Chapter Text
Last year, a girl named Aisling Wool won the games. For most people in the country, it was probably unexpected. After all, how could a runt girl from a relatively poor district win? Was it a run of good odds all falling in her favor? Was luck finally turning for the outlying districts who were previously under constant surveillance by the Capitol?
It had nothing to do with good odds or good luck. I could see it as soon as her name was pulled in the Reaping. The hint of a smirk on her face that was ultimately hidden by crocodile tears, the catching of a rose during the Tribute Parade, the perfectly average six in her private evaluation… she was playing the game from the moment it started.
Her strategy in the arena didn’t involve any real physical strength. Which, considering the landscape was an indomitable desert, was a feat in itself. Her only weapon was a knife, and her only supplies were a blanket and a bottle of water. That, and the arena.
She used it entirely to her advantage. She figured out where the traps were and where the mutts originated from on the first day. Then, she led every opponent into them. The stupid ones followed her: why wouldn’t they? The unremarkable girl from eight surely wouldn’t be able to lure them into a trap, after all. And to them, it was just another name to check off on the way to their own victory.
Of course, they didn’t know how to play the game. Not in the way that she did, at least. The arena was her chessboard, and the tributes were her pieces. Her checkmate involved cornering the career boy from two that she had previously rendered weaponless in front of a literal den of snakes.
The gamemakers won’t repeat that this year, though. The arena can’t be a weapon again. It would make it all too easy. Yes, the moss is acidic and could melt your flesh away if you didn’t know better (thank you Ronan, for now I know better), but that’s why it will be difficult to use the arena. Everyone in it will quickly learn about the dangers that the moss holds. You can’t really bait someone into falling into it when everyone knows about it.
So instead of using the chess board, I’ll use the pieces.
“Do you think the Capitol can replace my fingers when I win?”
His voice is so droning it makes me want to claw my own ears off. No, Ronan, you’re not going to win. No, Ronan, they wouldn’t replace your fingers anyways. Your parents will have to see your mangled hand when they open your wooden box to gawk at your corpse.
Katalina just shrugs. Even she’s tired of the whining. I’ve contemplated killing him over the past two days, but what good would that do? As obnoxious as he is, we need the sponsors and attention that District Two always brings. If we were to kill one of their tributes, it wouldn’t bode well for anyone.
Not this early on, at least.
It’s slow going so far. The only tributes that are dead are those who died on the opening day. I know that this doesn’t really benefit me: twelve stand before myself and home. Not only that, but it doesn’t bode well for sponsors. I can act as nonchalant and confident as I want in the lead up to the games (and the bloodbath) but a boring opening few days means no supplies.
Fortunately, we haven’t needed anything. Some of the perks of being a career are that you get the opportunity to fully raid the cornucopia after the bloodbath. Of course, these are only the opening days. When the gamemakers inevitably get bored they’ll send out packs of horrifying muttations and probably poison any natural sources of food and water. Then we’ll actually need the sponsors to keep us alive.
“We should hunt,” Ilmen suddenly announces, stabbing her knife into the ground. “I’m bored, and we need to start taking care of the others.”
I nod. “It’s a good idea. Better than sitting around and waiting.”
“That’s not fair! My hand hasn’t-“
“Your hand is fine,” Erie snaps. “You can’t just hide in the woods because your ego is bruised.”
Ronan scowls. I do my best not to laugh.
“Right,” I announce, “let’s get going.”
-
Cold rain lashes down unrelentingly. It started as soon as we left camp. It’s not exactly shocking— after all, the Capitol wants us to suffer. Even though we’re doing what they want, they still crave seeing us go through the trials and tribulations of the arena.
“Can we not just set up a tent?” Ronan cries out. “It’s too-“
“Shut up!” I hiss, slapping my hand across his chest. “There. Look.”
In the distance, nestled between trees, there’s movement. It’s hardly even visible with all of the rain, but I’ve seen it anyway. When I narrow my vision, it looks like it could be two tributes. Maybe three if we’re lucky. My best guess is a small group that had been made up during training: the boy from five and the boy from seven, who were sometimes joined by the girl from nine. If it is them, this works out in my favor.
“Right, stay quiet and we’ll close in,” I say, just loud enough for the group to hear me over the rain.
I wrap my fingers around a sword and begin to creep towards the group. It’s slow going but I don’t want to take any chances, even with the onslaught of rain around us. Roughly fifteen minutes later, the tent is within reach. I offer a silent nod to Gwynnie, who makes our presence known by stabbing a knife into the tent.
The movement is immediate.
One of them dives out of the tent and attempts to get to his feet, but the rain has made the ground too slippery for him to find any real purchase in it. I assault from the back and swing the blade of my sword into the side of his neck. He dies choking on his own blood.
The boy from seven decides to put up a fight, though. He launches himself at Ilmen as soon as he’s out of the tent and tackles her to the ground. I’m about to attack him in response when the girl from nine suddenly throws herself onto me and wraps her hands around my neck.
I trained for this, unlike her. I drive my elbow backwards and into her ribs. She screeches, but doesn’t relent. I then reach out and pull on her hair: not a simple pull, either. I rip it out in chunks. When this throws her off, I’m able to drive the blade of my sword up through her abdomen. She collapses to the ground and begins twitching. The cannon sounds a few moments later.
When I turn back to the rest of the group, I realize Ilmen is dead and the boy from seven is nowhere to be seen. There’s a huge wound in her throat. Her eyes are open, and huge drops of rain are splattering over them. I can’t stop myself from staring.
“Nine left,” I say after a few moments of silence, “we need to go through their stuff and move out.”
“She- Ilmen’s dead!” Erie sobs. “How can you be so-“
“The hovercrafts will be here to get the bodies soon. Do you really want them to tranquillize you so they can do that?” I snap. “Come on, you can grieve later.”
Three more players down.
-
Erie receives a parachute that night. It’s a collection of green bread rolls with a note from Finnick Odair that reads, “She’s with the sea.” I think it’s all a bit much, but they do it every year. The remaining tribute from four always receives a gift from home, even if they weren’t allied. It doesn’t make sense to me. Gwynnie’s my best friend, but I would never expect a gift after her death.
Our only tradition when a tribute dies is to commiserate with the family. “Sorry your child wasn’t good enough to win,” basically. I had a neighbor who died in the arena. Finnick’s games, actually. She was one of the final three. Nobody really pitied her family. When he came on his Victory Tour, his performance in the final moments was celebrated more than anything.
Despite Erie’s clear weakness for Ilmen, I still think he’s going to join me in the finale. I’m certain it will come down to myself, Erie, and Gwynnie. Ronan will act as a sacrifice in the coming days. I’ll send him into an attack and let him die. Katalina I’m unsure of— she’s strong, but doesn’t seem that smart. Perhaps she’ll die after Ronan, but maybe before.
“Max,” Gwynnie whispers, “it’s your turn to sleep. Go on.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, before standing up and going into one of the tents.
When I curl up inside of a sleeping bag and shut my eyes, all I can see is Ilmen’s unmoving eyes: the rain water splattering off of them, the flecks of blood on her face, the deep and exposed wound that revealed everything in her neck… and then my beliefs are assured.
Erie can grieve all he wants, but he never reached to help her. He knew what would happen to her but he did nothing. In fact, he let him escape. I almost laugh at the realization. He’s putting on a show for nobody but my allies, who are all too stupid to believe otherwise. Everyone in the Capitol and the districts have already seen the evidence. There are only two real competitors here: myself and Erie.
Two opposing kings on a chessboard, working the pieces into a checkmate.