The Bloodbath

On the first day of the 93rd Hunger Games, Haizea counts her blessings all the way into the elevator shaft. Over the last two weeks, she’s felt like she’s only got fewer and fewer left, but she’ll need all she’s got left now that she’s at the helm of things. This is it, she thinks to herself, straightening her new outfit out as much as she can before lift off. Marsha’s been kind to her, made light out of all the dark creeping through the corners, but at the end it’s still this.

The bloodbath.

A creature with teeth larger than she. Haizea wonders where her friends are as her eyes adjust to the bright sun - it’s pretty here! That’s, at least, a good sign, but she can’t help but question what all hides behind the veneers. Maverick should be somewhere out there; would he be friend or foe? As nice as he’s been up until now, she still couldn’t shake how bad an idea it would be to saddle with more than one career.

No sign of Itzal, but she makes brief eye contact with Karl. Had Harbinger given him the same advice he gave Haizea? Would they become competition over time? No doubt, she feared being on the other side of whatever weapon that boy finds himself acquainted with. It overwhelms her quick: the fear. More and more so she realized how few allies she truly had, so she found comfort away from the ticking counter and in Brennan Fitzgerald.

”Please don’t run without me,” he says.

”Don’t have to tell me twice!”

〖    b r e n n a n    f i t z g e r a l d    〗

"Lime. Really? What do you guys get, last dibs? It's going to clash with my hair and everything."

I'm being dramatic on purpose at this point. Is there anything better to do when I'm a few moments away from ensured destruction? I nod along as my stylist, whose name seems to be the only one in this entire scene that escapes me, offers up some last-minute tips on how to maintain a fashionable aesthetic while also being fit to fight. What I'm wearing is called a hakama, a traditional piece of clothing from a land far-removed from the present experience of our country. They were used during important ceremonies as well as martial arts. The fit has considerable width and flow, making it easy to move around in as well as fight in, I'd presume. And given the occasion of today's… event… the choice for an arena outfit is particularly suiting.

My stylist points right below my neck. There, in a darker green, are my initials, B.F. How sweet, at least they put enough thought in to make this a collector's item for a rich Capitol fan who manages to win it in an auction. My thumb glosses over the embroidery, it's soft and firm at the touch.

They look to me pensively. "I'm sorry if you don't like it…"

"No-" I insert. A phase of guilt descends on my expression. At the end of the day, they're just doing their job. It's a stupid job with a ton of ethical issues, but I could go on about the sickening pageantry of people who just want to be normal.

"It's fine. I don't mind it one bit." It's better to lie when a situation calls for it. Their frown comes off in an instant, and an exhausted smile rises up on my own. They seem to care for me more than I care for them, and maybe it's because their livelihood depends on me and mine doesn't at all. They usher me towards the pod, ready to rise up in about thirty seconds or so. Any last words, pretty thing? Give me some last minute advice that you've never told the twenty people who have died before you. I've wanted to feel comfortable and safe for seventeen years, but today I know that the sweet nothings of delicate reassurances can't rescue me from condemnation.

Heels click and fingers cross in a superstitious gesture on their end. "I'm sure you'll do great! Show them how it's done."

Fuck that. I might as well pray like I'm a man whose faith has never waivered. I walk into the pod and sit down with my legs crossed, head resting against the smooth glass safeguards.

The pedestal rises and my head smears against the round glass. One last rest, one last hope, one last prayer. My mind bounces back and forth, atoms rattling in a cage, trying to think of the secret password that opens up the door to Hunger Games enlightenment in my brain.

Open sesame.

Abrakadabra.

Pretty please.

Nothing. Desperation marks my brow. Please, I'm trying here.

My head slips as the dark rising wall's runway comes to a close. Now, there's a pleasant light. The scent of damp greenery twists an intense situation with an ambiance of tranquility.

This won't last. Everything beautiful has a tendency to wither away in circumstances like this. It's just the way our world works. Pretty things die, sick things last. The story doesn't favor the good guy; it hasn't in ninety-two years and it certainly won't in year ninety-three. Haze is standing on one of the nearby spots. I shoot her a wave as I pull myself up from the base of the pedestal and rise to two feet.

Please. I beg my head one more time for whatever being out there to listen and help. There's not a better option for me than hoping that my friends will make it all okay.

The clock strikes five and I swallow the last of my nerves befour getting ready to run.

Three.

What I wouldn't give to have any other name than my own two weeks ago.

Wishes, hopes, faith— they're all disguises for the truth. The one reality: this moment.

I'm gliding off of the pedestal, flying for just a moment. But my feet sink along with acceptance that this is the reality, the situation I have no choice but to engage in.

To: The Brennan of Yesterday

Forgive me for the person we are about to become.

[brennan enters the bloodbath]

niko






































He was so far from home. Light years away from his sister, his good-for-nothing father, and his job. Wrenched unexpectedly from his little world into the spotlight he never asked for. Like the rest of his life, no one was there for him to wish him good bye and hold his hand.

Stepping into the tube, he examined the clothes his stylist had given him before rushing off. He understood, he was just another tribute on his way to the slaughterhouse. There is no point wasting time on a soon-to-be wasted corpse. If Itzal had only waited a few more minutes to volunteer, it would be that other girl standing next to the tube in the yellow and black costume waiting to rise into the arena.

With nothing but time while he waits, Niko is forced to think back to district five. It was nothing like the wonder-filled Capitol, but all he wanted to was to be back home. He could see Benji, go back to work, and be able to bring Kat her crayons when he could afford them.

Kat- just thinking her name sent shivers of heartbreak coursing through his veins. There's no way she can understand what's going on. One day he's home, the next he's not. She'll be stuck with their father, who will force her to starve because of his professional choices, and their father will never be able to gift her own markers again.

His idling mind shifts to a picture of her, sitting in the kitchen and sketching out pictures of miraculous lands with stumps of colored wax. The ones he got her for her birthday were probably almost out. Maybe a neighbor or Benji will feel sorry for her once Niko dies and bring her a pair of markers.

Tribute, take your position. A voice says over the speaker, and he powerlessly and silently moves to take his spot on the podium.

The glass closes around him, and he's lifted into the blinding light of the arena.

60. The timer begins, announcing the countdown to his death.

He squints, assessing his situation. He sees Itzal somewhere nearby, and Dorothy a few tributes away. The cornucopia, well, he's not even sure how to describe it. It's a landscape he's never seen, an unfamiliar premise. At least the tributes weren't thrust into zero-gravity again.

In the distance, he sees a large body of water and stream offshoot from it.

30.

Doing a 180, he sees fields of water and some green plants in rows. Beyond that, some danger looms in pink.

20.

Facing the cornucopia once again, he sees the cliffs in the distance. The mountains, imposing in the background, lay the backdrop for the death that is sure to occur.

5.

Shit, how did time run out so fast.

3.

I need a drink, he thinks to himself.

2, 1.

Then he runs.

---

e l m  -  e r r i n g t o n

In the moments before this all begins to end, is it cliche for my life to flash before my eyes?

I want to think of everything useful in this moment – that my uniform isn’t particularly warm, that the flowing fabric might easily get caught in the hands of others, that I need to remember my strategy for survival.

(Do I have a strategy for survival?)

Instead, my thoughts are full of the past. I envision my home, so placid and normal, a haven of routine. I think of my moms and my siblings, how my brother and sister were always fighting while I shrunk myself away from the hubbub of their drama. I think of the stream by our house, and I can’t remember what it felt like to dip my toes into the water.

This doesn’t feel real. I don’t feel present in my body, and I don’t think I have for a long, long time. I would hate for the first jarring introduction of presence to be pain, anguish, and anxiety, but that’s the card I’ve drawn. With one random slip of bad luck, I’m rising into an Arena of hell and marching toward my end.

Is this what soldiers feel like, before battle? Is this what the dying feel, this sudden force of inevitability?

I’m thinking too much. I’m too in-my-own-head.

Too busy thinking to notice the present.

I see light, bright light, and sand below my plate. I notice briefly that things are calm, the breeze is pleasant, and the world doesn’t look so dark.

Then I wonder: in a place this beautiful, will whoever survives this be able to experience beauty in the same way ever again? Or will it be tainted?

As you might imagine, that thought does not make it easy to move once the gong sounds. For a long moment, I’m rooted to my plate, wondering what the point is for fighting at all.

But then I do move. One step, two, three. I move to move, to be doing something other than nothing, and my brain is carted along for the ride.