kingdom of isolation { riders vs evergladers vs chatterbox }

There were four wooden crosses in a field, born out of the grey of your dreams.

You remembered that your mother would tie white ribbons to them, and sit on her knees in the fresh green of the grass. Your father's calloused hand held yours as you waited by the gates of the little cemetery, ferryman between the dead and living, your grounding to this earth. She would say their names, sometimes, so soft the wind swept them off to the ends of the earth. You thought she was pretty in those moments, hair tussled down past her shoulders, plain blue dress hitched at her knees, a gentle smile across her lips. Death may have been ugly, but it could bring such beautiful things.

What would you have done with them, brothers, sisters? The thought is strange, twisting back and forth underneath your eyelids until it vanishes altogether. It wasn't worth dreaming about what could've been-you thought it brought too much heartache and heaviness. Your mother had always taught you that all of their love had been saved up just for you; water to be drunk up while you grew, settled and patient. Perhaps it was a normal sort of life, with skinned knees and going to market on Sundays, but it was your life all the same. You were greedy enough to want to go back to this, to live long enough that there could be another afternoon at the market, looking at dresses embroidered in gold and silver.

Smoke filled the camp at morning, and the others were quiet. Stillness threatened to wrap you up tight, and instead you did what came naturally, filling the silence. I feel like my feet are freezing off. What time do you think it is? Are we going to go somewhere else? Your hand presses a thick log into your knapsack-you hadn't bothered to organize it, instead focusing on shoving down everything until you could pull the zipper across the top. You paused to stare at the face on your backpack (Shelby, the bravest women of district eight) before pulling the thing atop your back.

Mercy took the lead, and you followed, with Gabriel hobbling behind, and Raven serving as the caboose. They pressed through the snow, and you couldn't help but stare up at the sky (the sun glaring down through the snow hurt your eyes). "It's cold…" You break the silence again, pack heavier and heavier, "My feet hurt…" Little voice echoing, "Why do we have to walk so far?" But you knew the answer; there were twenty other bodies stamping about the arena, and none of them would waste a moment if it meant getting rid of you. Shifting the weight of your pack, you picked up the pace, settling next to Mercy.

"Do you want me to braid your hair?" You hoped it wasn't rude-she had such lovely wavy hair, and it would've been lovelier tied back along her back. That would make her look like a real warrior, hair plaited and face firm. Not like a knight-you thought it was strange to think of things here as good or bad-but as one of your fellow pirates. It was easier whiling away the hours envisioning them as part of your crew, swabbing decks and taking down other tribute ships. Wayfaring across the arena with Mercy the bold, Gabriel the lucky, Raven the quick, and Captain Gilly. You hoped you wouldn't be flying the flag half-mast any time soon.

I mean, I guess so, if you want to. She spoke and you smiled. Mercy was like the older girls of your district, stern and certain. Except she didn't put you down, or shoo you away. Maybe next time we stop.

The stretch of snow was less wide, with an outcropping of rocks scattered along the sides as you head further up the mountain. Each breath took more effort, and aside from one glance down (showing you a drop that turned your stomach upside down and right side up), you stared down at your feet to make sure they were on level footing. You started noticing little bumps sticking out, and leaned over to see frozen bodies in the snow (oh my gosh! you whispered). Perhaps the older boys and girls would know their names, but to you they were just tributes that had fallen. Reminders that this world was not fair, that not everyone would wake tomorrow.

It was the sight of a little body turned on her side that caught your attention. Her gentle face stared over the boy who's hand she held; they smiled at one another, even through the pain. Mahlah Shea held Elon's hand, two bodies lost in embrace. There had been many before you, those young and old, that faced this world. They did not lose their heart, no matter all the pain and sorrow.

An echo of rocks dropping down the side had you stare forward, just as Mercy stepped ahead.

Guys… She tensed, and you felt your heart begin to pound in your chest. Gilly, move.

This was the same girl that had been ripped to shreds, and left behind. The one that had sat with you in the training center when no one else would. One who's wavy curls deserved a pretty twist, a moment where the two of you could laugh like the world hadn't changed to blades and blood. She launched forward, slicing into the girl from four with ease. Exar hulked beyond her, but it was your district partner's face that made your face burn.

All of them had gone for Gabriel as though he was nothing, surely, they would go for you now. You'd killed Apollo and the blood would never wash from your hands. You wanted to apologize-but your stubborn heart stopped you. They would take your words and use them as a knife in your heart, would they not? And C'Rizz, for all of his talk about death seemed to have forgotten what he'd said at the reaping. Bigger kids were all hypocrites (you imagined if you lived long enough, it got harder to believe in all the things you wanted to).

It wasn't that you were ready to fight them; on the contrary, your hands were already shaking as you pulled apart your knapsack. If the bloodbath was any indication, they would tear you apart, limb from limb. Yet there you were, knife in hand, smothered in tar. What had you told Mercy that morning in the training center?

Do you want to be courageous with me?

"Don't lay a finger on her." You lit the flame on your knife, and shadows danced across your face. What would Shelby do? What would Captain Gilly do? What would it matter, right now, if you stepped forward and swung with all of your might?

"Hnnnnnngh!"

[Gilly uses tar + fire making and lights knife]
[Gilly stabs C'Rizz with her flaming knife]

                                       HOME;

And, this sky’s almost as palpable as a ghost—wisps of clouds fleeting away every time my fingers try to grasp them. The wind howls, and the chatter of my teeth hasn’t stopped since forever. I stand on the summit, overlooking the wonderland below me.

After hours of treading through snow and slush, we’ve finally reached the zenith of the arena: the high peak of the crooked mountain. The two carbon-copied moons hang above us like silver sentinels, watching our every footfall. Along the way, Gillian pleaded the summit to be a snowy paradise strewn about with items and I remember hoping, for a heartbeat of a second, that the plea is granted. But, of course, the arena grants only disappointment. I feel mocked at myself for clinging on to hope.

We stand in a junkyard caked in snow. Prodding out of the white expanse is an array of items, all worn and torn yet timeless at the same time. I use the tip of my shoe to scrape the snow off a glistening trinket with the curiosity of a child. The snow retreats and reveals a pin belonging to Four. A trident. The one next to it is a property of Seven—a small piece of bronze shaped as an axe. Then, the realization dawns like sunlight. Oh. Oh. Oh.

They’re tokens. Fragments of home.



Suddenly nauseous, I take a step back, left palm flying to cover my mouth because it wants to throw up water. I swallow the lump in my throat and try not to falter into a nervous wreck as I turn to face the others.


“Guys—t-tokens. They’re tokens of past tribu—.” A scream tears through the air, Gillian’s. Instincts kick in and I’m already by her side, fingers knotted into a fist around the ski pole of a spear Mercy had traded for my climbing peg. There, I make the grave mistake of looking—and blinking—and staring.

What stares back at me are dead eyes, dead limbs and dead faces. Like porcelain on snow, Achilles Muto glowers at us, her marble bones webbed with cracks. Pillar Fray sprawls over snow, embodying a fallen angel with butterflied wings of snow sprouting out of her spine. Wylla from the last quell, innocence lingering in her hollow form. Other faces—Lumiere, another Fray, a golden-haired boy (Alas, Altos—no, it’s Atlas.)—lay discarded in a desultory fashion. Insulted and mocked, even in their death. I steer Gillian’s eyes away from the overall atrocity of it. Fury explodes in my ears.

We’re at a funeral.

But, there’s no chance to give our condolences ‘cause a troop of ghosts manifest into physical beings near us, glacially levitating into view. Recognition flashes when the boy from Two steps towards me and the others.



They wear colors and garments instead of white robes but I can see that they have no bones beneath their skin. If there is, I’ll take the pleasure in breaking them. Like the lumberjacks hymned back in the trees: freedom always comes with a fee. Mercy is the first to release her wrath and then—not much to my surprise—Gillian plunges at ‘em. I ready the pole and lash out at the one Mercy swung her knife at.

I am Mother Nature’s reservist.
And the call to arms has already been blared.

“Holy Crap!”

The knife went into his thigh, it went into his leg and you pulled it out, you literally just stabbed him in his leg! How did people do this day in and day out, knife in flesh, or watching people get their limbs chopped off? Pulling on the hilt of your blade, you slipped on the ice and snow. The knife slid out with a sound unfamiliar to your ears (sort of like the pop you make sucking in air with your lips), and shined crimson in the light of day. Your stomach wanted to press up through your chest and into your throat, but somehow your quick beating heart kept everything down.

Death is upon you, darling. Be glad. C’Rizz had struck you as an oddball when he gave a speech on the reaping stage. He talked about not fearing death, which was fair considering that death was a part of life. Your pop-pop and mom-mom had died when you were but five years olds (pop-pop first, from a fever, and mom-mom from a broken heart). Except you reasoned that death at the hands of someone with an axe was far less peaceful than dying in your sleep. Besides, you would much rather have had a choice in the matter (as unlikely as that was now), not because some crazy boy was trying to his revenge on you. He didn’t give you much time to think it over further, his blade nicking your spindly wrist.

“Ummmm… that’s a weird thing to say?” Older kids put so much effort into justifying what they were doing. Was there supposed to be a significance to everything that you ever said? You felt like it was pretty obvious as to why you were trying to get one of them to die—either they did, or you did, and at the present moment, you didn’t feel like laying down and expiring (even if your toes seemed mostly frozen, and your nose was constantly running). You supposed it came with growing up, having to shield yourself from what you really meant. It hurt, the times when you showed yourself and got nothing in return. Worse still, what was more terrifying than being exactly who you said you were, only to have the world want you to be someone else?

They’d make fun of you for playing pretend, but it sure seemed like the rest of them did so as well. Maybe not like you pretending to be a pirate and talking with a fake brogue (arrr, I’m here for your booty!), but with turns of phrase, or hiding behind a disposition that betrayed shaking hands and quiet voices. Except C’Rizz was terrifying because he wanted to believe that death wasn’t scary—and that made him worse than any of the other tributes you’d come to face. There were so many things that all the rest of them probably took for granted, like getting to stay up late watching the stars, or swimming on a hot summer’s day in the creek by your house. Twelve years wasn’t nearly enough time to do any of things you were supposed to have done, let alone be happy that all of it was about to be over.

There were your hands shaking again. How could Gabriel, with a broken knee, be so ready to launch into battle just to save your skin? Or Raven, who’d barely said two words to you, stand so bravely by Mercy’s side? They found something to believe in, to be brave. Even when faced with a creature that looked like a mix between a molting burn victim and a deformed goat, they didn’t blink an eye. Wait a minute.

“What the freak IS THAT?!” No. You were not having this—the crazy boy from eight? Fine, he wanted to kill you for Apollo’s sake. The girl with the arrows, she was just following along. Exar? A bloodthirsty career. But that disgusting creation that had just slashed into Raven? You wanted to get away from it as soon as possible. Did the gamemakers think all of you together were boring, and that they had to add this abomination to spice things up? You imagined them laughing, too, as the thing chased you down the length of the mountain.

What would Shelby do? You looked to your motley crew and took a deep breath. There was only one answer, and it was not finding a cave to hide yourself in until all of this was over.

“This—is my crew. And this—is me telling you, no thank you, not today, no sir.” Both hands wrapped around the hilt of your knife and you tried to spread your legs apart, ready to swashbuckle C’Rizz Moon off the edge of the mountain. If you could make him bleed once, you could do it again. And maybe this time you’d get the knife to go all the way through.

“Yaaaargh!”

[Gilly swashbuckles (stabs) C’Rizz Moon with her knife]

                                       WAR-CRY;

Since the bloodbath, I’d adapted to the barbaric mayhem of the Games for survival like any creature that needs to live on. Chaos isn’t as garish as it was before. There’s even a twisted sense of beauty to splatters of crimson on white. My heart neither coils nor protests when the silver of my spear scratches Eva Tidestone’s cheek and she bleeds ichor. Voices whisper like wind into my ear: ‘everything is fair in love and war’.

And, this war isn’t composed of wooden swords or red capes. It’s bloodshed, the kind that padlocks you in a coffin with no key. We’re an array of shooting stars and by the time I blink—someone can just flicker out. Gillian’s already caught flare, putting up a barricade against her district partner whilst Gabriel aids her, bringing down his spear in a fiery arc that draws blood.

Mercy’s next to me—caught in a maelstrom of knives and arrows. Despite the fresh scars littered across her frame, she is prismatic and iridescent with life in the high of battle. First to break violence, first to metamorphose into a war angel, the climbing peg held like an extension of her hand. I can almost catch the aura of her scarlet determination.

Teeth-clenched, I turn to keep my focus back on Eva Tidestone, observing the arrow in her palms—calculating the odds that are never in our favor. One foot advances towards her but before my spear can embed itself into flesh, something cuts me in the chest. It’s the first of many abrasions that are going to find home between the pores of my skin. However, the ‘something’ besides me start a noise—plucking me out of reveries.

Brown circles turn to gaze, and instantaneously, I wish I didn’t. What comes first is the stench of rotting flesh, making nostrils shrink and flinch. The second feature is the body stitched with black feathers, bent and disjointed in awkward angles that makes me curse myself for ever setting my gaze upon it.

My mind plummets into a spiral—but I try to recollect myself, putting distance amid me and the creature, emphasizing back onto Eva Tidestone’s arrows.

It takes effort to project these syllables at Eva Tidestone, but I do—just to soften whatever hard feelings and turbulence we have amid us through a spoken question. “Do you think of home when you shoot your arrows?” I make a fist around my spear, roots sprouting from flesh—sinking into the silver. “Or do you think of us, lying in a grave?” It leaps like grey lightning from my hand. Please, I beg to thunder and nature and the stars. Strike her down. “Think of happy things, Eva’.”