Chapter Text
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Rayon MacGyver
District 8, 18 years old
51st Hunger Games
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The air is filled with romance. And smog, but that is a given in Eight, Rayon thinks.
Teenagers are clinging onto the last scraps of time with their loves, just in case their worst case scenario plays out tomorrow on that stage. There’s something about being so close to death that makes people want to live life to the fullest extent. Rayon is not excepted from this.
Ray and Mina – in another life, in a less urban district, their initials would have been carved into a tree a thousand times over, outlined by a jagged heart. For now, the lacquered wood of tables will have to suffice.
They’re sitting on a rooftop, hands interwoven like an intricate quilt, crisscrossing fingers and tightly pressed palms. Mina hums softly and leans onto Ray.
When she breaks the silence, it’s with a piece of worrisome news.
“Dad found out about us,” she mutters, the edges of her voice straining against her solemn expression. “He doesn’t want me seeing you anymore.”
Ray stares ahead for a moment, then barks sharply. “I’ll bet it was that friend of yours! Chloe, was it?” He turns to look at Mina, soaking in her honey-coloured gaze. “She was always jealous of us.”
The girl pushes him away, set-jawed and hard-eyed. “Don’t joke about this, Ray. This is serious.”
There are numerous reasons why Spinnaker Sutton, cotton-factory magnate and all-around rich man, wouldn’t want his only daughter associating with an orphaned street rat. But Ray knows exactly which one he means.
“It’s the fighting, isn’t it?” He drops his voice. Not out of secretiveness, but out of a silent hope that he’s wrong.
Mina nods forlornly, the corners of her mouth quivering.
It’s not his fault, Ray thinks indignantly. Not his fault that he was forced into the underground fight clubs as a means of survival. Not his fault that he usually won his fights, not his fault that the bettors flocked to him. Not his fault those bets pay well enough, certainly better than the meager wages any factory job would spare for him.
His knuckles are almost perpetually an angry red, but it’s all he has.
“I kept trying to tell him–” The desperation leaks into Mina’s voice, and if there’s one thing Ray knows she hates, it’s being helpless, “ – that you’re not some common-rabble criminal, but he never listened!” she cries.
Mina sighs, and presses Ray’s palm with so much force he feels like he’s back in the ring. “But I’ll figure out a way,” she says, dogged determination lacing her words. “We will, together.”
Ray doesn’t reply, just closes his eyes and imagines a world where they’re free of these walls separating them – wealth, status. Then he crashes back to reality. Ray changes the subject.
“How many slips do you have in there?” he asks, but the question is a formality – Pashmina Sutton has never had to take out tesserae in her entire life.
“Seven. You?”
“Fourteen.” Ray’s taken tesserae every year he’d been eligible. It’s one of the few perks of not having any family members depending on him, because he would’ve had more slips had that been the case.
Mina traces circles with her thumb on Ray’s shoulder. The rhythmic motion lulls him into a sense of tranquility.
“I had to watch all of the Games last year, even though ours died in the Bloodbath,” MIna admits quietly. “Father insisted on it, and he will this year, too.”
Father – not the informal Dad or Pa. Ray doesn’t like it – makes her seem vaguely Capitolite-like, which is probably what her father is aiming for, anyway.
“It’s our last year,” he placates, the freedom almost tangible. “Maybe he won’t care as much after you age out.”
“Maybe.” She doesn’t sound convinced.
They stay like that for an indeterminable amount of time, basking in each other's presence, daring to believe that there is something beyond this.
Finally, it feels like a switch has been flicked in Ray’s chest; he knows, with the utmost certainty, that the clock has just struck midnight, even if there is no indication of it.
It’s Reaping Day.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he tells her. They part, Ray leaving with the sweet memory of her lips on his.
It’s a long walk home, but at least Ray never has to worry about Mina getting home safely; the streets of Eight are no place for a teen girl, let alone a clearly wealthy one. For his own peace of mind, they agree to meet in the East Side, where Mina lives. And despite the pointed stares he gets from the uppity residents, it’s worth it. Now, though, it may have backfired.
Ray reaches the two-bedroom apartment he calls home in the dingy West Side. He opens the door; his roommate isn’t there; probably curled up in some other girl’s bedsheets as he tends to be. In his place, there is a burly man dressed in black, an eyepatch on his face.
“I took the liberty of waiting inside, I hope you don’t mind.” He pops a grape into his mouth, and Ray feels a twinge of annoyance; the fresh fruit cost nearly half his salary from last week’s fight. He should probably be scared for his life, because the head of the Ravens, the gang that controls the majority of West Side, is in his apartment, eating his food. Odin, they call him, although Ray can’t tell whether it’s his real name.
No matter. Odin is also his primary sponsor in the fight ring, meaning while Ray is uniquely familiar with him, he is also forced to cater to his whims.
“Great job on last week’s fight. You knocked out that kid real good.” Odin grins wolfishly, plucking another grape and biting into it. The juice dribbles down his chin. “Netted me a pretty penny.”
Ray doesn’t say anything, feeling more and more like a prized racehorse.
“I have a proposition for you, Rayon.”
There it is.
“The Ravens are always on the lookout for fresh blood. You would make a perfect addition to the team,” Odin says.
Ray had been warned about this, he remembers, back when Odin had first offered to sponsor him. That he was being groomed to join the Ravens, but tunnel-visioned fifteen year-old Ray didn’t really care. Now, though, reality truly hits him.
But Ray doesn’t want this. The fights were only ever a means of survival, after mandatory schooling with its free lunch stopped at fourteen. He never wanted to end up as a goon to Odin, thrashing innocent people as per his bidding. That’s not who Ray is.
“No,” he mutters, then makes himself louder. “I’m out.”
Odin’s one eye leers at him, his piercing gaze never wavering. “Let me make myself very clear, Rayon. The choice is yours, but I know of a few…persuasive techniques.”
Ray stiffens. “You wouldn’t.”
“Pashmina Sutton, eighteen years old. Lives at 164 Sterling Drive, East Side, with her father, Spinnaker. No siblings, set to pursue higher education at Lowell University. Did I get all that right?” Odin’s grin never falters.
“Don’t touch Mina!” Ray snarls reflexively, words tumbling out of his mouth.
Odin continues. “And if that isn’t enough, I know where – or rather, with who – your little friend is now.” He jerks his fingers towards the other room.
“Fuck, okay, fine. I’ll do it.”
“Excellent,” Odin pats him on his back. “Tomorrow will be your last match, and then you will join the Ravens. Sleep well.”
He leaves, and all Ray can do is lie down in shock. Everything’s over. His agency has been cruelly ripped away from him. And if Mina’s father thought he was a criminal now, how would he react when he finds out that Ray’s part of a gang?
Sleep does not descend upon Ray as he spends the entire night desperately racking his brain for a solution. By the morning, when the sun washes the city with warm light, Ray knows what he has to do.
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The escort, laden with so many garishly pink frills she could pass as a flamingo, draws out a slip from the bowl. A girl is called up, and Ray can breathe a sigh of relief. Mina is safe from the Games. Now he can properly set his plan in motion.
She picks out a slip, this time for the boys, and reads out a name in a high and clear voice. A grimy kid trudges up the stage, resigned to his fate. But when the escort asks for volunteers, a long-running formality, she doesn’t expect for a hand to shoot up into the air.
“I volunteer as tribute!” Ray cries. He calmly walks to the stage, footsteps echoing on the cobblestones.
The boy looks up at him, wide-eyed. “D-do I know you?” he stutters.
“No, you don’t,” Ray replies, not unkindly. “Now, scram.”
He does.
The escort, slightly taken aback but maintaining her composure, announces them as District Eight’s tributes for the 51st Games. They shake hands. It’s official; Rayon is going into the Hunger Games.
He’s taken into the Justice Building for visitations, and for a brief, grim moment, it reminds him of how gangs like the Ravens execute their enemies; bring them to a separate room, shooting them in the back of their head.
As expected, it’s Mina who comes first, taking him into a tearful embrace.
“You weren’t supposed to do that,” she whispers. “We don’t need my father’s approval to be together.” Mina’s chest heaves with a deep sigh. “I had a plan. We would run away, somewhere beyond my father’s reaches. We would be happy.”
Ray takes her hand in his, gripping it to keep the tears from spilling out of his eyes. “There’s more to it, Mina. I–” The words lodge in his throat.
“I love you,” he says, fiercely. “And I promise you I will return a Victor.”
Mina smiles softly. “I’m not worried about you surviving, Ray,” she admits. “Just…don’t become something you’re not in there.” She places her hand on his chest, breathing with the thump-thumps of his heart. It’s the rawest Ray’s ever felt.
He nods. They share one last kiss, hot and messy. And then she leaves, a sad look in her eyes as the door closes behind her.
A few minutes pass. The door creaks open, and a well-dressed figure stands before Ray. He’s never met this man before, but he knows him by description.
Spinnaker Sutton greets Ray with a hard glint in his eyes. “Mister MacGyver. I daresay this has worked out perfectly for the both of us.” He steps closer. “Come back, and you will make a fine husband for my Mina–certainly no one else will be able to say they have a Victor in the family.”
Ray knows where this is going.
“And if you don’t survive, well. I won’t have to worry about you anymore,” he concludes.
He spins around to leave, but Ray won’t let him have the last word.
“If–When I return, I need protection from the Ravens. Odin won’t be happy I’ve broken off our deal.”
Spinnaker waves it off hastily. “That can be arranged.”
“Pleasure doing business with you!” Ray calls out as he exits, spite lacing his words.
His roommate also visits him with his half-hearted goodbyes, but no one else comes. Ray is mildly surprised that Odin didn’t bother to threaten him some more, but he decides to count his blessings.
Ray boards the train, and is immediately pulled to the side. The accoster is a middle-aged man who Ray vaguely recognizes.
“They’re going to target you,” the man warns him, matter-of-fact.
“Um. I’m sorry, who are you?” Ray asks.
The man scoffs. “I’m your mentor. I won the 37th. Seamus Baxter, surely you’ve heard of me.”
Ah, that’s where Ray knows him from.
“Oh, right. Who’s targeting me, then?”
Seamus narrows his eyes, until they resemble the slits of a snake. “The Careers, of course. Just wanted to get that out of the way before you get your hopes up.”
“And…why is that?” Ray feels like he’s getting more confused the more he talks to this man.
“For one, you volunteered, which they’ll view as you encroaching on their territory. Plus, they don’t particularly hold any love for Eight after my Victory. There’s a reason most of our tributes die in the Bloodbath.”
Memories of watching Seamus’ Games rush into Ray’s mind, dredged up from the depths of his brain. Seamus joined the Careers, then proceeded to slit their throats all at once in their sleep. From there, it was a waiting game, ambushing anyone who tried to explore near the Cornucopia. He must have one of the highest kill counts, save for the brute from Two five years ago.
Ray can’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance that Seamus’ actions from so long ago are dragging down his chances at victory.
They watch the recap of the Reapings in a muted silence. Volunteers from One, Two and Four as per usual. There is the occasional well-fed older tribute, but most of the outliers are young and rail-thin. In fact, it seems like Ray himself is the only anomaly this year. Hopefully it will net him some sponsors right off the bat, he thinks.
The parade passes by in a blur, and the next morning, Ray walks into the training room with his head held up high and his hands itching to fight someone. He gets his wish when he spars with the trainer at the weapons station. The sword is unfamiliar, but Ray is nimble enough to get in a few good hits.
He can feel the gaze of the Careers bore into his skin, but pays them no heed. Ray continues to aggressively hack at the dummy’s chest.
Ray thinks the girl from Four would have made a perfect foreman back home, and briefly chuckles at the mental image. She barks at the other Careers like a drill sergeant, her district partner stoic at her side. He takes note of their dynamics to report back to Seamus. The Ones unequivocally support the Four girl, while the Twos hover somewhere in the middle. Still, it looks to be a cohesive and united pack.
He is offered a spot in many alliances, but Ray is here for two people only; himself and Mina. Any other third party would only add on to that baggage. Ray does, however, agree to not attack the alliance consisting of the Five, Seven and Ten boys, and vice versa. He’s never been one for strategy, leave that to Mina, but he figures it won’t do him any harm if there are three less people in the arena trying to kill him.
Seamus is insistent on preparing him for his interview, because sponsors already have their eye on him and his story is so unique. By the end, Ray can recite the answers in his sleep. Yes, a training score of nine is formidable. No, he can’t reveal how he achieved it. Yes, he has a girl back home. He volunteered to garner her father’s approval.
It’s adjacent to the truth, Ray thinks, if you leave out the whole mob boss aspect of it.
The interview goes off without a hitch, as if Seamus had fed the questions to Caesar Flickerman. Now that he thinks about it, it would be completely in character for his mentor to do so. He pretends not to notice the Four girl glaring daggers at him after it’s done.
Then it’s the night before, and Ray can’t stop his heart from pounding. He played the only card he had left.
Ray made his bed, and begrudgingly lies in it.
Literally, too, it seems, because he wakes up in a cold sweat without realising he’d even dozed off the morning of the Games. Ray doesn’t feel well-rested at all, but there’s no time to think further when he’s whisked in a hovercraft to the catacombs beneath the arena.
His stylist unzips the black bag to reveal a cloth jumpsuit of some sort. To Ray, its coarse material looks like denim, but he hasn’t been in the factories of Eight nearly long enough to know for sure.
Ray asks him what the arena’s going to be like. The Capitolite muses for a second, then answers.
“See these reflective strips?” He runs his fingers down a grey stripe down the front of the jumpsuit. “That means the arena will be dark. And this is made of canvas. Highly tear resistant.”
The man now looks into Ray’s eyes. “It looks like you’re headed for a cave,” he announces, without an ounce of humor.
The material chafes against Ray’s skin, but if that’s the price he has to pay for not getting cuts and scrapes all over his body, he’ll take it. Ray steps into the glass tube, and it seals with a soft hiss.
“Odds be in your favour,” his stylist mutters briskly, muffled by their separation.
The platform starts to rise, and Ray can’t help but feel a burgeoning sense of anticipation at what lies ahead.
“I’m coming back to you, Mina,” he mumbles. Barely a whisper, a rush of air escaping his mouth like the fumes of a train, but Ray means it with his whole heart.
He breaks the surface, and the first thing that hits him is how cool the air is; it almost stings.
The light dissipates, and Ray’s mind doesn’t comprehend what he’s seeing for a second.
He stands in a gargantuan cavern, which could probably fit his entire apartment three times over. Crystals, glowing a pearlescent white, sprout in tufts like some kind of alien plant. The Cornucopia itself is a geometric bundle of crystals, nearly extending to the ceiling of the cave. The surrounding walls boast even more crystals, like great broken pillars of light. Crisscrossing beams create convenient hidey-holes shrouded in darkness, and behind them, there are openings to, presumably, other parts of the arena.
Ray is astounded; if he thought last year’s arena was beautiful, this was a hundred times more, and then some. He nearly forgets that he’s in the Games until the countdown begins. Putting on his game face, Ray crouches slightly, readying himself for the sprint to the middle. He tilts his head; beside him, the Four girl bares her teeth, feet planted firmly on the ground in a similar position to Ray. They don’t break eye contact, not until the gong bursts through.
Dust kicks up into the air. Ray and the girl are on equal footing, hot on each others’ trail. He doesn’t hesitate, sending a tightly-curled fist her way. Four tumbles to the rocky floor with a yelp, hands clutched at her nose and white-hot accusatory eyes trained on his face–no, now his back as he dashes to the Cornucopia.
Ray’s one of the first to make it there. He wastes no time in sliding a sword off the weapons rack; now that he’s closer, he can see that the blade is vaguely translucent, pulsing with bluish-purple light. He decides to study the weapon later, clutching it in his non-dominant hand and slinging a black duffel bag of supplies over his shoulder. Satisfied with his haul, Ray races back to the circle of pedestals. The acidic tang of blood fills the air; a few feet away from him, the Two boy sinks his knife into a girl’s neck, cackling while her screams fade to nothing. Blurs of movement are all Ray registers; a flash of light reflecting off someone’s uniform, grunts of pain, a hollow thud.
“Trying to run away? Coward.” He spins around. The Four girl, blood splattered on her face, has a hungry look in her eyes as she twirls her spear. Ray had hoped he’d given her a concussion, but his punch hadn’t been strong enough, judging by her continued consciousness. Shame. Must’ve been the angle.
Ray risks a glance behind him. An exit, shrouded in shadow, beckons him. He could run, sure. But he wants to fight. He tosses his sword to the other hand. “Let’s do this.”
She roars, and charges towards him, the teal tip of her spear heading straight at his chest. It’s a simple task for Ray to sidestep her attack and answer with one of his own. The lithe girl brings her weapon up and parries with its handle.
A sword isn’t particularly effective against spears, Ray recalls. The latter provide both offense and defense, and he’ll never break past hers, not when swords are meant to slice in a wide arc. He’ll have to wear her out.
But Four is unrelenting; revenge fuels her bloodthirsty attacks as she thrusts her weapon at him. Lucky for Ray, he’s nimble enough to stay out of her range most of the time.
Most of it.
He’s too slow, his sword too unwieldy, when the spear aims at his heart. Ray twists his torso, bringing up his arm in a last-ditch effort. The tip rakes across his arm, digging into skin and flesh. Pain dances across his nerves, white-hot.
The freshly bleeding cut gives Ray the adrenaline he so desperately needs. He swings his sword, faster than she can react, and slams it into her abdomen like a hammer. The force nearly cleaves her in half, fragments of bone flying into the air and viscera spilling out from her side like an open mouth. Four loses grip on her spear, and she crumbles to the ground with it.
Her haggard breathing rattles Ray’s ribcage. Her mouth opens, almost imperceptibly, to the size of the eye of a needle, her gaze fiery. Then her head lolls back as if yanked by a rope, and Ray knows without a shadow of a doubt that she is dead.
The sounds of battle are dimming; he needs to get somewhere safe. Ray half-walks, half-stumbles to the slit in the cave walls. With one last glance at the blood and guts pooling around the corpse he made, Ray escapes.
He clutches his injured arm, trying to stem the bleeding. Ray isn’t really sure how he’s supposed to treat this; he silently berates himself for not attending the first aid station in training. Although, the amount of time he spent at weapons clearly helped him, so he shouldn’t be so tough on himself.
Ray’s defeated a Career, and not just any of them: their leader. He imagines the other Capitol bootlickers crowding around her body, fear clouding their faces for the first time in their lives. It fills him with a sense of pride, almost, warm and dense.
His footsteps echo dully on the jagged rock, uniform and on beat. The cannons for the bloodbath fire; Ray counts ten in total. He supposes this arena offers numerous hiding spots, so the high death toll might not necessarily indicate a quick Games.
The passageway is devoid of the pale light of the crystals, save for the little light reflected off the strips on his uniform. The tunnels twist and turn, and there are multiple forks in the road where Ray simply chooses blindly; the pain in his arm is too great for him to think straight.
He meanders through the passage, when, some distance ahead, a blue glow springs to life; the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Ray soldiers forward, renewed energy rushing through his veins, and he finally reaches the new area.
Sky-blue light blurs Ray’s vision. His eyes adjust to the environment.
It’s a much smaller cavern than the main one. The ceiling dips low, only slightly taller than Ray. Cerulean crystals decorate the cave, but the biggest jackpot is the impossibly clear water stagnating in a rock pool. He kneels and cups the water in his hands, bringing the refreshing liquid to his mouth. Ray decides against washing the cut down his arm; he doesn’t want to contaminate what could be his only water source.
Belatedly, Ray suddenly wonders if chemicals from the crystals can leach into the water. But he’s fine, so nothing of the sort must have happened.
He sets down his sword and finally opens the bag he snatched from the Cornucopia. A water canteen, which means he can stop using his bare hands. A windbreaker. A packet of beef jerky. A handheld torchlight, which pointedly does not include extra batteries. He’ll have to use it sparingly. An icepick. To chip off the crystals? He’s not sure why.
Ray takes the downtime to study his weapon. As he’d previously suspected, it was made of the very same crystal that surrounds him. He can’t quite put his finger on the colour, as it seems to shift depending on the angle he looks at it from. Apart from the dried blood beginning to flake off, of course.
A faint ping like a wind chime sounds. A sponsor gift, this early into the Games?
A hidden panel slides open on one of the larger crystals, and a steel-grey container is deposited onto a rocky shelf. Ray twists it open to reveal bandages, antiseptic cream and a sewing kit.
He stares at it in disbelief before returning to reality. Ray grimaces. Knowing what he needs to do, he picks up the sewing kit and threads the needle after multiple attempts. Then, with the windbreaker wedged firmly between his jaws – a trick he picked up from a previous Games – Ray sticks the needle into his skin.
Pain shoots up his arm like a bullet, and all he can do is grit his teeth and weave it through the wound. Ray has sewn once or twice, but he’s not as experienced as the Capitol expects all Eight tributes to be. This means that the stitches are crooked and hang loose in some places, but he deems it passable. Ray applies the cream next, careful not to undo his hard work. The bandages go on last, winding around his arm until he resembles a mannequin.
Ray is optimistic that given the Capitol’s advancements in medicine, the wound will heal quickly, but he can still fight one-handed in a pinch; Snow knows the number of times he’s had to do it back in the ring.
He spends the rest of the day cocooned in his cave, head on a swivel for footsteps but otherwise shaking off the morning’s adrenaline. The anthem begins, bouncing eerily off the rock walls. Ray takes note of who died today.
Three boy. Four girl. He isn’t sure how to feel about that. Both from Five. Six girl. His district partner. Ray feels a pit of guilt open up in his stomach, but stitches it closed. Nine boy. Eleven girl. Both from Twelve. He finds it almost ironic that, had this been any other year, the Twelves might have actually stood a chance. But with Haymitch Abernathy winning last year, they were never getting out alive, he knows.
Ray wonders, in passing, about the Five-Seven-Ten alliance, and how they’re faring with one member down.
He lies down to sleep, the cold, jagged rock digging into his back. The duffel bag is a less-than-ideal makeshift pillow, but it’ll have to do, and the windbreaker only slightly keeps the cold out. Ray drifts into a dreamless sleep, although he would have preferred to dream instead. At least he might see Mina there.
The second day sees much of the same. Ray stays where he is, intermittently checking on his arm. One cannon sounds for the Six boy, but nothing else of note occurs.
It’s on the third day that Ray decides to explore the arena, after having confirmed that his arm is healing. He’s been receiving a steady supply of sponsor gifts, but he’s aware that it will only last insofar as he is entertaining. Ray packs up his things, and is plunged into darkness again.
His eyes adjust to the lack of light. Ray stalks the passages, deciding against using his torch for now. It’s not long before he chances upon another cavern, filled with rose pink crystals. Despite the questionably artificial colour of the crystals, he’s enthralled by the larger prize of another water source.
But it’s not just that, Ray realises. It’s some kind of underground river, its depth impossible to glean from the surface, but definitely cut off by the wall of the cave. With the prospect of a new area to find, he wastes no time in offloading his duffel bag at the entrance of the cavern and diving in.
The sword in his hand slows him down considerably, and Ray’s swimming leaves much to be desired, but his strokes are powerful and he can see a way out. He kicks and kicks and finally breaks the surface of the water.
It’s almost a mirror image of the entrance cave, save for the fact that there is no exit. This is a dead end. Ray blinks water out of his eyes, and finds that he is not alone.
A form that he can barely describe as human is curled up in the corner, so small it almost escaped his attention. Ray, with a lurch, recognises it as the girl from Three, who only stood out to him as one of the youngest tributes this year. She’s shivering like a tree in the wind, and as he moves closer, he sees her lips tinged a horrible shade of blue. The girl’s hair is plastered to her face.
Her eyes open slowly, trailing to the source of the footsteps. Her lips part, but nothing comes out.
Ray takes a step. She doesn’t react. Another step. Her gaze is almost pleading, the traces of tearstains marring her face like a spidery map.
He grips his sword, and crouches down. Cradles her head comfortingly, he hopes, at least, because Ray knows there is only one thing he can do for her. He plunges the blade into her neck, pushing it further in until the cannon sounds.
Ray’s killed two now. But Three doesn’t count, not when she was on the verge of death when he found her. Not when it was a mercy.
That’s what he tells himself.
Maybe violence has always been in his blood. He wonders why Mina would love someone like that.
Only one face is shown on day three. The next day brings nothing eventful to Ray, but evidently something is happening elsewhere in the arena based on the cannon, revealed to be for the Ten girl during the anthem.
Day five, and Ray hates to say it but he’s getting bored. Hopping from cavern to cavern, he hasn’t seen seam nor stitch of another tribute. That is, until he fails to notice a sleek tripwire under his foot.
Something bites into his ankle. Ray drops his bag and cusses. To his dismay, it’s steel wire – impossible to cut through with the sword he has.
He can’t even properly tell what the snare’s tied to, but it’s not budging no matter how hard Ray pulls.
Ray waits. This must be how prisoners on death row must feel, he thinks. Stubbornly clinging on until the executioner arrives.
A shadow falls over Ray’s face. He points his sword outwards, because he’ll be damned if he isn’t going down without a fight.
“Ray?”
The tribute steps into the light. It’s the boy from Ten. Ray can breathe again.
“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mutters sheepishly, and unties the snare.
Ray stands up and stretches as best as he can in the cramped tunnel. “Saw you lost Five,” he says, neutrally.
The boy hangs his head low. “Axe to the back. He was a good’un.” He turns behind him. “Oberfell’s searching the other traps, but no luck with food so far.”
Oberfell, Ray thinks, is the boy from Seven. “Then what have you been eating for five days?” he asks, incredulous.
“Not much, obviously. Water is plentiful, at least. Edible bugs, occasionally.”
He’s taken aback by that last statement–surely the Capitol wouldn’t stoop so low?
“Hey, here–” Ray fishes out a packet of unopened jerky from his bag, and holds it out.
Ten shakes his head. “I ain’t accepting that. It’s rightfully yours.”
“Well, consider it payment for letting me out of your trap.” Ray attempts to flash a cordial smile, but he isn’t known to be the most friendly person. Having a reputation for fighting will do that to you.
The boy finally caves in and takes the food. “Thank you,” he says, and mimes something he can’t quite tell in the dark. Tipping a hat, maybe? It would be on brand for Ten.
“Y’know, we have an open spot in our alliance. You’re always welcome to join us,” he offers.
It’s Ray’s turn to shake his head now. “I appreciate it, but I think you’d be better off without me.”
He’s never been one for small talk, but he would like to part on good terms, and he feels bad for turning the other boy down. “Good luck out there.”
“You too.” Ten’s gone in a flash, in the direction he came from. Ray would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the scrap of human interaction that didn’t involve blades and blood, but even if he regretted not joining their alliance, it’s too late now. He can only push forward.
No cannons on day five. The sixth day brings two in quick succession, like the lub-dub of a heartbeat. Ray only confirms that they were two separate cannons during the anthem: Two boy and Seven girl.
Another Career down. Ray is that much closer to going home, back to Mina. She is the only thing on his mind, in the downtime of the arena.
He explores a bit more, and finds that the tunnels are widening, as well as opening into larger and larger caverns. It’s an evidently different section of the arena, but no sign of the other Careers still, even if they are whittled down to four.
It’s on day seven that Ray meets another tribute, in a cave of pale green crystals. Meets is somewhat inaccurate, as it is only through sheer reflex that he ducks, the unidentified projectile whizzing past his head. It crashes into the wall in a cloud of gray dust. Ray whirls around.
A fellow tribute, Nine boy. Must only be fifteen or sixteen. He looks worse for the wear: his uniform is littered with gashes, clotted blood tracing their outlines. But it’s the boy’s eyes that scare him the most, for they are wild and rabid, pupils dilated and darting about recklessly.
“Are you okay?” Ray finds himself asking, if only to keep the animalistic boy at bay.
He holds up a knife. “No!” he snarls. “T-they killed Cedara! They’re going to kill me too!”
“Who? The Careers?” Cedara must be the girl from Seven, who died yesterday, Ray recalls.
“The bats!” he spits out. Then his eyes focus on Ray. “I have to kill you!” he cries, his voice rising. “Then they’ll leave me alone!”
He lunges, knife glinting wickedly like a shooting star. Ray jumps back, and swings out with his sword. He can feel it draw blood, slicing into Nine’s skin, but he is unaffected, clawing at Ray’s arms. He tries to wrench the boy off him.
Ray feels himself slipping, falling out of pace with the boy. Whatever those bats did to him also gave him unimaginable amounts of adrenaline, because there’s no way a human can move that fast naturally.
Then Ray snaps. His fist darts out, colliding with the boy’s face with a sickening crack. The sword forgotten on the rock floor, he wraps his hands around Nine’s neck, and he pushes, squeezing the life out of him. The boy’s whimpering and squirming now, as if regaining his humanity, but that too stops when his body goes limp and the cannon booms.
Nine had nothing on him. Ray’s insides feel hollow, like the entire sequence was for nothing.
The boy is dead by your hands, Ray tells himself. It’s not for nothing, not with your fingers leaving marks on his throat. He died so you could live.
He can’t tell if he’s going insane, speaking to himself.
Days eight and nine run by with little to mark the passage of time. At some point, Ray swears he can hear voices that seem like they’re right next to him. But sound travels weird here, bouncing off the stone walls, and he doesn’t particularly want an encounter with the Careers.
The death count hangs in stasis with the Final Eight giving the tributes a day off, as it were. Ray imagines Mina being interviewed, and he knows she will do whatever it takes to sell the audience on him. Sure enough, Seamus sends him a lone caramel candy on day nine; a frivolity in the arena, for sure, but it’s Mina’s favourite sweet treat. Ray’s aware enough to know it’s a message from her.
Ray feels like he is being pulled back to the Cornucopia, for the inevitable showdown. He’s getting closer to the centre of the dense network of caves.
On day ten, two cannons sound within seconds of each other. The boom echoes in Ray’s bones. It means he’s in close proximity to the deaths.
Two girl and Seven boy, as the anthem reveals.
Oberfell, Ray corrects himself. The least he can do is remember the boy by his name instead of his tribute designation. He feels pride bloom in his chest, that Oberfell took down a Career with him. At least, that’s what he assumed has happened.
And then there were six, cut down to four on the next day. One girl and Eleven boy have their faces displayed, and Ray counts himself lucky that he’s managed to evade danger. His not-quite-a-strategy of never stagnating in one place for too long has proved to work well.
His luck runs out on day twelve, when he all but bumps into the boy from One. The Career, miraculously, doesn’t notice him, continuing his descent into the darkness. Ray shadows him, walking on the balls of his feet.
One stops suddenly. He’s at a crossroads, and Ray can’t help but smirk. With a burst of energy, he brings the flat of his sword down, onto the boy’s temple. He crumples to the ground, and cannot do anything but grunt as Ray cleanly twists his neck. Cannon.
Day thirteen. The last day, he can tell. Ray’s feet, of their own accord, march toward the Cornucopia. He only grips his sword, coated with the blood of four.
The three remaining tributes each emerge from the tunnels. Four boy stares him down, and Ray can’t place why until he remembers the Bloodbath.
Ten slinks out of the shadows, a machete in hand. Their eyes meet, and they both come to the same understanding: Four has to be taken down first.
Ray roars, and charges at the Career. They collide with the force of an asteroid.
He strikes first, but Four is quick to block. The spear is almost an extension of his own arms, fluid in his movements. Even with two others rearing to kill him, Four is able to comfortably hold his own, taking advantage of his weapon’s reach to punish them if they get too close.
And get too close, Ten does. He falters, just for a second as his machete bites into the other boy’s arm. But it’s enough for him to send the spear into his sternum.
Ten makes an awful gurgling noise, and Four yanks the spear upward, cutting into raw flesh and piercing his throat, and finally his jaw, the pearly white stained pink. The cannon sounds.
Ray’s vision is filled with fire now. A guttural scream rips through him, and he lets his sword fly.
Where the boy from Four is significantly more poised and collected, Ray compensates for the skill gap with sheer brute force. He goes on the offense, hacking and slashing even though it’s not how a sword should be wielded. Four can only dodge and block, but Ray can feel the boy becoming sluggish, his arms buckling under his strength.
Then it finally happens. Ray brings his sword down, and Four holds out his spear with two hands. It splinters into two, and Ray feels a sick sense of satisfaction. It doesn’t last long.
Four tackles him, weaponless and desperate. Ray’s sword is flung into the far side of the cavern, both through his own momentum and the other boy’s. They scuffle on the ground, tumbling as the rock cuts into their skin.
Ray kicks his shin. Four howls, and grips his arm. Bashes it into the floor. The old wounds reopen, warm blood being the only sensation he can feel there. He punches, and the boy gets a matching injury to his nose. Four tries the same, but Ray’s faced that kind of situation too many times to not swing his head to the side and pin the flying fist to the ground.
Ray has the upper hand now, but his bloodlust isn’t satiated. There’s always a moment when the fight overtakes him.
He takes out the icepick from his breast pocket. Stares at it, and Four does, too, for he starts to plead for his life, but to no avail. Ray brings it down, into his left eye.
Soft tissue quickly gives way, and Four screams, writhing.
Again.
The ice pick scrapes against the back of his eye socket.
Ray doesn’t even think–he can’t, nothing makes sense to him now except blood and violence. He plunges the pick into the other eye, and it is plucked out cleanly. Four’s horrible cries reverberate in Ray’s skull.
Optic fibres and nerves hang from it like tentacles, slimy and wet. Ray drops the ice pick.
Clarity rushes into him like a great river.
He did that. He just did that.
Four’s movements are ceasing.
What the fuck just happened?
“Just…don’t become something you’re not in there.”
Mina. What has he done?
He failed himself. He failed her. He played their Games. And he’s won in their eyes. But he failed.
Ray can only make amends by giving Four the sweet embrace of a quick, clean death; not the absolute agony he’s in now. The tears spill down his cheeks, hot and corroding his skin.
He kneels down with Ten’s machete.
“I’m sorry,” Ray chokes out, just quiet enough for the cameras to miss. He raises the machete to deliver the final, merciful blow–
A glint of blue light flashes, quick as lightning. Ray feels something drag across his throat, feels the lifeblood seeping out of it. His hands fly to his neck, but there’s nothing left to save.
As the neurons sputter out in his brain, Ray only tries to conjure Mina’s image, one last time.
He can’t. She’s gone, and so is he.