☠Bonnie Everheartte☠
NO ENTRY
☠Bellona Viellana☠
Broken promises do nothing but remind one of failure.
Bellona Viellana finds that promises—whether they be shared in the dark, between two souls with intertwined pinky fingers, or whether shared in plain daylight, between a group of people with interlocked hands—come at a cost. Prices vary between deals, and debts move with the repercussions. She has always been willing to pay the highest price, to go broke for the people in whom she believes. Through her family, she is wealthy; and through her promises, she is invaluable.
She is a girl of her word: she is a girl of pinkies and palms, of promises.
No matter her nature, however, not everyone is like her. Not everyone follows through with their deals, not everyone puts honesty and truth behind their words and intentions.
Not everyone keeps their promises. She has learned this the hard way, but that does not mean it doesn't sting when promises are broken time and time again, that it doesn't hurt when she is stabbed in the back—always the back, because she never sees it coming.
She rubs her eyes dry, promising herself that this second time around, she will see everything coming, she will see everything thrown at her; she will see behind the deceit of tributes and the skullduggery of the Gamemakers. She will see everything the beguiling arena has to offer, because she has enough of everything to be able to bargain and barter.
As the wind continues to billow around her and ruffle the thick curls of her ponytail, she shivers, but it has nothing to do with the arctic air that nips every inch of exposed skin. The very arena itself is what is sending chills down her spine, making every bit of hair on her body stand pin straight, making her stay frozen in place—not that she would risk moving, either way.
Not counting the past two weeks, Bellona doesn't know how long it has been since she was last alive. She doesn't know how much time has passed since she was standing on an identical pedestal, examining the miles of familiar terrain surrounding her. She doesn't know how much time has passed since all her promises were still intact in the beginning and then broken within hours.
When was it that I told Momma and Pops I'd come back to then? When was it that I told Maize and Nox I'd be cautious and self-preserving? When was it that I told myself I'd keep my promises to them and to the others and to myself?
When was it since I've stood here last?
Perhaps only a few days have passed, or maybe a few thousand years have come and gone since Bellona has been situated on a pedestal, gazing at a frozen wasteland. It is when she theorizes that if the arena is the same, that she realizes some of the tributes must be the same. Her eyes automatically move from the distant ponds with overlooking icicles, and go to the tributes. She scans each person, looking for distinct features that clue her in.
With only thirty seconds remaining on the clock, it becomes extremely difficult to find a girl with raven colored hair and electric blue eyes, to find a boy with light brown hair and amber eyes. It feels impossible to find her allies in this sea of tributes, especially when a little less than half are blocked by a massive boulder of ice, but it truly becomes impossible when no one looks familiar. However, regaining focus on the time that remains on the clock—twenty seconds—she formulates a basic strategy to get her to at least one of the wooden boxes that surround the block, get out of the inevitable Bloodbath, and find her allies.
Beckett and Anastasia, she thinks, I'll find you soon. I promise.
The last remaining seconds tick by quicker than she can ready herself to run, and when the starting shot signals the beginning of the Games, she falters. She immediately curses herself—seconds are precious in the Games, especially during the Bloodbath—but then thanks herself for it: a few of the competitors underestimated the slippery grounds of the arena and have fallen. In the amount of time it takes for them to regain their stance, Bellona and more than half of the tributes are already making their way to the wooden boxes.
When she is a little more than halfway to the box lined up to her pedestal, she tries to quicken her pace, and she is successful for a few meters, but then she, too, falls to the floor. Using the momentum of her fall, however, she grabs her knees close to her chest and pushes herself forward, sliding on the slippery ice until she gets to her destination. It's risky, but better to be close to the ground than stranding straight and making herself a visible target.
She crawls the last couple of feet to the wooden box; right when she is about to open it, something bright explodes behind her, and a small wave of warmth spreads throughout the arena. She turns around and finds that, followed by the first cannon of the Games, portions of the sky are raining bloody chunks of flesh, someone accidently detonating a bomb and taking their own life in the process. When she squints, she realizes that the roar of flames is coming from one of the wooden boxes.
Eyes wide, she stares at her own box, only to find a different name written on it. She takes a few steps back from where she is crouching, too afraid to get any closer or even think of opening it. It is only when she hears someone a few paces to her right scream out in glee that she decides to open the wooden box anyway. The person to her right is now holding a bow and a small pack, and should they come after her, she needs something to defend herself, even if it is a dagger.
Her hands glide over the crystalized name: Valeria Thracius. Flashes of a Games before her own cross her eyes: a girl with dark skin, a malicious grin, and fierce knives. Bellona pushes aside thoughts of this girl and instead braves herself to open the box. When she finally pulls the lid up, she throws herself hard on the ground, covering her head should anything come flying out. After a few seconds, she peers inside the box, finding a near-empty backpack. Without hesitation, she shoves everything from the box into the pack. She doesn't question any of the materials, not even when her hands hold brightly colored woven pieces of grass; they almost look like party decorations, but for all she knows they might be useful, so she simply stuffs them.
She has her own moment of glee when she finds a long hunting knife at the very bottom of the box. There is no doubt in her mind that the Gamemakers intended for Valeria Thracius to be at her best condition, to deliver an anticipated performance with this knife, but now it's in Bellona's possession—she never intends to let it slip from her hands.
Before she can fully immerse herself in celebration, however, a high pitched scream pierces her ears. Her head whips to the source of the sound and she sees a flock of flying, furry creatures—somewhere between a mix of a rodent and snake and a bird—pecking away at the face of a tribute. The boy once had skin like porcelain and hair like ink, but now all that is left is a bloody mess and discarded pieces of flesh.
The second cannon of the day sings throughout the arena.
Her stomach begins to lurch forward, her insides squirming at the sight, and right when she thinks the bile is going to leave her system, an unprecedented force knocks her to her side. The two tumble for a few feet, both trying to get the higher ground and pin the other to the ice. In the whirl of their strife, Bellona grabs at thick skin on a stocky body, pulls on equally thick hair that falls past broad shoulders, and scratches at a tan face with bright green eyes. This girl is unnervingly familiar—even similar-looking to Bellona—and when she sees the faded-red number ten on the girl's attire, Bellona is completely disgruntled.
For a few short moments, her body and mind work out of sync, her mind telling her to stop, stop fighting, all the while her body continues to grip and pull and push. This girl is from home. Bellona doesn't know where from District Ten this girl comes from, whether they ever crossed paths on a field or at school, or whether they even lived in the district at the same time.
Stop. This girl is from home.
When her body finally catches up to her mind, she quits moving, and in this brief pause, confusion rolls over the other girl, also causing her to stop. This break is exactly what Bellona needs to get on top of her, to pin her down and convince her to leave the Bloodbath and hide.
I promise I will never hurt someone from District Ten. She remembers telling herself the first time she stepped into the arena. She can't recall just how long Ayres Avery made it into the Game, but she knows his downfall wasn't because of her. She can't say for certain how long the struggling girl underneath her will make it into the Games, but she knows for sure harm won't be done on her behalf.
"Stop moving," Bellona grunts, resorting to hair pulling.
The girl tries biting her arms, but Bellona moves them from her face and instead puts one arm over the girl's shoulders to keep her in place.
"I'm not going to hurt you," she practically spits at the girl, who is still trying in vain to wiggle out of Bellona's grip.
The two are probably evenly matched in strength, but Bellona has the upper hand because of the way she has the girl pinned. The more the girl moves, the more weight Bellona puts down until she is practically laying on her.
When Bellona bows down to tell the girl that she doesn't hurt people from home, the girl twists her arm out of the hold, yanks Bellona's ponytail downward, and brings a knee straight into Bellona's gut.
The girl doesn't hesitate before standing straight up and kicking at Bellona's back, saying, "You might not, but I do." While Bellona is still on the floor, wheezing, trying to catch her breath and communicate with the girl, the girl takes out one of three emerald-colored darts. The girl lowers herself to the still struggling Bellona, and right as she's about to stick the dart in Bellona's heart, she falters.
Bellona awkwardly rolls aside, even if she does cough out in pain, and watches as the girl falls to her knees, as her stocky body sinks into the ice. An arrow is sticking out from her neck, but when Bellona looks around and readies herself to dive in any which way, she doesn't see anyone with a bow. The moment the third cannon booms, she lumbers back to the girl's body, stripping it of any possessions.
In a smaller pack than the one she already has, she finds some rope, a few packets of dried fruit, and the pouch with the darts. Her hands tentatively hold the remaining darts, fingers carefully gliding around the base and tapping the pointy end. In that moment, exposed in the middle of the Bloodbath, she remembers yet another broken promise, yet another failure.
A boy named Achmetha promised her that he had her back, that they would watch out for each other until they mutually decided to sever their alliance; he told her that working with her would be an honor, that he could really use someone like her to keep him balanced. He told her—her promised her—safety, safety from his own hands and his own darts.
Less than an hour into the arena, it was he who tried to pull her back up from where she was dangling off the side of a cliff, only to try to stab her with his poisonous darts the moment her feet touched solid ground again.
Betrayal. Deceit. Lies. They're all a part of a broken promise.
She pockets the darts, vowing to throw them over the next cliff she says.
Slowly regaining her breathing, she sprints to the nearest box that hasn't been opened. Her hands glide over the name, images of the person vivid and murky all at once. She knows this name, vowed to someone else she would never forget it, would visit the owner should she win, would replay the last words from the boy they both knew.
"Corradhin Cole," she whispers, almost like it is a taboo, something forbidden for her to repeat.
This box is bigger than the others, and she prepares herself for another beast to jump out at her, for a bomb that will destroy anyone and anything within a hundred yards, for even more party decorations, or even a knife with a wicked blade. What she finds is nothing, nothing but thick cobwebs. With her knife, she hacks at the webs, causing a cloud of dust to saunter out and cover her face. She sneezes and, though she might be mistaken, she thinks she hears someone say "bless you."
It's definitely the dust making me think that.
She swats at the small cloud of dust that is following her, and she runs to another box. As she approaches the next one, two more cannons boom. She has never been good with time, but she guesses less than ten minutes have passed and already five are dead—or so she thinks, she may have ignored a cannon or two.
Bellona crouches down beside the next box, this one full of reflective glass. She peers into it curiously, watching the way the light and the ice of the arena interact with the glass, watching as her own reflection is distorted by the broken pieces. She almost looks funny, her hair tangled, her face scratched and bleeding, her neck bruised blue and purple. When she carefully looks at herself, however, when she is hyperaware of the smell of human blood emitting from her face, the bile finally leaves her system, falling rapidly onto the glass. She heaves for a few seconds, the amount augmenting only when, in the distance, she can hear someone choking on their own blood.
She closes the box, takes one look back at the Bloodbath that is still occurring, and scampers out of there as quickly as she can.
As she passes massive boulders, she remembers what she told her Momma and Pops: I promise I'll come back to you.
As she crawls through little caves with pointy icicles, she remembers what she told Nox and Maize: I promise I'll be cautious and self-preserving.
As she crosses over frozen ponds and small pools with arctic waters, she remembers what she told Anastasia and Beckett: I'll find you soon. I promise.
And as Bellona Viellana scales up a cliff, leaving behind a world of ice for a world of fire, she remembers what Achmetha engraved into her heart: broken promises do nothing but remind one of failure.
But maybe promises on their own don't always have to be broken.
I'll find you soon. I promise.
☠Mia Circut☠
When you die, there is nothing. There is no one to await you in the dark so you sit there, alone, miserable, lost. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty? There's this weird taste in your mouth, kind of like onions and garlic but it's awful and rotten. When you open your mouth, dirt falls out, and when you cough a thick cloud of brown escapes and seems to float in the air.
Air.
But it feels like you can't breathe. Someone is choking you from the inside, and you claw at your throat, your fingernails scratching at your skin until it's red, blotchy and rash. You should bleed, but you can't, something is stopping you.
"Hello?" I scream into the void, but nothing but the sound of my own miserable voice answers my call. I walk further, a weight seeming to be tied to my ankles, trying to pull me down into the depths of Hell. My knees shake, begging to give way to the ground below which will surely pull me under. My brain wants to keep fighting, but my mind and my soul begs my heart to give up. Suddenly, I see a shadow at the end of what seems to be eternal blackness. It's a woman, maybe even a child. She's standing there, waiting for me with her arms wide open in embrace. I squint, realizing who it is my legs suddenly find their strength and run the length of the darkness in long strides. I get to the end and my heart is beating wildly, waiting to feel the warmth once more of the person I loved with everything I had long ago.
But, my eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and I realize the dirty blonde haired, small statured figure is not who I want it to be. It's not her, and no matter how hard I try I never will live up to the woman that was my rock for the early stages of my life. The mirror stares back at me, taunting me with the own haggard appearance of myself, blood pouring out of my neck, knife in my back.
Suddenly, a hand pulls me under and I'm pulled back to the ground, my body sinking through until red is all I see, and red is what I become...
"Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!"
I sit up straight in the bed, reaching for the blankets but find they're already on the floor. My body is drenched in sweat and I really shouldn't be surprised but I am seeing as it's the middle of winter.
"Easy, calm down," the voice of my father at the foot of my bed reassures me. "Drink some water, it'll bring you back to reality."
I don't want to come back to reality.
I take the water from my father's rough and tired hands, bring it to my lips and finish it in one gulp. I stare into Dad's bright brown eyes and he stares back into mine but only for a moment before turning away again; I remind him too much of her.
"When do they start?" I ask, noting that the light has begun to shine through the curtains and onto my windowsill bench I made out of pillows. I like to look out into District 3's forest area from the Victor village. I found a wounded rabbit once, lurking in the shadows, its eyes begging for life and forgiveness. It was shortly after Mom... passed on. In the middle of the night I tip toed my way down the hall, past my brother's sleeping figure and ignoring my father's sobs as he cried himself to sleep I slipped out the door and into the night. The night can be a frightening time, the crickets in particular always made it worse because they truly emphasized the feeling of loneliness; you're the only one around to hear the beautiful sound of their voices.
I had grabbed Dad's work coat from the rack before I had left and dipping my hand deep into his wool pockets I realized there was in fact a pocketknife. The rabbit saw me, an innocent, grief stricken eight-year-old girl, and hopped his way to my side, his whiskers twitching, his soft brown eyes looking up at me for assistance. His flank had been punctured, probably by a coyote or a wolf, and was bleeding heavily; it was clear the brown ball of fuzz was not going to make it through the night.
"Come here," I had said, tears welling in my eyes. I bent down and made a clicking noise with my tongue. The rabbit flattened its ears against the back of its head and stumbled in my knee, pressing his head against the bone, looking for any sort of passion and kindness. I stroked its head, felt the fur on my skin and wished I could save this creature. I thought of my mother, lying at the bottom of the shallow river, her head smashed open on the bluff, blood flowing all the way downstream and into the filters of our drinking water. Was she as scared as this rabbit? Was she just looking for kindness? Why couldn't she find that kindness in me?
I took the pocketknife out of the jacket and felt the cool metal in my hands for a moment. I began to hum a melody to the animal, hoping the shivering against my leg would eventually go away. It was a melody that Mom used to sing to me to fall asleep, a morbid and almost cruel one but it got me to fall asleep. The melody soothed the rabbit and it relaxed. It barely had enough time to realize it was in danger before I slid the blade along the vein in its throat and it dropped dead in my lap. My hands were covered in red and I watched as the earth soaked it back into the ground, lapping it up like water. I left the corpse on the ground, hoping the coyote or the wolf would come back and finish its meal. Circle of life, right? Birds eat the insects, dogs eat the rabbits, and Mom's jump off cliffs and kill themselves.
"Lucy?" Dad brings me back to reality once more with another glass of water. I take it, down it, and continue to look out the window. "The Games start in ten minutes... will you be watching with us?"
Us.
He says it like we're still a family, like everything is normal, like there isn't someone missing at the dinner table. Of course, he means himself, my brother and Oona. Perhaps it's the teenage rebellion hormones raging inside my body, starting a fire I never asked to be lit, but I really fucking hate Oona.
Dad sees this as a signal to leave and quietly, picks the blanket up off the floor and folds it neatly at the foot of my bed. He gets to the doorway before I stop him.
"Dad?"
"Yes?"
"Do you really think they'll bring her back? Do you really think she could come home?"
He pauses, lingering in the doorframe. His hand trace the notches I've made in the wood over the years where we kept track of my height. We used to keep track in coloured pen, but after Mom died the ink we found ourselves using was suddenly black.
"Even if she did come home Luce, it wouldn't be the same Mia we knew and loved before."
"But we still loved her when she came back the first time, we could help her, it would be better, wouldn't it?"
His gaze stared into my eyes and looked at me in pity, like there was something I wasn't understanding, as if he was telling me I'll get it when I'm older. I'm older now, right? Fifteen is a good age to learn, to grow, so why don't I fucking get it?
"Come on, Lucy, come watch with us. Today's the day the Capitol gets their Hunger Games, right?"
I sigh, grab my TV watching glasses from the night table and reluctantly follow my father down the stairs and into the sitting room where Oona and Castiel are already snuggled against each other on the sofa. I wrinkle my nose and punch my little brother on the arm as I walk by him to my seat on the couch.
"Hey!" He shouts and sticks his leg out, causing me to trip and fall onto the floor. My face lands into the plush carpet, my glasses squishing into the bridge of my nose and I feel the glass cracking against my skin. I jump back up in an instant and soon I'm tackling my brother, pushing his face into the sofa and wringing his arm all the way against the back of his shoulder blade.
"Say you're sorry!" I spit, and he tries to lift his head up, gasping for air. My vision is blurred, my glasses in a heap of metal on the carpet.
"No! I won't! I didn't do it! It was Oona!"
Oona scoffs and rolls her eyes, flicking her platinum blonde hair back. I notice now she's painting her fingernails, a bright red colour. Anger wells in my chest and I want to punch her, want to kick her for being so insensitive on the day my mother could be coming back from the dead.
"Lucy! Castiel! Stop it! Be respectful, the Games are about to begin."
Dad pulls us off of each other and makes us sit on the single chairs next to the couch. He sits beside Oona, puts her arm around her and rests his feet on the coffee table as if he's watching some sort of film the Capitol puts out after the work day is done. If Mom could be here, she would realize this is not the man she married. This is the man Oona married.
The anthem plays and soon, the Capitol seal is broadcasted in front of our faces. The announcer clears his throat, and he tells us his name but I'm not paying attention; the bloodbath is about to begin. They cut to faces around the Capitol, each person staring up at the screen through their thick coloured eyelashes, watching in anticipation as they wait to see if their favourite Tribute would be returning from the underworld. I've watched Mom's Victor year over and over since her death. I'm not proud of it, nor do I tell Dad I sneak the tape from the storage closet on days where I feel I'm losing her. My memory of her is hazy, but I do know that I knowher, you know? The love is there, but also the confusion, the agony, and the trauma of finding her body at the bottom of that river. Why did it have to be me? But more importantly, why did it have to be her...
The first few Tributes faces flash without my mind signaling any recognition. Then, Valeria's face engulfs the screen and my stomach twists in tight knots; she hated Mom, constantly plotted against her before she came victim to the ash of the volcano. Several Tributes from Mom's Games are brought back; Aspen, American, Sterling, Mom's old ally Georgina, and then finally, the face I haven't seen in nine years, the face that haunted my nightmares and filled the wonderful dreams with hope.
I find my body sinking off of my chair, my knees crawling to the television set and my hands, running along the oval screen, feeling the static from the glass pulse through my fingertips.
"Mom?" I breathe, watching as she rises into the cave filled with beautiful, glistening, ice.
"Oh, I get it," Oona suddenly speaks. "It's ice, because they were dead, right? Like, they're as cold as ice."
"Have some fucking respect!" I blurt back at her, not realizing tears had been cascading down my cheeks in fat wet drops.
"Hey!" Dad growls. "You too." He's gulping, choking back tears of seeing his dear departed wife rise to her doom once more.
Mom blinks on her platform, looking around, confused. Her dirty blonde hair has faded drastically, a now brown colour escaping down from her scalp and ending in a matted mess along her dirt stained cheeks. She looks as if she were plucked from her coffin; she's wearing the same clothes we buried her in. She spots Georgina, and she manages a small wave, and then her attention turns to the twenty-four boxes in the center of the ice cave. She shivers, her breath escaping in a form of mist.
Her breath.
"She's alive," I whisper, still stroking the television screen. "Mom's alive."
The timer ends, and the Tributes run in a mass towards the crates. Mom runs as well, but it looks as if she's just running with the crowd, still unsure of what is going on. Val appears to be more aware than the rest and she takes the lead and runs straight into the crowd, knocking the smaller Tributes over with one swing of her fist. She grabs Roma by the shirt of her collar, decks her once across the face and while Roma is caught by surprise Val puts both hands along the base of her throat, twists, and snaps her neck without warning. A canon sounds.
Mom stares in agony as Roma's body drops to the ground. Around her, other Tributes have begun to open their crates, two having surprise explosives and blowing their bodies to bits. Two canons sound Milo and Kalyd.
"No," the audio picks up Mom's voice as the camera singles her out, a close up on her face as she realizes she isn't in Hell, she isn't dreaming... this is reality, and she's about to live her worst nightmares again. "No!" She screams, looking around her, shivering, staring at the now blood splattered icicles along the cave wall.
"Packard!" she screams, and I feel Dad cringe in the room. "Castiel! Lucy!"
"I'm here!" I shout back, my face now pressed against the screen. "I see you. I'm so sorry I didn't before Mom, but I see you now, I understand, I'm older."
Her screams capture Val's attention, who has now obtained a sword from Upton Snapper's body. She comes after Mom, a fire and a rage in her eyes. Mom has little time to block her attack before she's pushed to the ground, hard. Val stands over her, the sword raised high above her head. She swings down, but Mom jumps back, quickly.
"How's that ankle doing, Mia?" Val spits, referring to the ankle she had broken in the previous Games in an animal trap she and Cosmo had made themselves. Cosmo. Why didn't the Gamemakers bring her back?
Val takes another swing at Mom's feet but Mom finds her balance and kicks Val in the gut, causing her to stumble back. Val drops the sword and Mom obtains it swiftly.
"Yes!" I cheer, feeling a little guilty celebrating over murder.
Mom is alive. Mom is alive. Mom is alive.
"Better than your face, Val." Mom retorts back as she points the tip of the sword into Val's cheek.
"Touché," Val touts. "I can't remember, did you win those Games? Or did you die a slow and painful death beneath the ash and the lava?"
"I died my own death."
"I see, well, you're about to die another. And don't worry, I'll be nice and send you back to Hell."
I don't see it coming, but Val sends her knee into my Mom's groin and Mom yelps in pain as her knees give out over Val's body and she crashes down onto her pelvis so she's straddling her; the sword is still clutched tightly in her hand. The camera catches Mom's eyes, and just like the rabbit's, they're terrified, a sight I've never seen from Mom before and I realize now just how brave and strong she really was.
"You can do it..." I whisper as I watch the two enemies fight. Val is strong with her hands, and we all watch as Mom falters below her punches. Val finally gets a hold of the sword, and with a flash she swipes the blade across Mom's flank.
"NO!" I scream, a sob instantly erupting from my throat. Mom's white blouse acts as a sponge and begins to soak and display a stark colour red across our television screen. Val kicks Mom's face and spits on her dying body.
"It was so good to catch up with you Mia." Val walks away, her sword over her shoulder, whistling a happy tune as she departs deeper into the ice caves.
Mom still lies, withering on the icy surface. The bloodbath is over, bodies scattered along the wall or pegged on a large icicle that uproots itself from the ground. Out from behind a crate, Georgina appears, unscathed and unharmed. She applies pressure to Mom's wound and helps her to her feet. The camera fades to black as Mia Circuit and Georgina Traine slip and slide their way along the cave wall.
"She's alive," I sit back on my knees and look at my father who's face has gone bright red. "She's alive."
The image of the rabbit suddenly appears in my mind and my heart suddenly sinks in my chest. It could have lived, I could have given it a chance. Even though the Capitol's advertisements are now in effect, I cling onto the television screen, smiling through my tears.
"You can do it, Mom, you can do it."
☠Pandora Lockster☠
NO ENTRY
☠Kade Ruan☠
The bloodbath was nothing but the appetizer. It doused the palates of the Capitol after they feasted their eyes on the ingredients parading and being interviewed before them. There was neither rime nor reason to why the tributes would be gathered in this one place.
If they truly wished to see who would outwit and last in these games, they would place each tribute far away from each other. Instead, they lined them up around a treasure trove of death and expected it to be fair.
Those who fought with their minds would be killed instantly by those who could throw a spear. It wasn't really well planned out. The only reason it worked was that the people watching wanted their throats covered in blood.
I was crouching down behind a bush while thinking these things. It wasn't a very gallant position but it did the job I wished it to do.
The spear had been pulled out of Mia's body by another tribute that ran past. Blood gushed forth for a moment then ceased into tiny spurts as a cannon went off in the distance.
A sigh bubbled up in my own throat and escaped as I watched the madness. Sitting where I was, I was fairly safe. No one could see inside my hiding place and no one would care too. They were all running around with either madness or fear in their eyes.
The careers, naturally, had taken up residence within that treasure trove. Their leader seemed to be the one with orange hair but with the careers, that would soon change.
I looked down at the bag of food in my hand. It was the only thing I wished to have for these games, for me, I would wait it out until the final few. No weapons needed.
I keep my promises.
Another cannon sounded and looking up I saw a career fall, the rest darting around like startled rabbits, trying to see who had killed their ally.
No-one was looking in this direction, so within this moment I moved out of my bush and into the open, walking casually away from the treasure trove and somewhere more peaceful. Every game the tributes screamed and lost their minds at the bloodbath. I would not be one of those tributes.
Another flash of red drew my attention, running and leaping towards me.
I sighed and broke into a run. I would not die in the bloodbath. Yet I will keep my promise and I will not fight. It was a stupid promise really, one which was lacking in either skill or knowledge.
The red still chased me, holding something which flashed in the light. My steps redoubled, however, try as I might, I could not move away from the girl behind me.
She was deadly calm I thought, no screaming or shouting how she was going to kill me. No curses about the games and no pleas to team up. Something, however, something was wrong, something in the way she ran.
I looked back, trying to get a closer look. This was my downfall, literally. My foot must have caught in a hole and twisted for suddenly I was on the ground, staring up at a rather large dagger wielded by a pair of flashing green eyes.
It flashed as it moved and my body twisted over. For a moment I lay there, on the ground staring up at her as the dagger rose into the air again.
This time the silver glinted through blood.
Down it plunged and again, my body twisted away, moving and turning, bending in order to leap to my feet in order to run again.
But as the knife followed, as she took a step and as my hand thrust at her chest.
She fell.
She fell into the dirt and onto the dagger. It pierced her chest and blood came bubbling up into her mouth and slipped out, staining her skin.
This had not been the plan. I fell to my knees beside her, something icy cold flooding my veins as my hand reached out to pluck up the dagger and throw it away.
This was not how promises are kept. This was rushed and hurried, a careless mistake.
My vision blurred as I watched the blood fall and the life drain out of her eyes. The cannon sounded a few moments later and only made my stomach twist in guilt and shame.
She had fallen on the blade herself. I had simply pushed her. Surely my promise was still kept? These where simply games, it was simply a game. The promise was kept was it not?
I was running again, I don't know how I got to my feet or why I left the body there. I should have buried it like I buried the other. It wasn't right.
These games weren't fair.
They weren't fucking fair and this hadn't been the way they were supposed to go.
☠Kalyd Journeyman☠
In the thin, dreary days that Kalyd had spent inside his cramped regeneration room, weeks before his second Hunger Games had begun, he'd learned that he could not stand to remain inside his own body.
He'd felt this way because he'd been trapped, in dimensions both physical and psychological. The regeneration room itself had closed him in, doorless and windowless as it had been, and his future, lonely prospects beyond the Games had confined his aspirations. But his body had been worst of all, because it had sealed the numbness and the deadness inside of Kalyd's weary head. Grief and anger had faded, but nothingness had remained; it had sapped all sensation from Kalyd's body, and it had caused him to waste away on a level that his caretakers could not see or sympathize with. Yet enough of him had lingered to know that the nothingness was undesirable, that he'd have preferred any sort of emotion, whether pain or sorrow or rage, to the lack of feeling that he now drowned inside.
So he'd hurt himself. He'd beaten at the confines of his deadened carcass, forcing cuts and bruises from once-unfeeling flesh, and he'd fixated contentedly on his own capacity to hurt. But when the Capitol staff had taken that capacity away—when they'd stolen the shards of glass and pointed objects from his room, when they'd chosen Kalyd's body over his soul—he'd had no choice but to expunge the soul from the body, leaving the lifeless corpse that the Gamemakers so prized behind him.
Abandoning his body did no lasting damage. The attendants hidden behind his chrome-plated walls could not even see that he did it. Still, the procedure had proven easy and effective—he'd simply close his eyes, lean against the backboard of his cot, and exhale, and in the minutes that followed, he'd pretend to be another person. Perhaps he'd become one of the scientists behind the wall, scrawling notes onto a clipboard and murmuring observations about Kalyd to a concerned colleague. Perhaps he'd become the stocky cleaning attendant that wiped his tile floor with a soapy rag, or he'd pretend to be the woman that spoke to him occasionally from the television screen. He'd paint imaginary lives for all of these people and jump into them wholeheartedly, acting as if Kalyd's own losses had never existed at all.
Of course, he'd continued to feel nothing, regardless of where or whom he'd pretended to be. Deadness could not be erased through willpower, and Kalyd had found the same dearth of feeling wherever he'd wandered, no matter how fervently he'd wished to experience these people's emotions. Still, he'd managed to feel different than he usually did, and difference was all that Kalyd could ask for anymore.
This was why, during the hour before the Games, Kalyd did not experience the pre-battle preparations as himself. He stood beside the transport tube, his hands hanging limply at his sides and his eyes glazed over, and he imagined that the was the young woman who kneeled in front of him.
Hermia was a gangly woman with skin the color of an overripe peach. Bristly hair sprouted from her head in varying shades of sea-foam green, and a dozen silver bangles clanked against one another as she adjusted Kalyd's pant legs and retied his sneakers. She hummed a lilting tune as she worked, and she did not look Kalyd in the eyes once; she sent a child to his second death, and she was content.
Never in her life had Hermia lost a family member. Kalyd's chest seized as he considered it—Hermia lived in the Capitol, and so her parents and siblings and lovers dwelled safely within stilted skyscrapers, well-fed and well-groomed. When Hermia returned home from her stylist work today, she would embrace the first person who greeted her—perhaps a child, perhaps a friend—and they would smile and thank their lucky stars that they had never been considered for the Hunger Games, that their descendants would always escape its grasp. She'd remember the dead-eyed, empty-headed boy she'd styled only hours before, and she'd be unable to sympathize because she'd never felt fear before. She'd misunderstand his hollowness because she'd never lost a person she loved.
But maybe Hermia wondered about him now, busy as she was with straightening his jacket and smoothing down his hair. She might fall into a speculative mindset, just as the scientists who had once observed him did; she might ask the same questions that Kalyd had imagined his caretakers asking for weeks. If no cages bound him, she might wonder, what would Kalyd do? If the safety of a controlled environment was removed, as it would be in a few minutes, how would Kalyd choose to exercise his freedom?
As Hermia, Kalyd traced the puckered, pink lines cutting through his palms with golden eyes, and he drank in the strange pallor of his own skin. For a moment, he paused—and Hermia was actually pausing now, her fingers motionless on the cuffs of his jacket—and suddenly all of Hermia's preening and tailoring was rendered useless, because no stylist could mask the grotesqueness of a damaged corpse.
She drew backward, her hands flying close to her chest and her breath catching in her throat. Kalyd imagined that her former curiosity had turned to stupefied dread, that bloodbath scenarios cycled through her mind as she recoiled from the terrible deeds her lifeless charge might complete. To an apprehensive Hermia, the potential emotions that could seize control of Kalyd's corpse would seem otherworldly and overwhelming, and the scars on his palms would seem a portent for unbridled carnage. Would boiling fury fill Kalyd on the battlefield? Would anger at his own reanimation drive him to tear through any flesh that he could find as recompense, and would he thirst to watch others bleed as he had?
Maybe he'd become confused after a while, and he'd hurt himself. Maybe he'd become miserable after a while, and he'd kill himself. Maybe he'd do none of these things, and he'd slump on his pedestal and gaze at the battle with the same dull eyes that Hermia witnessed now, and he'd feel and do nothing at all.
In any case, Hermia was foolish to fear him. She would never have bothered with these scenarios if she'd realized what Kalyd had lost, what no violence would ever regain. She'd have looked at him with a different sort of distance then, knowing that she'd never understand his private tragedy; she'd have pretended to be him for a moment, and she'd have imagined waking one morning to find her family and neighbors and childhood home a long-dead memory. Even then, she'd have been unable to feel anything—when you pretend you're someone else, Kalyd had learned, you can't claim emotion that isn't yours—but she'd at least have felt something different, and having a stylist who did not feel content, who felt different, was more than Kalyd could have asked for.
Kalyd hadn't thought about his family in weeks. He'd attempted it several times, but the sluggishness inside his brain had forced him into the present; whenever he'd tried to remember the tiny home they'd inhabited, the kitchen in which they'd gathered and spun stories in the evenings, the images had failed to return to him. Yet his family's faces flashed through his mind now, Tiela and Evell's youthful features blurring into those of his mother and father. Their hodgepodge of features only lasted for a second, but it was enough—he opened his eyes with a wince and a groan, a mild pain aching inside of his chest. Hermia practically leaped backward as his posture shifted, but Kalyd's attention had already turned to the stirring of emotion inside of him, the faces of his family already dissolved.
Something was there still. He'd thought that the feeling had faded from his body, that his capacity for grief had died within the regeneration room. Yet the thought of his family had returned some of that soreness to him, nearly as unpleasant as it had been when he'd first awoken. It felt like grief, and it burned inside of his ribcage like a weak candle; impossibly, it lifted Kalyd's lips with the barest hint of a smile, and relief flickered across his face.
A series of three electronic tones played over the preparation room's speakers. At the sound, Hermia took a tentative step forward, motioning Kalyd into the now-open transport tube behind him. Somewhere above his head, he knew, a strange, new death awaited him; still, Kalyd did not object when Hermia practically pushed him onto the silver platform. He didn't shudder when the platform beneath him began to rise, didn't close his eyes when the gray walls outside the glass began to whiz faster and faster. He merely clutched his chest and breathed, and the newfound grief inside of him started to transform into a bittersweet sort of hope.
Hermia could not grieve for him. Neither could Kalyd grieve for himself as Hermia, or as any other person he'd pretended to become. But as Kalyd Journeyman, he could still feel true sadness, and this meant that he was not as dead as he'd thought himself to be.
The stirrings of hope expanded as Kalyd's platform rose higher. He embraced them, tilting his head toward the steel ceiling that closed him in, and far-fetched thoughts began to flood his head. If he still felt grief, then he could still feel happiness, couldn't he? The effort would be difficult, of course—the mild pinch of his own sorrow reminded him of that—but a pleasant future seemed more possible here than it had in the regeneration room. Though he could not feel the warmth of that future happiness, he knew that he wanted it, that he'd experienced it before and that he'd savor it if it ever came again.
This was why he allowed himself to dream, of the Games that awaited him and the world beyond it. He pictured the arena above his transport tube, sprawling and bright, and he imagined the sun beating down on his face and the smell of plant life drifting on the breeze. In an arena like the one that Kalyd constructed for himself, the traps that confined him would fall away, and life might finally seep into his deadened limbs and empty cavities. If an infinite sky opened above him, and if the ground rose gentle and firm beneath his feet, he knew that he would begin to heal.
Yet as the platform whirred to a stop, and as Kalyd blinked rapidly, attempting to make out the arena that lay ahead of him, his stomach slowly sank. He would find no sun here, he now understood; freedom hovered out of reach, and days of darkness would await him before he ever rediscovered the light.
A massive cave yawned before him, illuminated by the faint, pastel-blue glow of dozens of spindly pillars. Kalyd's gaze was drawn first to the ceiling overhead, studded with coarse-looking cubic fixtures—no sun streamed through invisible cracks in the rocky roof, and no warm breeze could penetrate the exterior of this cave. In fact, a pervasive chill engulfed the area, so frigid that Kalyd was forced to cross his arms and tug his hands inside of his sleeves. A thick sheet of ice had blanketed the entire cavern, sparkling in the dim light of the blue pillars; it crept up the pedestals of the twenty-eight other tributes, and it sealed in the preternatural coldness that transformed Kalyd's breaths into wispy clouds.
Already, the vestiges of emotion that Kalyd had discovered were melting into nothing. The darkness extinguished them, and the unfeeling nature of the underground would prevent them from returning; he'd scrape at the walls of his own psyche for the following weeks, willing them to return, but the confining essence of this place would forbid it. No matter how valiantly he struggled, he would not get them back.
In Kalyd's eyes, happiness was freedom. It was green grass and delicate flowers, undulating waves and gentle winds; it was sitting on a hillside free from the watchful eyes of scientists, and it was experiencing grief in its rawest, most painful form. It was remembering one's family freely, mourning them without inhibition, and it was looking upon a landscape like District Four's and thinking, I could have it all again.
But he couldn't have it here. His memory would not allow him to have it, repressed as it was by the ugliness of this underground arena. For the rest of the Games, he would remain inside of a cage, fighting to remember the people he'd lost so that he could properly let them go; he would battle his own lack of feeling, and he'd fail, because the arena would not let him have anything, feelings or beauty or people to love and mourn.
He couldn't be happy here. He couldn't be anything but himself, a dead soul trapped inside of a living body, and no amount of pretending would set him free.
Rounded fingernails dug into Kalyd's palms as a glowing countdown appeared in the center of the cavern. Murmurs issued from the tributes flanking him on both sides, who used this time to either examine their revived competition or eye the hulking crates beneath the holographic numbers. Crafted from battered wood and frosted over with icy fractals, the crates would have seemed underwhelming if red-lettered names had not been painted along the sides. The nearest one read "CEDAR STOCKHOLM," while two others that Kalyd could barely make out read "GEORGI—" and "—EVERHEARTTE." The rest of the names were a mystery, and Kalyd dully wondered if the Gamemakers had bothered to provide him with a crate at all. Unlike the muscled tributes who crouched and stretched on their pedestals, Kalyd had not risen from his transport tube with the intention of winning—he expected to die, and everyone who observed him would know it.
The timer above the crates read "15," and Kalyd imagined that the Gamemakers had stocked terrible things inside of those named boxes, bombs and gaseous poisons and carnivorous Mutts. Then he imagined himself opening one of the crates, immediately being accosted by a swarm of insects, and dying before the first minute of the Games had passed. While considering all of this, he felt absolutely nothing, though Kalyd desperately willed himself to feel any emotion at all. Anger could fill him, or fear at the Gamemakers' plans, or trepidation at the prospect of dying early. Any of these would have made sense, but the nothingness had descended over Kalyd again, heavy and impenetrable, and even the thought of his own death could not dispel it.
Five seconds remained, and Hermia appeared in Kalyd's mind again, the hypothetical scenarios he'd attributed to her playing like reels of film. He thought of himself ripping through other tributes (and feeling nothing), ripping through himself (and feeling nothing), stabbing his abdomen with a stray knife (and feeling nothing but his own life slipping away from him.) He thought of himself standing on the platform far past the gong had sounded, waiting for a passing tribute to slay him and free him.
The roaring sound of the gong finally resounded through the cavern, and, one last time, Kalyd pretended to be someone else. He leaped from his pedestal, his sneakers pounding against the icy rock below him, and he imagined that he was someone who knew what he was doing. He raced toward the array of crates before him, and he was a man who wanted to live, someone who would surprise Hermia when she looked upon him; he was alive, if only in his imagination, and he'd remain that way until he no longer needed to pretend.
All around him, tributes darted between the icy pillars of the battlefield, lashing out at one another with bare knuckles and extended legs. Some disappeared into the dark tunnels that cut through the walls of the cave—Saphaia Lapis's silhouette faded just after Kalyd recognized her fleeing, and Sailee Daniels's fiery tresses shone as she jumped inside a dim passageway. But others struck one another down with fragments of crates and the weapons that lay inside of them. Scorpio Ramsey's severed head rolled past Kalyd as he sprinted toward the crates, and Kade Ruan's dying body stained the white ice with crimson flecks.
Kalyd nearly tripped over Bonnie Everheartte's corpse as he neared the crates, and he gasped, skidding to a stop beside the crate labeled "CEDAR STOCKHOLM." His heart pumped wildly with the adrenaline that coursed through his body, and he felt less dead than he had standing on the pedestal. Energy was not an emotion, and yet it was something different, and Kalyd appreciated it all the same.
His crate had been hidden behind Bonnie Everheartte's, a squat construction of brittle boards and frosted nails. With his foot, he smashed it open, wincing as splinters of wood flew through the air around him. Cautiously, he stooped and examined the crate's interior—there would be a weapon inside, like the ones that others had found, or there would be a backpack containing supplies, like the one that Saphaia had carried.
But Kalyd blinked into empty darkness, and he realized that the Gamemakers had provided him with nothing.
For an instant, the grief returned to him, aching and tangible; then it vanished, but Kalyd understood what it had meant.
Nothing had been left for him. No matter how long he lived, it would remain the same—nothing would be handed to him, not his family or his home or his means for survival. He could waste away inside of his reanimated corpse, or he could fight the decay, as the Gamemakers seemed to want him to do; he could, as impossible as it seemed, make something out of nothing.
But he wasn't ready just yet. Someday, he might seize the resources he managed to find and build something new and beautiful for himself. But today he wasn't strong enough, and he had not yet finished using others' resources to try to save himself.
In the following seconds, he smashed open Bonnie's crate, grabbing the lantern, backpack, and spear that lay inside of it. While he fled, he imagined the day that he would finally shoulder his own burden, and something like hope stirred inside of him.
☠Upton Snapper☠
Soft stitches and straw hair without a bloodstain.
Darkness came, not in waves but all at once, as one suffocating blanket over the tunnel that now lay ahead. It leaked in from all side, casting deep shadows over pale skin and tearing at snow white flesh. A shaky, shivering breath left Upton as his eyes wandered around him. There was nothing. No direction to take, no map to guide him in the right direction. The only sound was that of a canon. It shook the thick ceiling above and rained a heavy could of black dust onto the boy's blonde hair.
From every side stood thick, impenetrable rock. One shelf filtered into the next and the ground beneath him trailed away into black. Every sound came as an echo, lending little help to his struggle. The few dim lights that shone down offer no guidance either. They didn't mass together toward one true way but fled along every line from his starting point.
He was disoriented, lost. Memories filtered in and out at random. They were like water lapping at the edge of a beach, stretching up across the sand close enough to dip his feet in, but rushing back out before they could stick. Yellow beneath his feet. Red across his hands. Black soaking through his chest. Upton took in another shaky breath. His tongue probed dry, cracked lips, and he stumbled against the nearest wall as rock scrapped his palm. At least it was something solid to cling to.
For a long moment, Upton stood against that wall. He ran soft skin across the surface, noting each jagged edge as its own dangerous weapon. The rock surrounding him was littered with them, and it was nothing like the wide-open fields he last remembered. This time, he was trapped far, far below them. The only solace was that the room was not spinning and trembling with each passing second. The ground stood solid beneath him, there to guide his feet wherever they would take him.
With delicate lashes fluttering to fight off the gloom, the boy began a search for light. His feet wandered over rough ground that fought against his feet for each step. They were slippery and painful against the thin soles of his shoes. Cold began to nip at his skin. As Upton traveled forward, he crossed both arms over his chest. A shiver traveled up his spine and the tips of his ears began to ache. It'd been a long time since he'd last seen such clear signs of winter, but they became clearer the farther he staggered along the unmarked path.
Flakes drifted down as thin trails of light began to pierce him. They were not the warm rays of sunshine he had been searching for, but they gave him a better perception of where he was walking. Black rock turned to grey, flecks of white spilling onto snow skin as Upton approached the wide gaping maw before him. An arch held open the passage but the other side was no salvation.
Another canon rang out. This time, the victim was within eyesight of Upton. The boy saw them a single moment before a glittering silver arrow zipped through the air and pierced their neck. Thick, brown hair swept over her face and twisted around the girl's neck to soak red. Blood poured from the gash and the sound of her hitting the floor was lost amidst the chaos.
Cold smoke curled from Upton's lips as a gasp escaped his throat. His legs grew weak, form wavering as the scene played out before him like he was trapped on the other side of a wall of glass, nothing to do but watch everything unfold. Another tribute, this one tall and sturdy, walked across the slippery floor to retrieve the arrow. A foot was placed on the corpse and pressed indelicately against her chest, leaving a smeared boot print in the river of blood as the metal was yanked back out. Crimson splatter across the man's face, coating thin lips and wiped off with an uncaring hand. And as soon as it was done, his dark eyes darted to find their next target.
The rest of the cave was pure white. The stony ground was covered in a thin, fresh layer of snow and the walls themselves reflected against the surface. Pillars of ice stretched above, twisted in the shape of cascading water as they held aloft the ceiling. Puddles and craters littered the surface as well, tearing rifts between the blanket of snow. Water lapped at their edges, hidden beneath thin sheets of ice. Some were broken, others blurred red from leaking bodies that lay beside them. And above it all, hung a glittering blue shard of ice. Bright, blissful light radiated down from it as it drove away the shadows lurking at the edge of the cavern and gave each tribute a clear view of their opponents.
Between the people scuttling around like an anthill under attack, Upton found his eyes drawn to a series of boxes. They were spaced out at random around the room, a pattern of polka dots from above. The nearest one to the boy had already been torn open. In dark black letters, it read the name "Vayu" along the side of the wood, and as Upton approached it, the thin coating of ice crunched beneath his feet. Inside was nothing but empty planks of wood. The only thing remaining was a small dagger jammed into the side of the crate that had been used to pry it open, and with a harsh tug, Upton freed it from the splinters holding it in place.
The boy wasn't someone for violence. There was no malice left in the empty cavity deep inside his chest, only the rapidly beating sound of fear. Sweaty palms, shivering from the cold, clutched around the handle as tight as possible, and he slowly began to move again.
Once more the room shook with an echoing boom. A scream came behind the noise, hidden from Upton's sight. There was another shriek, this one farther away as the sound carried and bounced through the cavern and off the ceiling. But pale limbs shook only from the cold. Death was not a terrifying thing, it was a fact. A miserable fact at that. Brought back only to die. It should have meant something to the thin tribute that watched with glazed eyes as red soaked more snow, this time only a few feet from his own. Blonde hair, attached to a detached head brushed Upton's shoe. If only he had some string...
His thought was cut short by a sharp, painful grip digging into his arm. Feet stumbling, the boy was pulled away from the scene and tossed behind a pillar of ice. Cold, slippery water brushed his cheeks. Snow white skin turned a burning pink. Fingers scrambled against the rock to stand up, but a firm hand was pressed against the back of his neck to keep him prone. It was not a malicious hand, though the fingers were freezing as they danced briefly over the back of his neck.
Carefully, Upton pulled his head up only enough to risk a glance at the boy squatted above him. His pants were soaked with freezing water, his brown hair messy and tangled with specks of white settles on top it. A vaguely familiar taste flooded the back of Upton's mouth. His tongue swiped over it, savoring the feeling that rose in his throat. It wasn't happiness, but it was something close. Nostalgia. It came with the boy's rounded chin, his brown eyes, and his nervous smile that Oz could place as one he had seen a very long time ago.
Everything in the boy's body warned against the warmth than warmed through the thick sheet of ice guarding his chest. Still, it was hard to ignore the urge. To cling to the only thing he knew to be real. And yet, without even asking, the other boy was already clinging to him tightly as American grabbed Upton's arm for the second time and yanked him up from the ground to stumble into a run. Words flew through his mind only to touch on his lips and fade as soon as they had appeared. What could he even ask in this situation? What made sense to say?
"American!" The yell came not from Upton's lungs, but a young girl's that was standing beside an open box with the young boy's name on it. "I found one that isn't bobby trapped." She opened her mouth to say more, but cut herself off as she saw he wasn't alone approaching her. Holding a knife out to her arm's full length, the unknown girl waved it at Upton in warning. "Stay back."
Upton blinked. He tried to abide by her request, but it was hard to do with American clinging to his arm. Fumbling for words, the boy admitted weakly as he pointed at the crate sitting behind her. "That's my box."
Her eyebrows scrunched tight. "So?"
Shifting on his feet, the boy from Upton's old games attempted to break the tension that had clouded the air around them. "Aspen," he began, clearly addressing the dark haired girl before them, "this is Upton. He was from my games." Even as the words were said, Upton could feel his throat grow tight. The small knife in his palm received a reassuring squeeze. This was a mistake. He was not scared, but he could feel the hostility pointed at him rolling off the girl in waves. It rocked him back on his feet, and Upton took an unconscious step back.
An irritated huff flared out Aspen's nostrils. "I told you to get supplies, not," she waved her knife again in Upton's direction," this." The boy's comfortableness sunk deeper in his chest. He turned his head to go but instead caught the gaze of a boy standing a dozen meters from them with his bow drawn tight and a thin smirk hidden behind the weighty arrow.
There was no time to think. Upton grabbed American and yanked him to the left, trying to pull him out of the way of the arrow. A cry ripped from the older boy's throat. The metal tip pierced the edge of the wooden box, but with it came blood. The liquid began to spill down Meric's side. He fell back into Upton's arm as a curse flew from Aspen's lips. With a tightened jaw and sharp eyes, she reached into the large crate and threw a bag toward Upton.
"Fuck it. Carry him, okay?" she asked, not bothering to wait for an answer as she tossed a dagger back in the direction of the tribute who had shot her ally, and then took off running.
Upton couldn't find the words to argue. He slipped the backpack over one shoulder and American's arm around the other to follow her.
The chill of the room faded as his body was washed over by warm blood.