trek through the rocks and mountains and find her home nestled just outside a quarry. She almost believes it. The air here is the same: cold, crisp, biting. It turns the eyes in her sockets icy. Thankfully, it hasn't penetrated the thick pants or jacket she wears as a uniform, and her gloves are effective enough, but after eighteen years of living in mountains just like these, she knows the warmth she's brought with her from the underground won't last long at all.
Her eyes take a solid sweep of the caldera and the other pedestals. No, the other tributes. She squints against the sunlight reflecting off the snow - Christ, it's blinding - and readjusts the thin cap on her head, tugging it down. There's Eitan, clear on the other side. He's taking this time to judge everyone's positions just like her. Bakari might be doing the same, but she can't tell. He's closer, but there's this hard look on his face and he's got his eyes trained on the bronze Cornucopia, nowhere else. Benthic stands unreadable and solid, but there's tension in his shoulders. Nerida, a few pedestals away from him, swings her arms back and forth. Could be for warmth. Could be excitement, restlessness.
A similar bubbling fills Ellie's chest. This is it. This is what she's spent years waiting for, the moment this gong goes off. She starts bouncing lightly upon her pedestal, tapping her foot against the platform as she waits for the holographic countdown to reach zero. Really, it doesn't matter which tributes she's up against. In the arena, everyone may as well be treated as a rebel, and if they must die, then they'll die for the benefit of her country. Positivity! Positivity. A hum settles in the back of her throat, a quiet song just for herself. She licks her lips.
It's silent aside from the rustling of uniforms and the whistle of wind around the Cornucopia and the heavy click of the countdown and her hmm, hm-hm, hmm.
When a girl begins gagging a few pedestals away, it's noticeable. Eloise shifts her gaze to the girl who's fallen to her knees upon her silver platform. She recognizes her from training. Kagura, maybe. She dry heaves over the side of pedestal, back quaking, nails breaking against the edge as she grips on tight. A sob sits tight in her throat, noisy but staunched. Eventually, something comes up, a heavy yellowed sludge, and she hurls it over the side, a spray from mouth to ground.
As soon as the sludge makes contact with the snow, a flash of light ripples from her, a light that blinds and forces Ellie to hold a gloved hand up in front of her eyes to block it out. There's some force to the explosion, but not enough to knock her off balance. Just enough to kill the girl who couldn't even make it through the countdown and to make everyone's ears ring. A spray of something warm and sticky speckles her clothes and cheeks. When she brings her hand down, she finds the back of her glove wet. A trickle teases the corner of her mouth. She blinks and wipes it away with her thumb.
Some of the tributes crouch down on their pedestals and scream, hands held over their heads. Others bring hands to their foreheads and sweep their hair back, visibly shaken by the noise, by the light, by the death. Benthic is one of the latter. Ellie thinks maybe it should be odd that she doesn't share in their fright, but she can't bring herself to care because the countdown is drawing to a close, and her chest is thrumming and excited and she can't keep the grin off her face because here we motherfucking go, three, two, one.
Without a single beat of hesitation, she launches off the pedestal and into the snow, throwing up powder around her feet. There's a flurry of movement in her peripheral, but she's running on pure adrenaline and every tribute is nothing but a dark blur trying to trudge through the type of snow she's accustomed to trekking. She catches sight of Eitan, who knows the same terrain, but even still he's ahead of her and makes it to the mouth of the Cornucopia first.
The world is spinning and she's lightheaded with anticipation. She practically crashes into the weapons rack when she gets to it and her jittery fingers collect the first spear she sees. And, with the first spear, she hears the first noise coming up behind her, and with the first noise comes an enthusiasm she's been waiting to release, and with her enthusiasm rising under the cold sun, she whirls and thrusts the first spear into the first tribute she lays her eyes on. He's young, baby-faced. The boy from Five. She's always wondered what it would feel like to take a life instead of watch - not that she's ever been bloodthirsty - but when people fall beside you left and right, you get a little curious as to what it's like to be on the giving end. The receiving end, too, but she doesn't plan to experience that today. That's all it is. Curiosity.
It's something like power, something like control. But it doesn't fill her with any satisfaction. The way his face contorts in pain and a tear falls from the corner of his eye and he tries to choke something out but comes up with nothing isn't pleasant. It kind of hurts, actually, knowing she caused this. But it doesn't matter if it hurts or not. This is just another life in the slew taken away for the longevity of Panem. That's satisfaction enough, knowing she's already contributed. This is what her family has fought for. With a warm smile, she presses her foot to his chest and yanks the spear free of his ribcage, spilling blood into the snow in the process.
She swallows heavily and digs the end of her spear into the powder. Her eyes scan out across the mouth of Corn. Eitan's already taken position to guard their supplies and taken his choice of weapon. A youthful looking boy comes sneaking in behind him, though, and creeps in at a jog to grab something for himself. Eloise whistles; Eitan looks up. She nods behind him. Seven was quick to rebel. Can't leave it up to chance.
The boy, Rewt, manages to get his hands on an axe just as Eitan leans over and drives a smooth blade into his side. The other hand slashing at the tendons in the boy's arm so he lets go of the axe. It clatters behind a crate and the agonized scream that leaves him echoes through the arena. With one final, swift motion, Eitan ends the cry, and the low-hanging clouds absorb the remnants.
She keeps an eye on him, to see how someone else responds to taking a life. In all honesty, if she hadn't seen him do it himself, she wouldn't have thought he'd just taken one at all. Eitan lifts himself from the body, moving quickly, efficiently, face cool and collected. He wipes the bloodied blades on the leg of his pants and starts marching onward, already focused on his next target. If this is the standard, the expectation, for how to treat death, Ellie's doing it right. He treats it just like her parents back in Two. He treats it as he should. How respectable.
There's close crunching and she snaps her head to the left, spear at the ready. A very familiar and very pretty girl is all she sees, though, and a smirk is shared between the two. Eloise gallops a step towards the rack and grabs hold of another. Upon Nerida's arrival, Eloise's eyes crinkle at the corners. "Catch," she says, tossing a spear her way. The girl's fingers wind around it perfectly and she winks. A lighthearted laugh leaves Ellie's chest, and she keeps it close as she grabs up a third spear and tosses it towards Benthic in the same manner. "Ready to get to it? I tell you, I'm pumped to up our odds here."
"Never readier," Nerida says. The trio turn towards the encroaching tributes together, but they've paused, stopped to consider what this exchange means. The gravity of the situation seems to dawn on them with all three pairs of eyes turned their way. An alliance of four. They seem to realize it isn't worth the risk. They stumble back, turn tail, grab whatever lies closest to their feet before taking off in the opposite direction.
Eloise is almost content to let them run, to watch them flee over the side of the caldera, but there's too much flowing through her system, too much she wants out of this. Although Benthic makes a sound of protest, she takes off without warning, kicking up snow as she chases after the escapees. At this rate, she may never actually catch up, but she's got the benefit of practice on her side. With a trained eye, she reels her arm back and launches the spear. The girl throws herself to the side and trips, but she collects herself and keeps running. The spear gets lodged in the snow.
Ellie throws her fists down at her sides - I should've practiced moving targets more, I'm an idiot, no, no - and sprints forward. She means to keep chase, but by the time she recollects her weapon, the girl is already scrambling over the caldera and out of sight. She rubs a gloved hand over her cheek and inhales sharply before snapping her fingers (to no avail with the gloves in the way) to herself. "This is fine," she peps, "there's plenty more to do. Plenty. Plen-ty."
She turns back only to have a sparkle of dread spread through her chest. It seems that weird tribute, the one from Six, Solomon, was it? He's picked a fight with Nerida. Had he chosen anyone else, Ellie wouldn't be sprinting her way back through the snow, but she's grown fond of their slight remarks and unwarranted goofing around. He can have someone else. But not Nerida, not yet. He's too large, too forceful, and he's too much of a threat. She tries to punch at him, but he blocks and shoves, sending her careening into a pile of vermillion snow.
"Oi!" Eloise yells. "Six! Stand down!"
Solomon doesn't listen, though. That can't be expected of him. What can be expected is a complete disregard for authority, which is why he continues after Nerida with a sword he holds awkwardly in those gangly arms of his. "Oi!" Eloise strains. Nothing.
But Benthic does something. He comes barrelling out of the mouth of Corn, and with the full force of his weight, he crashes into Solomon and knocks him down. He lands a punch, another, a third. Nerida crawls forward, blade in hand, and strikes out before he can squeeze another in. Solomon spasms. There's a violent spurt. Ellie watches closely to see what her response is, to see how she reacts. She's unlike Eitan in the sense that she stares, curious, maybe even awestruck, but she's not bothered by the lathering of crimson on her hands. She kneels and watches until the spasms stop. How wondrous.
By now, Eitan has felled two more tributes, one being Shang, who should've been stronger. Alternatively, Eitan must've been quicker. His calves look to be sliced open, gushing out. Ellie's brows lift against the rim of her hat. Did he really teach himself all of this while goatherding? She remembers seeing him lash out and jump from rocks and fight invisible men, but really?
For all of his self-teaching, he's got poor ears when the blood is flushing through them. As she nears, she sees Cleopatra crouched down in the depths of the Cornucopia, a bag on her back, a bundle under her arm, and dagger in hand. Eloise goes through everything she knows about this girl from the past week. She's strong, there's that much, and driven like her. But she's a liability. Cleo sees her coming and doesn't shy away. Instead, she sends a threat with her eyes as she peers over a crate, brows arched down, mouth set in a frown. She shakes her head "no" - and this makes Ellie nod her head "yes." Sure, this is Bakari's district partner. She shouldn't. She really, really shouldn't if she wants to keep the peace between them, but in this moment, with those eyes burning holes through her, she doesn't care.
Cleopatra takes off from behind the crate. Eloise sprints after her. Cleo catches her out of the corner of her eye, and instead of running off, turns around and charges right back at her. Ellie slows, not much, but slightly. Crap, reevaluate, reevaluate. With Cleo coming at her, she can't just aim and throw like she intended. Instead, she arches the spear back like a bat and swings as the girl charges.
It would've made contact had she not thrown her bundle at the spear and knocked it off course. Eloise twists her arm painfully trying to keep the spear within her grasp, but in those few short seconds, Eleven ducks down and plows straight into her legs. Pain blossoms in her kneecaps and the topples forward, feeling herself collide and fall across the girl's back. "Shit," she mumbles, but it's cut off and morphs into a cough when an elbow rams into Ellie's back and knocks the wind out of her.
Grinding teeth, Eloise reaches back and grabs at a large mass of hair. Then, she tugs. It's harsh, violent, mean, and Cleopatra growls out, scratching at the gloves twined in her hair. She only knows she's about to get bitten once the teeth are actually digging into her arm and her fingers release on instinct. They shove one another away.
They both struggle to their feet, but Eloise is one second too slow. Just as she's caught her balance, a fist drives itself into her nose. An immediate flush of water starts to fill her eyes as sour pain fills the entire front of her face. She tries to blink the blurring of her surroundings away, but it just keeps coming, leaking and leaking and leaking. Pressure blasts against her abdomen, too, and this girl must've hit something important because all of a sudden she can't breathe and it feels like something is spasming deep within her, just under her ribcage. She wheezes, but her whole form keels over, unable to control itself. With another kick, she's sent to the ground.
There's straddling, she knows that much. And there's Cleopatra, dagger held in the air, ready to take the plunge, she knows that much too. She wants her spear but it's no longer in her hand. She wants to throw her arms out but her diaphragm is going crazy within her, and no now I really am on the receiving end this wasn't supposed to happen today not now not this early I'm supposed to bring her happiness-
Then, blood. But it's not her own, it can't be. She hasn't been punctured, she doesn't feel pain. It melts out and flows onto Ellie's chest, her chin. She strains to get a good look at Cleopatra, but there's a shining sickle blade where her throat once was. Behind her stands an imposing silhouette, unidentifiable with the way the sun beats behind him and blocks out the sun. She knows who uses a sickle, though.
"Your district partner?" she asks, struggling for air. "Really?"
"We weren't allies." Bakari removes the sickle and shoves Cleopatra off, and although he sees Ellie still struggling to recover from the mess that her diaphragm has become, he takes hold of her hand and pulls her to her feet. His brow twitches.
"Well, thanks," Ellie says. She holds a hand to her forehead, scans for Nerida. She's still alive. There's a stretch in her lungs and she intends to join her, but before she does, she lands a warm pat to Bakari's shoulder. "For someone from one of the lesser districts, you're a good asset."
He doesn't answer and he doesn't follow. The caldera is nearly empty now, save for corpses and allies.
Bakari makes his way over to a crate and settles down upon it, stiff. He keeps his hands on his knees but his sickle in his hand, and as he sits, he keeps his eyes on everyone, darting from one to another to another. His skin is slick with Cleopatra. As for Eitan, he scans the perimeter, seemingly the only person not exhausted enough to just stand where he is. Benthic's got cuts in his gloves. There's a bruise blossoming on Nerida's forehead. "What now?" the latter asks.
Bakari starts. "We camp-"
"We camp the Cornucopia," Eloise says, "make sure nobody else gets in while we're taking stock."
Eitan comes up around the corner, panting. "I'll do that. I can start making emergency packs too, in case we need to make a quick getaway at any point."
"Good. And find some bandages, please," Ellie drawls out, plopping down beside Bakari and hissing in pain. "We did great today, guys." She catches a glimpse of Bakari's bloody sickle close to her face. It shines red. She doesn't mind the proximity or the smell or the way it drips into the snow. It's comforting to stare at, almost, like the weapons hanging in her mother's work area all spattered in crimson mist after every trick played against the rebels. This is just the way of things. This is necessary. This is peace.
The cannons begin to sound.
---
Score: 11.25/12
Ballots: 8
Ranking: 9th