Ever creeps through the grass, slightly hunched over, her hair lopsided where it had fallen out and she'd tried to put it back in a haphazard ponytail. Her tummy aches with emptiness. Strands of grass are tied around her wrists and, with her shovel tucked under one arm, her delicate fingers are plaiting absently, flickering around each other. But she's not paying any attention to the action.
She wishes she had Buttons with her. Just somebody to talk to now the grass is ignoring her. It is still hiding her trail but it doesn't want to talk. It is cross with her for disturbing the dead girl.
She thinks about the dead people she has seen. The big man-mountain creature, strangled by the sulky girl who laughed about the Capitas. Ever had hit her with the shovel for that because she'd wanted to kill her, Ever, too. She hadn't said it, she'd pretended she was worried but Ever could see that she didn't mean it.
She saw the sulky girl die too, stabbed straight through by the dead girl. She had been up in her tree, comfortable, and she had seen movement and blood and then the girl and the boy were dying and eventually they died, and she'd sung to herself very quietly and looked away when the robot boy had dragged the bodies into the grass.
Ever Greenmore is used to seeing people die. But not with so much blood.
The world around her is a nice orange-purple like she sometimes sees growing over home from the top of the trees. It reminds her of fire, the warm glow of it in the chill winter, but not the bad kind of fire which is the sort that races from tree to tree and burns everything in its path black and ashy. The kind that makes people cry.
A few stars twinkle up above but she can't tell which picture they're from, and they're pretty on their own anyway. Nice stars. They are watching her. Like the grass, they will look after her.
Ever's uncanny sense of direction pulls her closer towards the Cornucopia.
The moon beams down over the arena, bathing everything in untouchable silver. The moon has seen everything. It watched before Panem, as the world imploded on itself, and it watched the last vestiges of civilization rise out of the ashes. It watched it band together and break apart again, watched the firebombs and the crumbling buildings. It has hovered over all ninety nine arenas under construction, then in use, and it has seen the crowning of ninety eight victors.
Tonight it watches as, on the stroke of midnight, as the anthem is playing across the arena, items appear out of the sky and drift to the ground around the Cornucopia. It finds itself blocked by a picture of a girl, and it listens as a woman's voice resonates over the grass.
"Hello, tributes! It is nice to see you! Would you like something to eat or drink? I'm afraid we can't offer you a seat, but that's okay because you need to be on your toes anyway! Remember, at the crack of dawn all unclaimed items will be vanishing from the arena. But you have plenty of time until then! Use it wisely!"
Tentatively, a shadowy figure pokes its head out of the grass, eyes taking in the scene. Items, boxes, are scattered around like a replica of the bloodbath, except this time they are washed in gentle silver and the golden Cornucopia seems to be all angles and shadows. The figure doesn't stop to pick any of them up, taking refuge instead underneath the cold silver-gold rim.
There is no wind. For a few minutes, there is only the sound of heavy panting coming from the figure; they have run to get here.
Then, a quick rustling noise whips around the edge of the grass, the source not emerging. The figure sheltering in the Cornucopia presses a hand to its mouth and slowly leans down, wide eyes staring out at the eerie emptiness between itself and the grass. Somebody is out there and now they are stuck. This was a bad idea. Perhaps if they stay very still...
Mercedes peers out of the grass. Her eyes ache with the strain of trying to see in the dark - it is never truly dark in Six - and with the effort of not crying. It doesn't look like anybody else is here. She can't hear anything. She bites back the swearwords that threaten to explode from her tongue, just in case.
She wishes that Martin were here.
She feels exposed without somebody else around, and with just the sickle by her side and the blowgun that she's only just got the hang of using slung around her back. This isn't home; her sharp tongue will do her no good here. Because she feels like she has to do something with her hands, she ties her two plaits, miraculously still quite unfrayed, into a knot at the back of her head. A bit too tight, but that's a good thing. It makes her angry rather than empty, though her stomach still grumbles away.
Mercedes Fadle sits, her knees drawn to her chest, sickle held tightly by her side, her eyes fixed on the pieces of the scene she can see through the strands of grass. Her face is pale, lit by the moon. And she barely blinks.
One hour passes. The figure in the Cornucopia barely dares to move, puffs of frosty breath curling around its face. It can't feel its feet. There's a bow and arrow not far away; it shuffles over to them, pressing up to the freezing metal of the horn. It used them in training and was good, a combination of patience, natural strength and a steady hand, according to the instructor. May as well use the advantage of distance.
Mercedes is still motionless. A few water tracks run down her cheeks but her face is stone. She will wait until everybody has been and gone. And then she will take what she can get and run. She has stolen so many times, but she can't convince herself that this is any fucking different.
A head pokes out of the grass opposite her, followed by a body. She doesn't even narrow her eyes; from this far away the only thing that she can make out is the stark pale bandage around one arm and the fact that this arm doesn't move as the figure breaks into a run.
Rain's blood is so loud in her head that people must be able to hear it, if there are people here. She has listened and heard nothing but she can never be sure. It feels like one side of her body is missing without her arm and her breath comes in gasps and all she can really see are the packages. It flashes through her mind; she doesn't know what she's looking for.
She skids to a halt, casting a quick glance at the tail of the Cornucopia, pointing away from her. She can't see the entrance. But this whole place feels so eerily empty...there can't be anybody around. Just her. She has time.
Her back prickles, expecting something sharp to lodge itself in it at any moment. The first box falls out of her trembling hand and hits the ground with a low thud; she gasps, then presses a hand to her mouth and hunches over, tears springing to her eyes.
But nothing happens.
She had thought that her heart was racing before. Now it threatens to burst right out of her chest. Her knee is bumped repeatedly by her useless arm, and maybe it's just her mind but she can smell something kind of rotten. She takes a deep, shuddering breath but it doesn't help to calm her down.
She has to use her chattering teeth to tear the brown paper off the boxes. Something about this reminds her absurdly of presents at home, when it was normal to get a small present after the reaping. It was never very much and Rain can't remember anything that she got in this way, except for her token, which hangs uselessly around her neck. And they haven't done it for a while. Perhaps it was only a ritual for small children.
Mercedes watches as the figure, gasping every so often, rips a package open with its teeth and throws it aside, scuttling on to the next one. Her arm drags uselessly behind her. It looks like it could be just another piece of clothing, or a totally separate organism altogether. Wounded, Mercedes thinks. Good.
The stick-thin shape sobs briefly to itself - herself - and presses a hand to her mouth. Mercedes can't help a small snicker; should have thought of that before you cried. The girl discards another package - Mercedes catches a glint of metal - and moves along again, jolting upright in between and her head snapping around. Unlike everything else, the light softens her already round face, erasing all trace of the sunburn that used to linger there more effectively than any of the Capitol creams.
Mercedes draws back a little, and the girl doesn't see her. Slowly, she reaches behind her back and draws out the blowgun. It feels brittle in her hands, the stem blending perfectly with the grass. The girl is moving towards her as she hops from package to package; if she carries on, she'll be in range.
Rain rips open another box, but this one is empty. Her throat wells up thickly into a cry. She ought to get closer to the Cornucopia, where the more valuable things will be. Medicine is valuable, after all. But she can't shake the feeling that the grass, so similar to the crops at home, is safety. If somebody turns up, she doesn't want to be caught in the open.
If somebody turns up, she is dead.
Something weaves in and out of his view in the periphery of the Cornucopia. A chill races down his spine. It could be a ghost, pale and stumbling. He's never been one to believe in ghosts - the grass can play tricks on you sometimes - but for a second, it is Flora, come to remind him.
That's stupid, he tells himself. You can't even tell if it's a boy or a girl.
The bow trembles in his hand. He stares at it as if wondering what it is doing there, and a bead of sweat creeps down his forehead despite the cold. He must have notched an arrow at some point because one rests there now, slim and menacing and exuding power from every inch. It feels both part of him and nothing to do with him. Why did he pick it up if he wasn't willing to use it?
The ghost doesn't seem to be going anywhere in particular, just drifting from box to box.
Suddenly, it is on its feet, mouth a wide gaping black hole, and there's a rustling noise in the bushes. Something flickers through the air over the ghost's head, so small that Gavin nearly misses seeing it. The ghost lets out some kind of noise and whirls in his direction; whatever is shooting must be coming from the grass. But if the ghost is coming this way, it will see him, and if it sees him...
He fumbles with the bow and holds the string wrong, adjusting it quickly with one eye on the lurching ghost and his mind shouting so many things at him all at once. This is nothing like in training but he finds his body adopting the stance automatically; feet shoulders width apart, shoulders back, bowstring cutting into the cheek. Strong and designed for balance, power and aim. He closes one eye, half of the arena vanishing in one movement, blind to any detail. The ghost hasn't seen him yet and just runs, straight towards him, getting bigger and bigger, a growing target...
Gavin releases the string, Rain's eyes lock onto his and the world falls apart as the cannon goes off.
Mercedes watches, ready to fire, as the girl staggers, stutters and collapses, momentum carrying her forwards so she only impales herself further on the arrow that shot her. It takes her a moment to work out that somebody must have fired the arrow.
Shit.
If she runs, she'll make a sound and they'll follow...
That's as far as her thought train gets before a boy stumbles out of the Cornucopia, heading straight for the body of the girl. She thinks that she recognises him as the boy from Nine and drops all thought of running away. He won't notice her. He's just killed his district partner. What a fucking genius.
She takes a few breaths to calm herself. They seep into the air in small clouds; the boy's desperate sobs are short sharp gasps that dissipate almost instantly. He holds the corpse's hand, tears dripping from his nose and gabbling a lot of nonsense that she can barely hear, let alone understand. She only catches the occasional word: Nine...live...rain...please...no, then no repeated over and over again until his head is in his hands, chunks of dark hair poking out between now bloodstained fingers.
Suddenly, he pauses. The arena is still. A long sigh hangs in the air and he turns his head up to the moon, the stars that are almost the same as at home. They could be close to Nine now.
Mercedes trusts herself to stand up. She doesn't think she makes a noise, but the boy closes his eyes and sinks to his knees and starts talking to her.
"I know you're out there," he sighs, "Come on."
He hears a rustling. Mercedes has stepped out from the grass, her face stone, her hands clutching onto the blowgun and her beady eyes watching coolly. He doesn't see her. He only sees Rain's eyes in that split second that he fired, over and over and over again. But he is washed with calm now, because he knows for certain...
"I can't live," he says, more to himself than to Mercedes, "I...I don't deserve to."
She stops her steady advance mid-step. Something in that reminds her of Martin, hunched over on the rocks and staring down into the rushing water. Her arms lock in place; she can't lift the blowgun to fire.
This is different to Rafe, she tells herself, this boy has nothing to live for. Look at him. He's a fucking mess.
The boy sighs.
Mercedes lifts the blowgun to her lips, shocked to find that she is shaking so badly that she can't aim. That must have been why she'd fucking missed the girl earlier, though she's glad she did because otherwise she wouldn't have known that the boy was here.
She casts a quick glance around, but there's nobody else around. Except there must be. People must be watching. Perhaps Ford is, though she'd bet he's not the sort to sit and watch when he's told. Or maybe he recognises her and feels like he ought to watch. In which case, he'd be urging her to kill him and scoot.
She half-expects him to fight back, but he doesn't, and he doesn't open his eyes. The first dart misses, whistling over his shoulder. She curses to herself and quickly loads another, sure that he's going to run now, because he's not serious, he's at least going to fight.
But he doesn't.
Gavin sighs to himself. It doesn't hurt. Whatever poison is now coursing through his bloodstream, it is heavy but painless. He hears the person - he doesn't want to know who it is - rifling through some of the packages, then running away through the grass, and he presses his cheek next to Rain's cold face as his body becomes numb.
The stars have moved. The first faint washings of blue are starting to seep over the horizon, though they aren't visible over the grass. The moon's light is softer, the night chill fading away.
Ever Greenmore creeps out from behind the boxes in the Cornucopia, holding her shovel tight. It was comfortable there. Safe. Nobody was going to look for her. Somebody came in a long time ago but they didn't say anything or find her and even though her tummy was sick and worried, she went to sleep, and then the booming noises woke her up. And then she went back to sleep again.
Images of trees and squirrels still loiter around her mind, playing at the corners of her eyes. The Capitas buzz at the back of her brain. But they aren't here yet; it's just the leftovers of a dream.
Ever yawns and stretches out aching legs and arms, knocking a box over with a dull thud. She giggles, "Silly Ever."
And then she sees a shadow leaning on the wall of the big horn, and looking right at her..