☠Milo Periander☠
In the beginning of a game, Milo thinks, nothing he's done up to that point matters. It's a restart, a chance to begin again. He starts to miss the inner workings of the previous game, beginning to think this new world could never match the last. Nothing can ever be as golden, as silver, as sleet and as slow. Nothing can be better than what he'd done before.
He stares into the ice like his reflection is colder than he is. The distorted blue takes the orange color of his hair and blurs it, like some old photograph dirty and torn at the edges. His palm lifts to meet the surface- so much coldness, frost caressing skin.
Then, he stares into the reflection's eyes. Blood sinks down his cheek from the corner of his forehead, a crimson color that'd normally stand out on a face, but camouflaged into a tangle or red hair and igneous eyes. Perhaps he can't even see the wound in the ice mirror, but it stings, throbbing to the beat of triangle tings echoing across the frozen room. Perhaps Milo shivers too hard, and the entrails of his spine have begun to coalesce into snow; perhaps he shivers not enough, and the beat of his heart sedates.
His fingers sift to blue with his hand stuck to the wall. In the reflection, he blinks, and it's as if he doesn't recognize a single inch of the man before him, the man trapped in the periwinkle. He breathes in (watch the lips, they catch a drag) and cracks his jaw. It's the first time since awaking that he stops questioning if he's real.
Milo Periander is alive. And his first instinct is to die.
The commotion of killers rages on behind him, the solemn sound of blades tearing skin drifting around, the melody to a harmony of screams drilled into the ice like mosquitos to amber. His eyes can't move; none of him can move; Milo wonders if he's hurt enough to bleed out completely. His knuckles are charcoal and crimson, the imprint of them painting the ice wall as he punches it, mirror mirror, shatter like glass and not like steel.
A taste of saliva on his tongue. The subtle twinge of a headache. A twitch of the nose and drip of sweat blending with blood, and the constant cry of thoughts pouring from his head like percolating scarlet from scars. He takes a step back, and his reflection has never seemed so far away.
He wonders how it would feel for a sword to inter his chest. We abuse ourselves, he thinks, watching the pearl palace transform into a vermillion cell. He questions if an arrow through the shoulder could be so bad, poison in his lungs not a fear, not undesirable. I abuse myself, hand on frozen hand and waiting for it to stop.
In the beginning of a game, he imagines, it's impossible to see the end. And the end is all Milo craves to win.
☠Orville Stud☠
The arena is a redwood forest. And it's on fire. Somebody's screaming and it sounds like they're above him, in the canopy, though a terrified glance up quickly melts as it informs Kirk that it is only a trick played by echoes. Someone really is screaming, though; somewhere.
There was a swath of the trees south of his family's place and further south of the silicon mines. It bruised the underbelly of Three. He went there once for education. Neal and he went down there with the school. They packed every class of every level onto a train passing by empty after taking a load of coal up the other way, and they spent the day weaving through redwood clusters looking like miners. Let him tell you, nothing makes you feel small like a really big fricking tree.
Or a crate. Kirk is crouched before the one meant for him - or at least that is what the label would suggest, shouting his name out in a font so white and clean that it transcends dimensions. He has to reach up to touch it, his shivering fingers gracing the laminate and disappearing over the bright type. It's smooth. He checks again, but it's smooth. Even when he stands now, his head of shaved carrot does not threaten to poke above the top of his box. It's huge. It looks like something one would make and sell for the entertainment of children, but it's huge. It entertains, intrigues, him, so he guesses that makes him a kid. Shuddering both from fear, and the not-quite-frozen ice which has seeped through his sole and is starting to tickle his toes, and also small. So, so small.
As his trembling fingers undo the latch which keeps the crate closed, he wonders if the wood panels it's fashioned from are taken from redwood trees. And then it explodes.
An ear, or some other hunk of flesh crumpled up enough to look like an ear, lands in Valeria's hair before the sound of the blast even lands in her ear. She stumbles backward and looks upon nothing - absolutely nothing. She could have sworn - she does swear, but that's irrelevant - she could have sworn it was something last time she checked. In her head, she flicks through all the tabs she keeps. Bellona scrammed, Kirk was right there and he was just about to open his pack, Grainne Miller was bearing down on her. Focus, she bites as if the word is a cuss. It's only because the shock shook the girl from Nine with equal force that Val was not slain while she distracted herself with strategy. Instead, their duel picks up with the footing leveled. Grainne had already gotten herself a blade. She's lost it now; sent it skittering along the icy craters. Val has managed to keep a hold of the somewhat serrated chunk of rock she's been fighting with. Some might call that a technological advantage, but she's just a girl. With a thrust, Grainne is dispatched.
There's a pang of sadness in her when she watches the guts of her second kill leak into the frigid lake which the final fall of Grainne cracked open. As she looks upon her dead eyes now, she remembers that there was something more to the girl from Nine, but in the arena, in combat, you can only spare a glance at your opponent, and in that glance, Val saw a reckless girl.
The Hunger Games are a game of glances.
She allows herself one more; back to the spot where the ear came from and now the rocks are naked from the frost which clothes all the others. Yes, she heaves, there is no other explanation. Some of the boxes are killers, and if Grainne had a knife on her, then some of them must still be worth opening. "Don't open the crates!" she yells out into the arena, knowing her allies would hear the message, hoping they would listen. "And keep your victims alive!"
Orville hears. He's nearby, picking up a dagger that's been strewn aside by someone who probably won't miss it. Not anymore. The arena is already clearing thin, and he's only just gotten arms, and now he's got to corral the cowards who are all running away by now, and keep them leashed to his side like a mangy mutt? He sighs. It comes out as a huff of smoke before dissolving into the stale air. With hands on his hips, he scans the circumference outward from what he guesses is sorta a deconstructed cornucopia. It goes about fifty meters before the cave closes off and turns into a tangle of smaller, darker, rabbit holes which he does not wish to go down. Not while he can delay it, at least, and not without the Careers. There's a girl running back to shelter in front of him, but she looks fast enough that he won't be able to make the ground up before she gets there. Over his shoulder, though, is a more tempting prey. Something - he hasn't paid enough attention to know whether it happened in her last games or this one - has crocked her ankle, and she's slinking, slinking, towards a tunnel. The only threat is that someone picks her off first. Orville grins.
*
"What's your name, Darling?"
"Saphaia," she says.
Orville lets the knife give so it backs away whenever her chords press against it. He lets it do that this time. "Come again? How far up did the midwife have to reach to find that one?" he laughs. With the blunt of the blade, he warbles Saphaia's throat as well so she joins him in sputtering out some sort of guttural glee. "That was a joke, Darling. I think I'm just gonna stick with Darling for you. It's a good name for a dog." And he lugs her ahead, feet trailing behind.
When she gulps, he holds his wrist firm.
The violence has fettered away and it allows him to chose his spots. Every step is careful and careful to be on one of the many rocks which jut up and out of the ice, because carrying the weight of two - no matter how small Saphaia is - it's almost as if he's got the wonky foot now. His alliance is gathering at the epicenter between the twenty-seven gifts - most of which remain unopened.
"Do you have a daughter, or-or a kid?" Saphaia tries.
"No. I am a kid."
He lugs ahead, she trails behind.
"You know it was awful cheap of you to snag me when I was like that. Preying on little kids with debilitating injuries because you can't pump your stats up with actual competition? Maybe the penny-pushers will be tricked by it, but your friends are gonna think you're pathet-"
"Am I the only one who was able to find a friend?" Now that the Careers are within earshot, he's left Saphaia hanging. "Heh. Can't say I'm surprised," his face contorts into a twisted smile and he punches Sterling's shoulder playfully with his victim's fist. "But Val, dear, can we get on with this? I'm all for a little play, and I know you're trying to flush my stats, but my puppy's an annoying little... thing. Been chewing my ear off!" he sticks a finger gun to his head and sticks out his tongue with an overexaggerated gag.
Sterling, still reeling from the third degree slap, says "Fine then, take your crip kill. Like stomping on an ant crawling back to its tunnel over there," he points to the cave Orville plucked her from with twinkling eyes. "I got an actual kill already so you'll draw level with me." Saphaia yearns upward as if to say she told him so, while somewhere Valeria is actually speaking out to say that no, actually, he shouldn't do that. Because some of the boxes are traps, or could be at least and they need her to open them just in case it's a bomb or a blah or a blah or a blah blah blah. It means that Orville only tugs the leash a bit. Blood spittle drools down the little girl's second mouth.
"I haven't got any kills yet," Corradhin says. Nobody cares. Why would anyone admit that? Neither has Orville, but when it comes to him, he says he's slain two, actually. Vayu got one. Sailee as well. It was probably the same one and they're being sly about that. 'Oh you take the head while I tear his toes off one by one and feed them to you,' he imagines them telling each other. It kinda makes him want to be sick. He kinda digs it though too.
Nero has one, fair play. He's not so bad. But then it comes to Valeria. "I've got two as well." The worst thing about that is it's probably true. "You and me, Orville, tied for the lead."
"Nah," he looks down at Saphaia, around at the crowd - what's the worst that can happen - and then he lets the blade glance off the trachea or the esophagus or one of those tubes. "I win."
☠Valeria Thracius☠
DROPPED OUT
☠Scorpio Ramsey☠
The air was cold from the drips of ice that came from the cave walls. I found myself shivering as I walked deeper into the centre of the cave. It felt weird to be standing here again, in a new setting after the last thing I remember is being trapped amongst the caving walls of the arena as I suffocated to death. I hugged at my bear arms, the shivers coming in stronger. My eyes darted around. It was relatively large with ice that dripped off the walls and puddles on the cave floors.
I stood, dazed for a moment. Still not entirely sure on my surroundings. I felt odd. Like I wasn't real. Like the cave I stood in wasn't real. I knew it had to be real though. The way the Goosebumps appeared on my arms from the cold, and the fact that there were others here who all appeared the same as I did. I was sure I was in the bloodbath, but with these, you could never really be certain.
I stepped forward, the water on the ground splashing onto my dirty pants and fell as I slipped to the ground from arms that wrapped around my waist. When I landed water splashed up onto my face and my shoulder landed first on the hard ground. I could feel the skin as it split open. I growled and pushed myself up, only to tackle crash my attacker with the force of my whole body. I recognised it as Pandora from district eleven. She was much smaller than me, so it didn't take much to have her pinned down in the ice-cold water. Her chocolate brown hair frizzed in the water. I had my hands wrapped around her throat tightly and watched as she made gurgling sounds underneath the water in a struggle to breathe. It didn't take much longer before her head lulled to the side and her heart beat that had previously been rapid, was now no longer. She was dead.
Satisfied, I left Pandora behind, grabbed the knife she had in her hands and ran. I waded through multiple fights. Blood was everywhere. You could see it in the water and it also covered the ice on the walls. There were also plenty of dead bodies that had been left behind. One I noticed in particular was Edelina, who had been mauled quite viciously by one of the tributes. I nodded my head. Was a bit messier than I would have left a tribute, but someone was just as ready to kill for survival as I was. Her red hair was splayed out in the water and blood was still from a broken nose. Her green eyes were wide open, but it looked as though someone had stabbed her clean in the left eye. Her face was the least problematic. It was more her stomach which had been left exposed with a large open wound that showed some of her organs. It looked like someone had taken a knife and carved one big circle in it. Edelina would have died immediately.
I tried searching to see if she had acquired any weapons, but there was none in sight, so I made a quick run for it, seeing a lot of dead tributes. Some were slumped over near the walls, ice forming on their foreheads, and others were floating in the ice-cold puddle of water. I held my knife out in front of me to warn off anyone that may attack. Even if they did, I was sure I could beat them.
The ice cave was larger than I thought. It felt like I was going on an endless walk. I had since passed most of the tributes, although I did find a few dead tributes in the quieter areas. I remember one of those being Wynder Douglas with a stab wound to his chest. As of yet, I felt like I hadn't done enough work while in this bloodbath. While I hardly remembered my own first bloodbath, I know it was a lot scarier than now. Maybe that was because I had done this before, or maybe I was softer. If I could recall, I think I let slip to the public my own past issues with Aurora. That was a dumb move considering how much they used it against me in the future. Or, well, technically past now.
I slowly neared the end of the cave, nobody else in sight but I found myself staring at a row full of box crates. I raised an eyebrow and ran a hand through my blue streaked hair, water spilling off it. Each of the boxes was labelled with a tributes name. I tilted my head and stared at them. What was inside? I hadn't seen the cornucopia yet, so maybe this was it. Nobody had just gotten past killing tributes yet. No boxes were missing either. With curiosity, I scanned the line of boxes for mine and found it on the other side.
'Scorpio Ramsey, of the Capital District.'
I grinned and pulled it apart without even thinking of what could be in here. I quickly backed away with that revelation, wondering whether it would explode on me. I didn't want to have a second death prematurely thank you. Fortunately for me, nothing exploded.
I carefully peeked inside the box to discover a large bag full of stuff. I nodded my head in surprise. Though, when I preceded to look through the rest of the things, I discovered that was the only good thing in the box. I found Some gross bugs that were crawling around the bottom. Amongst all of the bugs, there was also a packet of hair dye. I don't know why they were putting it in this box for me, but I was pleasantly surprised, though was it used to mock me? Because where the hell was I actually going to be able to dye my hair? I rolled my eyes.
"Gamemakers..."
☠Corradhin Cole☠
NO ENTRY
☠Edelina Renova☠
DROPPED OUT
☠Roma Thorne☠
Roma Thorne was not going to die today- the devil wanted her to cause a little more damage first, and Roma hated falling short to a command.
She didn't think she would care what the Arena looked liked. She's seen it all, either from past Games or her own. It was going to be terrible either way, so she tried to accept it, but this was something she didn't see coming- a cave.
A cave covered with ice. The cold that had seemed mild at first now numbs her face and extremities. What residual heat she had absorbed in the tube rising up was now gone, it had been her buffer, but unwittingly she had squandered it believing her thin jacket and shoes equal to the task of preserving her body heat. With each breath, more heat rose in puffs of white vapor, with each gust of the wind more heat dissipated into the whiteness, with each step the rocks and ice pulled more heat from her marrow.
Cold licks at her face and creeps under her clothes, spreading across her skin like the lacy tide on a frigid winter beach. With purple lips tinged with blue and gently chattering teeth, she wraps her thin coat around her tighter, eyeing the tributes all around her. Their mannerisms are the same- each one clamping their jaws shuts from shivering and holding their arms tightly across their chests. She didn't pay attention this year to all the tributes' names, and when her eyes lay on familiar faces, she can't decipher the name nor the district.
So when the gong rings and everyone starts running on ice, Roma doesn't care who she kills.
Sharp crystals fall from the ceiling, piercing through the skin and drawing blood from pale flesh. Roma takes it as a sense of life- she is still feeling, which means she is still living, and she yearns for the sacredness of life. This time she will not let the feeling go.
She runs, like the winter breeze colliding into inanimate objects and crashing waves hitting the shoreline. Like eagles soaring across indigo skies and a herd of cheetahs racing through verdant meadows. Her long, brown colored locks whip back and forth behind her like a fiery tale as she flings herself over sharp icicles and solid ice ground. Roma speeds past others, a few still lingering ahead of her, but all of them have their destination. The wooden crates lie in a line, and as Roma draws nearer, she sees the names she never cared to know. The names of all the tributes- including her own somewhere.
She doesn't want to take her time finding it, because there are lives to end and life to be lived. But when she runs along the line of names, she can't find hers. Before Roma can turn around and search again, a forceful push topples her to the icy ground, her thin lines of blood staining the ice. She rolls over as an ax cracks the ice and sticks to the ground, and she stares at the boy with raised cheekbones and slick brown hair who grunts as his weapon is stuck. Roma swings her legs and trips him, bringing his head towards the ground and slamming his temple onto the handle of the ax. His eyes roll to the back of his head as blood spurts out of his mouth.
This wasn't going to phase her anymore, the guilt of hurting- killing, even. She learned in her first Games that there was no point in trying to stay sane. No matter how you come into the Games, they are transformed into a killer by the end. So this time Roma takes the title, savors it, because it's the only option.
Does she still have humanity? Does she still have a soul? Roma was human once. Maybe she had been human the entire time. Maybe she had blocked all her humanity out so she could taste the only thing she craved: Revenge.
If Roma ever was human after dying, she knew she had lost the right to be called by that title. A human stops being human when a human loses its humanity.
She returns to the wooden crates, scrambling down the row to find her name, but it's gone. What the hell? She was not going to be forgotten- she wouldn't allow it this time. Last Games, she was the shadow of her ally- Anika Diaspura. She was the tribute who audiences praised. She was reason Roma was alive for as long as she was last Games. Anika was the sole reason Roma kept her sanity. But now, since Anika is gone, Roma loses herself completely.
Roma finds her name eventually, but it's in another pair of arms. For a moment Roma swears she's seeing a reflection of herself. Dark messy hair, bright eyes, stocky stance, but there's the look of hesitation in the girls eyes that makes the two of them differ. This girl still has some humanity in her- just a little left, it seems, but for returning tributes that can make all the difference.
"That's mine!" Roma hurdles towards the girl, but she swings the crate at Roma's cheek, sending her to the icy ground. Roma clenches her teeth at the cold and the pain- she can feel the gash and blood oozing down her neck as she stands up again. Roma Thorne is going to get her wooden box, this she knows. But this girl is stubborn, and it's pissing her off.
"Give me my crate or I'll fucking smash your skull on the ice."
The girl holds onto the crate tighter. "I didn't know they had our names on them!"
Roma puffs out a foggy breath of air, ignoring the fighting tributes all around her. They will all die soon enough- this girl was her priority. She has the only thing the Gamemakers will ever be giving to her. "Well, they do. Hand it over."
"Not until you get mine."
"Like hell I'm getting yours." Roma rushes over to the girl but she opens Roma's box, displaying a sack of small knives and a thin paper. As the girl quickly gathers Roma's things into her arms, she sees that paper is a picture of someone.
"Get my box and we'll switch." The girl points one of the knives at Roma, securing the picture. She knew that without a weapon, this tribute would have her supplies forever, and she was dying to know what that picture was. She hated the power this girl held over her, but soon, she could get her knives and be on her way.
"Name?"
"Grainne."
Roma runs by the crates again, jumping over dead bodies and running past lively ones. Cold stalks her through the cave like a specter death, the bitter wind laughing as it tears right to her heart and turns her blood to icy sludge. Her muscles begin to ache and grind like the cogs in an old machine. The biting cold chill her fingers into clumsy numbness, cold seeps into her toes and spreads painfully throughout her feet as if it were her bare feet on the pristine icy whiteness rather than sneakers. Her lips turn a more blueish hue and her teeth chatter like a pneumatic drill. She begins to lose her sense of time, has she been in these Games for minutes or hours?
None of that matters. Not how the cold wind seeps into her gash and sends sharp pains, not how long she was out here, none of it. The only thing that matters is getting the girl- Grainne, her box. And that was all she needs to do.
Hands grip her light jacket and pull her back onto the ground, the back of her head slamming onto the ice. A blonde girl has her pinned to the ground, her hands wrapping around Roma's throat. Roma swings her leg up and kicks the girl, catching her off guard for a moment- a moment quick enough for Grainne to yell Roma's name.
Grainne slides one of the small knives across the rippling ice until it lands in Roma's hand smoothly. And Roma stabs the knife into the girl's forehead.
She's dead as soon as the knife hits her. She pulls the bloody knife out of the girls head, securing it in between her fingers. Roma shoves the dead body off of her and scurries past the few untouched crates. Sure enough, Grainne's is there, and Roma grips it before running back towards Grainne.
Grainne is standing there, vulnerable as she holds all of Roma's things. And as Roma glances down at the knife she holds, she realizes she can kill Grainne and take her box of goodies. It's what the devil wants her to do. It's what the viewers want her to do- kill the dead a second time.
Death isn't kind- Roma knows that. It takes the good ones too fast, and that's why Roma was alive a second time. Death didn't want a sinner like her. It brought her back into this world to try to be good. But Roma would fail again and again and again.
Grainne was the type that death wanted, so Roma raises the knife towards her.
She shrieks with panic, and the picture falls from her arms and flaps around until it falls merely in front of Roma's feet. She ganders down at the picture and stops when she sees the familiar face.
Anika Diaspura's glowing face grins back at Roma, revealing her teeth that radiate in the sunlight in front of her. Roma remembered how Anika rarely smiled with her face- she claimed it wasn't worthy of many. She didn't even smile like that at Roma. But nonetheless, she was there, staring up at her. Her old ally.
Roma bends down and picks up the picture, holding it with two trembling fingers. Why her? Why would this picture be in her box? For the first time in a while, Roma feels more than anything else. She usually numbs herself, unfeeling to her emotions. Some days, she feels everything at once. Other days, she feels nothing at all. Roma doesn't know what's worse; drowning beneath the waves or dying from the thirst.
This has to mean something. Roma presses the picture to her chest, searching for a purpose. It's not until she stares at Grainne that she can make some sense of it.
Was it because she needs an ally? Anika and Roma clicked right away, and Roma doubted there would be anyone to compare to her. She came into these Games knowing she would go alone. She didn't care to get to know anyone because she knew she would only be disappointed with realizing Anika was gone.
Anika was always in Roma's mind. She is a silent huntress looming in the night, ready to strike when Roma least expects it. She hovers over her like morning fog, clouding her judgment. She deceives her whenever she wills. Roma sees a threat and she sees the game. One moment it's there and the next it's gone, leaving a trail of regret. And, with someone else's blood on her hands. Anika leaves the blood she causes to Roma, but she takes it willingly.
As Grainne stares back at her, she begins to think this could be fate. She didn't know Grainne, but she could have something to offer. She slid the knife to Roma just minutes ago, and with the pack of knives in her hands, she doesn't use it against her- not even when Roma was about to kill her. Maybe this was what Anika saw in Roma, a helping hand when needed. A sacrifice when faced with trouble.
"Give me my box."
Grainne wasn't even phased by what Roma had almost done, and that's what made it all the more confusing. Maybe that's what happens when people face death twice- it's not as scary the second time. They challenge it the second time instead.
Roma places the box down and slides it over to her, and Grainne hands her the rest of her knives. The two of them end up staring each other down, attempting to figure out each other's wants. Was it an alliance? Was it nothing?
Most tributes have cleared out, finding their alliances and supplies and searching the cave. Roma and Grainne stay in their places, stuck within their own mind. And when no progress is made, Roma decides to make a move.
"We should get out of here- look for warmth."
This is what Anika did to Roma- made the decisions, became the leader. Anika had complete control, and that's what got Roma killed. Anika killed her the first time because Roma was the sacrifice Anika used.
And as Grainne accepts, Roma realizes how her position has changed from follower to leader. Roma would lead this alliance and gain Grainne's trust. And maybe, she would kill her too.
☠Aspen Summers☠
Is Hell supposed to be cold?
Aspen has always known that she'll end up in Hell. The day her name was called for all of Panem to hear was the day it all ended, the day she was condemned with a slip of paper pulled from a glass fishbowl. Her hands were stained red with Tess' blood, bruised with the lies she told Calliope. But Aspen has always figured that Rowan will be there too, that Alicia will welcome her with open arms and a warm hug.
She imagines a world of fire and ash, where the sky never stops burning and the trees are just blackened husks, branches stripped of leaves and life until all that's left is a skeleton of charred bark and broken hope. She imagines a dry wind that stings her face, whipping at her hair until it flies wild and free. She imagines she will fly wild and free, in the heated air on top of blazing sand as the flames dance behind her. She imagines that the world will be hot, that she will be hot, blood boiling and skin peeling as she burns for all the sins she's committed.
But as the pedestal clicks into place, Aspen shivers.
The world is not of fire and ash, but of water and ice. The rock beneath her is coated in ice, and off to the side lies a pond of water that lies so still Aspen wonders if it's water at all. Pillars of ice rise from the rock, from the freezing water, touching the sky of icicles and water that holds not salt but pain. The world is cold.
And it's beautiful.
When the gong sounds, Aspen doesn't hear it. She watches the snow, watches how it falls to her skin, melting and freezing until stinging ice leaves red and pain embedded inside. She watches the ice, watches how it cracks and crumbles.
The shadows move around her, casting onto the walls of ice and rippling over the pools of water. Red hair, wild and unbound catches Aspen's eye, breaking the trance. It's Bonnie. Aspen's gaze shifts to the wooden crates scattered across the icy floor, to the names that are painted messily over them. But yet, Aspen is still. She is still in waiting. But what is she waiting for?
Bonnie runs towards a crate painted not with her name, but the name of the girl from Twelve. Edelina. Somewhere else, Edelina sees. Somewhere else, Edelina skids across the ice to move towards Bonnie, towards the crate that should be hers. Still, Aspen watches.
Aspen watches as Bonnie tugs at the wooden lid, as Edelina kicks her legs from beneath her. Bonnie rears backwards, shoes sliding on the ice as her heel catches on a rock, and then she dives forward at Edelina's stomach. Something squelches. Blood drips onto ice, slipping down, down, down. Red paints the rocks. Aspen's gaze doesn't break.
Edelina's fingers are crushed in the slit, beneath the hard wooden lid, and as Bonnie pulls at her stomach, at ribs that crack and skin that bruises, Edelina yanks the wood. There's a boom that sounds, so loud that Aspen's ears ring and ring until she can't hear the boy calling out her name. Something flies. Is it the lid? Is it Edelina? Bonnie's body is thrown backwards, and it skitters and slides across the ice as her jacket crinkles. Aspen's eyes find the bodies.
They lie on ice, fingers so still that a breath catches in Aspen's throat. Their chests don't move, and their mouths can't move, and they're so so still. Something is broken and jutting out, and though it all looks so wrong, why does it feel so right? The snow falls onto dark eyelashes, onto peeling skin and burnt lips. The fire has since died out, but blood drips onto ice. Blackened skin turns red.
It's a beautiful way to die. The snowflakes fall onto dark blood, vanishing into the thick, sticky mess. The shadows fall over broken eyes, over blackened skin, over pain that won't disappear. Edelina and Bonnie—they're beautiful. The cold holds them in ghastly arms, and Aspen imagines it will hold them forever. Aspen imagines that they will shiver in the afterlife, still feel the stinging touch of snow in Hell. Aspen wants the snowflakes to vanish in the red again, wants the shadows to fall over her. Aspen wants to be beautiful, to feel the stinging touch of snow in Hell.
So as the frigid water of the icicles drop onto her bare hands, onto her hair where the little chunks of ice cling to her rose-colored cheeks, Aspen's eyes find a wooden crate yet to be opened. The wood is darker in color, and it's peeling, but the name painted hastily in red is unmistakable. The crate, the boom, the cold that follows—it's hers. It was hers before the pedestal had clicked, before the second interview, before it all. The cold was hers the moment she returned.
So Aspen runs.
The snow catches in the folds of her jacket, in the hair that frames her face, but Aspen doesn't care about this. She cares that the snow pelts her skin, leaving behind stinging red marks. She cares that the ice touches her fingernails, where black has begun to creep up the skin. She cares because the wind is blowing hard against her face and burning holes into her skin.
The ice beneath her slams against her feet, but it's hard and rocky and Aspen imagines it is scalding hot beneath her shoes, boiling and bubbling beneath the thick solid layer. The air is heavy on her shoulders, and it presses into her skin until Aspen's chest slows and her lungs ache and scream. It's hot, too hot, and though Aspen is in a world of ice and snow, though the temperature is under negative twenty degrees, Aspen needs more. Aspen needs the cold.
But then something slams into her side, and there's skin pressing up against her wrists and soft hair caught in her fingers. She falls hard on the ice, chest swinging forward with unnatural speed as the boy falls on top of her. Something breaks. Is it bone? Is it her hope? Maybe it's both.
It's so hot, too hot, and what kind of thief is this boy to take the cold away from her? The cold is hers. Aspen's hand stumbles for a knife, for ice, for anything that'll hurt. She claws at the jacket, at skin, until it catches beneath her nails in chunks and blood.
"Aspen?" The thief coughs out. Aspen freezes.
No. It's American. American is here. American is not a thief. American will give her back the cold eventually. But for once, the warmth feels okay. Aspen brushes her hand over the blood staining American' ear, and then leans in close as she allows herself to fall into his arms. This is American.
Hell can wait.
☠American Elm☠
Close up camera two and the stage was set. Citizens from all sides of the Capitol sat around the stage in their harlequin clothes, creating a bright wave of colors that didn't match the tone of the room. The crowd was silent, a few coughs could be heard but they mostly stayed quiet, only ever laughing or reacting when the giant sign hanging above told them to. At front and center, two gentlemen sat underneath the hot stage lights, their foreheads covered in small beads of sweat just barely visible to the cameras zooming in on their every word. Their newest victor, European Elm wore a sly grin that was sharp enough to cut someone and the way he tilted his head, he projected nothing but casual arrogance.
"We don't usually get a lot of volunteers from Seven," Cian started. "What inspired you to volunteer?"
"Honestly, I've always known I was different," Ean said. He adjusted his sitting position so that his foot rested on his knee. "Ever since I was younger I knew I was destined for greatness and I thought, 'why not just take it?' After all, glory comes to those willing to pursue it, right?"
"Were you nervous at all going into it?"
Ean laughed. "Why would I be? The Hunger Games is a numbers game. Nothing else."
Cian leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. His legs were crossed and there was a curious glint in his eyes that longed to know more. Ean wasn't like other victors, everyone knew it. People didn't just volunteer from Seven—not unless they had some sort of death wish, and yet here this boy was, sitting in front of him saying, "winning wasn't that hard." How did a guy like him end up seated in the chair in front of him? It was an unusual case, really.
"And what do you mean by that?"
"It's basic math. You keep track of the numbers and figure out how many you need to get to a certain point and then map out your steps from there," he replied. Cian opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question but Ean must've read his mind because he leaned forward and continued. "Think of it like this, the Careers are often so paranoid they'll turn on their own when it gets down to ten. Three and Five are lucky to make it past the bloodbath and the agriculture districts will get killed by Careers for being physical threats by the time you need to set yourself up to win." A pause. "That leaves Six, Eight, and Twelve. Ally Eight and Twelve, and leave Six to get bloodbathed."
"Why Eight and Twelve?"
"The pairs from those districts are often desperate and scared. They'll revere you as a God if you form an alliance and they won't fight back when you need to get rid of them."
Cian nodded. They wouldn't be getting any rave reviews from the Districts he just mentioned but still, there was more he wanted to know. Never in all his years as an interviewer had he ever met a victor so remorseless and matter-of-fact in their answers. Even the Careers usually had some sort of indication of slight guilt. He could usually tell by the way they hung their shoulders low whenever death or betrayal was brought up or how their lips quivered a bit when a recap was replayed. But European Elm? Not a chance. His posture was proud and the way he bared his teeth he looked like a wolf.
"Speaking of districts," said Cian, "you pushed your district partner into a landmine, shocking many of us watching at home. Do you have anything to say on the topic?"
A shrug of the shoulders and Ean leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "It was nothing personal. Just couldn't keep her around for too long because she knew too much."
Cian raised a brow. "How do you mean?"
Before American had ever set foot in an arena, his father taught him to swing an ax that always hit its target. Rule number one was to always let the momentum do the work for you—saves energy that way and rule number two, focus on where you want the blade to hit and not on the target itself. It was a skill he'd needed to pick up fast with his short height and late puberty and sure enough, he'd gotten quite good at it. He could say with certain confidence that he could throw his ax clean across the room and have it hit where he wanted but wherever those self-proclaimed skills were, they weren't here now. They seemed to have disappeared after the countdown and his ax was currently jammed into a crate labeled "Milo Periander." He didn't know who that was, just that his ax was embedded deep into the wood and if Nero Miranda didn't leave him alone, he was going to lose it big time.
He gave the ax a quick tug but it didn't come loose so easily and Nero was still coming at him. At the next thrust of the spear, American through himself against the crate and rolled to the side to see Nero standing between him and the ax. He was fucked now.
"Aspen!" his voice boomed.
In the middle of the chaos, there was Aspen. He could see she was tucked behind a crate off to the side, rummaging through party supplies and trying to find something useful. The gamemakers were trolling this year and most of the crates were filled with things useless to the average tribute. Every minute or so she'd throw a glance over her shoulder to make sure no one was ambushing her and when Kalyd Journeyman took her from behind, she'd been ready for it. Moments later he saw the boy crumple to the floor, clutching his leg.
"Sorry Mer. I'm a little—"
He couldn't hear her over the loud cannon that rocked the cave and sent icicles tumbling to the ground in a loud clattering of noise. Nero was glaring at him like he was seriously considering spearing him in the throat and American stood there frozen for a second. Another thrust of the spear and American twisted out of the way just in time to dodge the tip. He hissed as the metal grazed his cheek and when his opponent lunged again, he threw himself forward until his feet slid on the floor. He fell backward. Hard. A shock of pain crashed through him and his ears started to ring like church bells. His head pounded enough to ache and Nero stood over him with a twisted grin—god, he wanted to hurt him. Why is it always the Careers?
"This was fun," Nero hissed.
Not really. Rolling onto his stomach, he tried to force himself up quicker than Nero could spear him but something struck him and he was on the ground again. He needed his ax but it was wedged into that damn crate and when Nero raised his spear, he flinched. His eyes were squeezed shut and seconds later, nothing happened. When he opened them, Aspen was standing in front of him like an angel sent from heaven to save his sorry butt and the light glimmering from the icicles above hit her face at just the right angle that he could mistake her for one too. She was holding a bloodied knife in one hand while the boy from Four bled out on the ice beside them.
"Thanks," he said.
Aspen nodded and when she held out her hand, American gladly took it. Being pulled onto his feet, he reached for the ax that was wedged into the Milo Periander crate and placed one foot on the wood and tugged at it until he heard a creak. He felt something give and finally the ax came free.
"We need to get out of here," he heard her say.
"I know," he replied. "Did you find anything?"
She shook her head. "Bandages, a protein bar. Cornucopia was bad this year."
Tell me about it. He didn't know why he expected her answer to be different than it was. His own crate had been filled with Wizard of Oz DVDs and a box of matches which wouldn't help them when they were trying to avoid the nine—well, eight Careers trying to off anyone who wasn't one of them. In hindsight, they should've left the bloodbath as soon as the first crate they checked had revealed itself to be useless. Because right now? Right now they were sitting ducks in a pond, just waiting to be killed.
"Alright, let's get out of here."
"Wait, but Mer—"
A girl from Two came in from the side and American nudged Aspen out of the way, lifting his ax and swinging it. She jerked her sword upward and caught the blade, deflecting it and he couldn't tell whether it was luck or skill that she was able to do that but then it didn't matter. He tried again, only this time swinging lower before she could react. The ax struck her side and she let out a sharp groan that sent a chill down his spine. Almost instinctively, he pulled the ax out of her flesh and swung again at her neck. The blade embedded itself deep in her neck, cutting it half off and when she collapsed to the ground, he felt sick. An image flashed in his head and he forgot where he was for only a moment before the sound of a cannon firing hit him like a brick. Reality came crashing back and Aspen was tugging at his hand to get him to run with her to which he obeyed.
They headed for the exit of the cave and they were running together when a glint of blonde hair stopped him in his tracks. He froze.
"What are you doing?"
"I know him," he said.
"Cool story but we need to go."
She pulled his arm again but he didn't budge. At the corner of the cave, a boy named Upton was being cornered by Corradin Cole who was closing in on him with a grin that could match that of the devil's. He held a knife in one hand and the collar of Upton's shirt in the other and the fabric looked ready to rip the longer the boy struggled to get away. He knew that kid—they'd been in the same Games together and his face was paler than usual, almost an ashen white. There was an innocence to him that reminded American of someone he used to know. Someone important. He couldn't just leave him to die.
No. He couldn't.
"Just trust me, okay?"
"American."
He wasn't listening.
Ean licked his lips. "It's the same reason you can't keep allies around for too long." He laughed at his own remark and there was a short pause before he continued. "And why would you? They know your strengths. Your weaknesses. What makes you tick and what could destroy you."
There was some whispering in the auditorium and when Ean leaned forward like he was about to tell a big secret, the crowd hushed and all cameras honed in.
"Your biggest enemy is never the stranger with the knife but the person beside you. For they have the capacity to ruin you and if they can, they will. They always do."