The Northeast Quarter | Mandate Two

L A M O N.

I try to focus on the squeak of my shoes as the rubber soles scrape against the concrete, a pitiful attempt to somehow drown out the noise of the crowd seated somewhere in the colosseum above me. I drag in a slow breath as I try to keep pace with the Peacemakers guiding me towards my inevitable doom. In the dimly lit tunnel, I regret tying my jumpsuit so tightly; it constricts my every breath. Fingers fumble to loosen my collar, a feeble attempt to reclaim some semblance of comfort; the jumpsuit's suffocating grip mirroring my entrapment. The further down the tunnel I go, the more I feel like a stranger inside of my own skin. Almost as if my spirit is trying to flee out of my body, holding onto a piece of outsider knowledge of what fate lies before me as I reach the end of the tunnel.

At the tunnel's end, I shield my eyes from the blinding sunlight, an unwelcome intrusion that adds to my disorientation. The searing heat engulfs me, a stark contrast to my life in District 8. The intensity of the sun forces me to squint, its oppressive presence pulling me into a choking embrace. Back home, I was accustomed to indoor life, to the comforting hum of sewing machines. Here, I'm vulnerable, exposed to the elements. The heat was all consuming for me, demanding my attention no matter how hard I tried to hide behind my hand.

My eyes finally adjust to the brightness, and I find myself settled into place as the Peacemakers slink back towards the entrance which they dragged me through. Part of me wants to run back with them, just to see how far I can make it before I’m mercifully killed by one of the guards for breaking their rules. But, I can’t. I owe it to my family to give this my best shot and continue their legacy. I refuse to let the burden of our family’s expectations slip from my own shoulders and onto my sister.

I can feel my own expression harden as I get my first glance at the circle of tributes standing around the colosseum with me. A collection of strangers dressed in matching clothes to strip us of our individualism, sharing the same dreary fate. But even still, I can see from the varied expressions and stances that none of us are the same. We all carry different lives with us into this arena, different reasons to fight to stay alive.

My gaze drops to my own jumpsuit, a distorted silhouette like all the others. To them, I'm just another faceless tribute from District 8. But for the first time since arriving in the Capitol, I realize that beneath the uniform and the expectations weighing down on my shoulders – I am still Lamon. And as I take my final place alongside the other tributes, I carry with me the memories of who I am, the dreams of a better life, and the unwavering love for those I leave behind. This was my final chance to figure out exactly what it meant to be me.

"Let the-" The scratching noise echoing through the sound system causes me to flinch, dropping my hand down to my side as I clench my hands into fists. Not as a sign that I am ready to fight, but merely to dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand – a last ditch effort to wake myself up from this nightmare I’ve been thrust into against my will. "Let the Ninth Annual Hunger Games commence."

I watch as some tributes dash towards the shaded area at the center, driven by secrets and strategies known only to them. My own path to survival likely lies in that shade, a sanctuary of weapons and supplies. More importantly, an escape from this heat that seemed to be piercing through my pale skin, creeping into my pores the longer that I stood there. I try to will my feet to move, but fear holds me in place. Desperation claws at me, and my nails dig into my palm -- a painful reminder of the horrors that await if I remain frozen in place for much longer.

Tears blur my vision, and with shaky resolve, I take a hesitant step backward. The sand beneath my boot betrays me, sending me tumbling to the ground. Embarrassment flushes my cheeks, but the sudden respite from the scorching sun on my skin offers a small comfort. A small oasis of shade that stretches only wide enough to cover my face from a direct ray of sun. I look up to see the towering structure of the arena, its lattice of stone casting fascinating patterns of light and shadow.

I find a strange beauty in the structure, small gaps in the stone allowing in the slightest bit of light between each row of stone crossing over each other. I wonder what things would look like from up there, but then I remember the heat beating down on me moments before. An unforgiving reminder of the loss of any sense of comfort I’ve ever known. If the heat of the sand underneath my palms burned this much, I can’t imagine the heat coming off the top of the rock so high above me. Instead my eyes return to the few figures still standing around me, eyes wide and hopeful that someone will show me an ounce of pity. A look of desperation as I silently plead for even a fraction of guidance from the group of tributes who look just as lost as me.

L A M O N.

My gaze remains locked on the mesmerizing pattern of light filtering through the gaps in the stone structure above. The beauty of the moment steals my attention, making me oblivious to the distant scream of the Gamemaker. The sun's warmth bathes my skin, and for an instant, I am lost in its gentle caress. But the cracking noise that tears through the colosseum replaces the warmth with a chill as the pergolas above me begin to crumble in front of my eyes. The stone shapes, part of the arena's lattice, shift and twist, creating a breathtaking, ever-changing mosaic of light on my skin.

Time slows to a crawl as I begin to fall, the familiar heat of the sand under my palms replaced by a rush of cool air as I descend into the abyss below. A sharp pop in my shoulder registers before I can react. Blinking slowly, I attempt to make sense of the chaos around me. Another deafening crash echoes nearby, sending shockwaves through my frozen limbs. Distant screams and groans reach my ears, but the ringing in my head drowns them out. A closer thud snaps me out of my daze, and I witness the sky appear to split open before my eyes, releasing a shower of jagged stone fragments.

No scream escapes my lips; there's no time to process the fear that courses through me. I scramble onto my hands and knees, determined to crawl to safety. A rock scrapes down my bicep, and a searing pain shoots up my shoulder, forcing me back onto my side. My face contorts in agony as I clutch my injured arm, feeling warm blood seeping through my fingers. My eyes snap open just in time to see a final rock hurtling toward me. I roll out of its path and find refuge beneath a massive boulder, wedged against the tunnel wall.

Gasping for breath and assessing my surroundings, I hear a cry from somewhere above, the words indistinct but filled with panic. The sound of creaking draws my attention away from the unknown commotion. "Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck!" A string of expletives comes from my left, leaving me baffled. It seems the cascade of objects from above has ceased, emboldening me to cautiously peer from behind the boulder.

Then, it hits me like a ton of bricks—the onrushing wave hurtling down the corridor. A gasp barely escapes my lips before my mouth is filled with water, choking and disorienting me. I throw my hands out instinctively, trying to shield myself, but the force is overwhelming. Water surges past, sweeping me off my feet and propelling me deeper into the corridor, the sunlight above vanishing. My body contorts in ways I couldn't have imagined as I struggle against the relentless current. Desperately, I reach out, grasping for anything to anchor me and prevent the abyss from swallowing me whole.

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