The clouds are just starting to turn purple when the now familiar blare of the anthem sounds across the arena sky. The noise cuts through Benji’s dreams with a crash of trumpets and he jerks awake, lurching up from where’s he’s been lying on the ground. His mouth feels all gritty with dirt and his arm is throbbing painfully. He prods at it experimentally as the anthem reaches its crescendo. The limb twitches in protest and he stops, and tries to wiggle his fingers instead. It hurts, but it’s still possible. Not broken then.
The music dies away in a brazen clash of cymbals and there’s a moment of silence before the voice rings out, impossibly loud and smug sounding.
“Good evening, tributes.Welcome to the final four of the Hunger Games. Your families and friends have all asked that I inform you how proud they are of you. You have provided us a good show in the week that you have been here. And now we owe you a reward. Tonight, after the announcement of today’s death toll, the Cornucopia will be restocked for five minutes. It has been a hard week and none of you are unscathed. This will be your last chance to collect weapons or supplies for the final few days, unless you want to risk stumbling across leftover equipment, of which the chances are small. The arena feels large with so few of you in it, but you should all be able to make it to the Cornucopia in plenty of time. See you then.”
The voice dies away, and the evening’s silence falls over the buildings again. Benji’s head is whirling. His arm throbs as if to remind him that out there somewhere, there’s something to help. Something that can give him back that tiny slim chance of winning this thing. How he’s made it to the final four, he has no idea. It’s not been through any real skill of his own, that’s for sure. Still, he’s here, and now they’re offering him hope.
A part of his brain is shouting that this is a trap, that he’ll not make it out of there alive. He’s watched enough Games to know that it usually means the Games are nearly over, and the Gamemakers are anxious to wrap things up. He shivers, remembering the year the final massacre had been atop a mountain-top, all whipped with snow and wind and ice. At least it's warm here. He tucks his injured arm against his chest and leans back against a tree, eyes drooping closed again. It’s dangerous, he knows, but he’s so tired. Just a few minutes rest, then he’ll head out to the feast’s location.
Besides, all the others will be heading there already. This area is empty but tension hangs all over it. Somewhere out there, three other tributes, hungry, exhausted, are trekking across the broken buildings, back to where it all began.
No. It began when his name came out of the bowl. His heart seems to sink. Yes, he's done well so far. But he must be at a disadvantage now; unless the cannon wasn't somebody getting to Abi while she was just lying there, he's the smallest, the youngest.
"My name is Benji Star," he says as loudly as he dares, "My name is Benji Star and I got an eight."
He closes his eyes and sighs, letting the tendrils of sleep curl around his mind.
Overhead, the edges of the clouds go gold as the sun slides behind them.
***.
Abi is huddled in the mouth of the Cornucopia, watching a butterfly loop and flutter through the air outside. It’s cool and dark inside, and it feels safe, even though she knows it’s’ not really – there’s only one way in and out, and if anyone comes at her now, she’ll be trapped. But she’s not seen anyone, not even a sign, not since Benji ran off after shoving her down those stairs. That’s got to be what happened, otherwise why wasn’t he there when she came around?
Her head thumps at the memory, and her fingers trace over the bruise she can feel flowering under one eye. She still can’t believe he’d pulled a sneak move like that. Didn’t even have the decency to end things properly - no goodbyes, or thank yous or anything at all! Just a shove.
She’ll do more than just shove him next time she sees him. Her fist goes tight around the handle of the torch and the button clicks on. The flash of light startles her, and the mooing sound echoes around the huge empty interior of the horn. Her fingers fumble for the switch, and after what seems like a long time, the mooing cuts off and everything goes back to the fading grey that she’s used to.
It feels comforting. Back home, she hated the dark. But here...here it’s warm and soft and no-one can see her and she feels safe. It won’t be safe here for much longer though. Midnight, the voice had said. She has no idea what time it is; from the position of the sun on the horizon, she’s guessing it’s no later than teatime.
She shouldn’t have thought of home. Something hot pricks at the corner of her eye. Abi brushes her fingers over the tear angrily, wincing as her nails scrape at the tender bruise. She just hopes that there’ll be something in the supplies that can deal with it. That and the thudding inside her head.
The torch drops into her lap with a thump as she massages her temples, shutting her eyes and pushing away all the memories and thoughts that try to crowd in. She’s made it to the final four. That’s further than she’d ever thought she’d get, and for the first time, she thinks she might even be able to win this. She knows no-one back home is expecting to see her again, not alive anyway. But now...for a moment she lets the image of her first reunion with her family drift through her thoughts.
The tear is gone now. Instead, a shaky sort of smile is twitching at the corners of her mouth. She stands, stretching her arms and neck and listening to the little cracks the joints make. Outside among the heaps of stone where everything began, a lamppost flickers on and off again, the dim orange light throwing shadows along the ground like spilled ink. The podiums are just dark blobs at the edges of the clearing. She remembers that day, only a week ago. She’d been right opposite where she is sitting, next to the boy from Eight who had disappeared so suddenly in that ripping burst of fire and noise. And everyone had been watching her and expecting her to die too, and she’d survived and now she just might win.
All she needed was a weapon and something for the aches in her head. And she was in the right place for that. Just a few more hours. She flicks on her torch for a moment, watching the butterfly outside spin across the dim beam, wings all flickery and brilliant. Then it swerves, fluttering off behind the roof, and the mouse is watching you, and then it’s gone.
***
Byron’s stomach rumbles in harmony with the announcement. He can’t remember when he last ate. The mouse is laughing at you. The axe feels alien in his hand; despite the weight he keeps forgetting he’s holding it and jumps in alarm as it thumps against a tree. He doesn’t know where he’s going, either. Round in circles, probably. The sound of rushing water ripples somewhere through the curtains of trees, and for a second he tries to draw an image of the arena in his mind. But it’s been days and he’s hungry and thirsty and he knows the mutts are around somewhere and every time he tries to work out where he is, he thinks he hears a growl or a snap.
The trees trap the darkness underneath them like a suffocating blanket, and he has to push back a surge of claustrophobic panic. A branch scrapes over his cheek and he jumps, his heart thudding out a violent tattoo against his ribs. He’s got to get things back under control. Final four - that’s no time to fall apart like this.
He pauses for a moment, leaning one hand against a tree, and breathes deeply. For a moment, Tyrion’s face swims past his eyes, followed by the angry eyes of the girl from One. There had been a cannon earlier. Had it been her? Byron closes the thoughts and emotions away roughly. Pretend they’re animals, just like back home. Just another animal, and it had to die, sooner or later, so there’s no place for sentimentality.
It helps, a little. The moment passes and he stands upright again, letting the axe dangle against his leg. Somewhere nearby the Cornucopia waits, and it’s midnight in just a few hours. He’s got no real idea which direction, but standing here isn’t going to help either way, so he starts off again, trying not to let the panic swallow him up again.
He’s no good at this sort of thing. He should be back home, feeling the wind on his face and smelling the rich warm smell of the barns and corrals. Not here, where everything just smells dead and damp and sinister. He takes another deep breath, wrinkling his nose as he does so. There’s a new smell underlying the warm night air. It’s oddly familiar - metallic and thick.
He takes a few more steps, then something soft and wet and warm bumps his forehead. His fingers go up and come away sticky. Byron jerks back, eyes flicking up to pop open at the bloodstained stump swinging gently from the branch above him. There’s a moment before his brain registers what it is, what it means, then his stomach turns over. Nothing comes up as he retches, and after a moment, he thuds down onto his knees and presses his hands over his eyes.
See no evil.
***
She’s glad she’s finally out of the graveyard. It’d seemed to go on forever, miles and miles of crumbling stones, all the names of people long gone now. The night seems to have come on quickly, and she can see a few stars peeking between the gaps in the clouds overhead. Her pants cling wetly to her legs, but she’s used to the cold now, and the chafing doesn’t cause anything more than a mild discomfort. The river is behind her now, and her body is tense. She’s back on the side with the eyes now, and every shadow looks menacing. Carmen runs her thumb over the pommel of her sword as she walks, eyes flicking from left to right.
Things are starting to look familiar, so she knows she must be heading in the right direction. There was the building where they’d spent their last night together, where she’d sat with Tyrion and talked about home, and even gone as far as to talk about Craig, just a bit, before she remembered the cameras.
A bit further, and she climbs over the little wall and stood in the moonbeams for a moment and remembered watching Byron and Ellie spin around the cobbled clearing. Only tonight, it’s just the moon in the sky, not a face. The guilt still lingers a little, but it’s more of a memory than a feeling now.
Carmen stops on the far side of the clearing and sits on the crumbling wall, scuffing at the ground with the toe of one boot. She’s not much on an expert, but from where the moon is in the sky, she’s guessing she’s got a couple of hours to get back to Cornucopia. She’s not sure what she really needs, other than a long hot bath and a proper bed to sleep for a week in. And food, proper food. Her stomach growls at the thought of the groaning tables back in the Capitol.
She wonders if Byron will be at the feast. There had been a cannon earlier - was it him? In a way, she hoped it was. Killing in the heat of battle is all very well, and she wasn’t thinking about the boy with the scar on his wrist, but she knew Byron. The girl from One has still been alive at the start of the day, and there’s one of the pair from Three and the boy from Six still on the loose. Her hand tightens on the pommel of her weapon. If they’re there, and they get in her way, they shouldn’t prove too much trouble.
For a moment, she feels sick as she realises what she’s thinking. These are just kids. What was she doing when she was their age? Way back when every year you weren’t Reaped was just another year, and you could have friends and family and be as happy as possible.
As quickly as the feeling rises, she stops it dead. Her hands still shake a little as she twists the cap off the canteen, but the water is cool and it helps to clear her thoughts.Just a little more time, and this could all be over and she can go home and forget everything and just be Carmen again. Until then, though...
She takes a deep breath and heads for the feast.
***
The moon shines down over the silent arena, painting all the treetops silver. Somewhere, four tributes are headed back to where it all began. And the Cornucopia waits.