Chapter Text
Maysilee screams.
It’s high-pitched, terrified, and my stomach lurches in my chest. It's something instinctive that drives me forward, away from the edge of the arena and into the hedge. My axe is clutched tightly in one hand as I emerge from the hedge, scanning the area for threats.
I find them immediately. Nearly two-dozen waterbirds, their feathers bright pink, like the color of the brand new bubblegum in the Donner’s candy shop. Their legs are long and spindly, and their beaks are even longer and sharp— like the blade of a sword. Clearly meant to be a weapon.
These are the mutts sent to kill us, and they don’t look so terrifying at first— until one of them takes a stab at Maysilee. The world seems to slow as my district partner rolls out of the way, desperately shielding her vital areas with a tarp on the ground.
The birds don’t stop. I run at them, swinging my axe at them wildly, managing to cut a few of them down— but there are still so many. Maysilee cuts at them with her dagger, leaving a few dead at her feet. But warm blood rolls down her cheek, her hand, her chest. It stains her tribute jacket dark red.
The birds don’t even try and attack me, and I realize in a second what this is— a targeted attack towards Maysilee. A punishment, for the way she attacked that gamemaker. Did it even matter that they’d made it out alive in the end?
Probably not, from the capitol’s perspective. She’d still dared to try. Still broken the rules of the game that had been rigged against them since the beginning.
I should’ve stopped her, I think, and then curse myself for my cowardice— for all of my talk about painting posters, I seem to be fine with letting the capitol tear them all down. But it’s different now, watching my sister be attacked— I don’t think about posters, or revolution, or even escaping the games.
I just want her to survive.
I keep trying to hack at the birds, but it’s useless— we’re hopelessly outnumbered, and Maysilee is injured. I stagger towards her just as one of the birds dives its beak into her shoulder— inches away from her neck.
With her vocal chords unobstructed, Maysilee screams again.
It comes out hoarse, and she chokes on something like a sob, uninhibited— and for the first time in the entire games, she looks like what she is— one of the many children sent to slaughter.
It makes me so angry I can hardly even breath. We shouldn’t be here— none of us. Not a single tribute in this arena.
I should be at home with Ma and Sid, and in the meadow with Lenore Dove— and Maysilee should be at the Donner’s sweet shop, or with Merilee. Louella should be at home with her family, and Wyatt should be celebrating aging out of the games.
No— the games should’ve never been in the equation to begin with. We all should’ve been free to live their lives without fear, without the games constantly looming over us.
For the first time, I really get it— what Lenore Dove told me about a sunrise without the reaping. I see it in my mind so clearly, in a future where kids don’t have to suffer—where no more Louella’s or Lou Lou’s die before they get a chance to grow out of their baby fat.
But that world is not the one I am in. This world is much crueler— it is a world where Maysilee is pushed to be the one thing she never wanted to be. Broken by the capitol’s games.
The birds scatter as soon as that final blow is dealt, and I don’t waste time wondering— I run to Maysilee’s side, dropping to my knees beside her and reaching for her shoulder.
“It's okay.” I tell her, as I press down against the wound, trying to stop the bleeding. I uselessly rustle through our belongings, looking for something to use as a bandage, but find nothing. “You’ll be fine, okay?”
Maysilee stares at me, looking unimpressed despite the tears in her eyes, before clenching her jaw to stop another wounded noise from escaping. I apologize quietly as I press my hands against her shoulder, applying as much pressure as I can dare.
We need help, I think, for just a second— and then I almost laugh at the absurdity of it. For a second, I almost wanted Asterid— but she isn’t here. No one from District 12 is here. We’re alone.
I don’t let myself think about it anymore— don’t allow the thoughts of Wyatt and Lou Lou’s death creep into my mind, because I think I might break into tears if I do. And I will be no use to Maysilee then.
“You’re not gonna let this kill you,” I say, trying to be reassuring, trying to remind her of her promise to herself. Don’t let them destroy her. “Not now, right—? You don’t go out like this, sis.”
She gasps as I press down on the wound harder, but nods, forcing a grim smile to her lips as she rests her head against the grass. “‘Still gotta— paint my poster, right?”
“Yeah,” I say, relieved. “Yeah, you’ve gotta paint one hell of a poster, sis.”
My heart thunders in my chest as I watch the red continue to spill from her shoulder, as I see her eyes go cloudy and flicker open and shut from blood loss.
I need help. It’s a mantra that repeats in my head, and I wish that I’d paid more attention when I watched Asterid patch people up— wish I’d spend more time at the medical station in the training center, wish I was anything but completely helpless right now.
I look up to the sky and beg for help— from someone, anyone, in the entire world.
And then, miraculously, it comes.
The parachute, red like Maysilee’s blood, descends from the sky, and I am hit by a shot of relief so powerful that it nearly knocks me out. I stand, dizzy on my feet, and Maysilee’s eyes follow mine to the sponsor gift, as she realizes what it is.
I’m there when it hits the ground, grasping at the package and ripping it open with unsteady hands. I see a small glass bottle before anything else, and I grab it, turning it around so I can read the label.
Antiseptic. The fancy capitol kind that costs a fortune at the shops, that most people can’t even get. Only the apothecary in District 12 gets stuff like this, and only occasionally.
I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful for Mags in my life.
I dig further into the package, pulling out a roll of bandages, only to notice there’s something else at the bottom. It’s cold to the touch.
I laugh when I see what it is. Strawberry ice cream and a silver spoon.
“Hey, sis,” I say, trying to hide the shaking in my voice, “you’re gonna love this.”
I get Mayislee to rest against a rock, laying the tarp down under her to make the surface softer as I take out the antiseptic from its container. I tear off a piece of the bandage and let a few drops of it drip onto the surface.
Maysilee hisses as I pad the area with antiseptic, and I grab her hand, interlocking our fingers together in an effort to ground her. Maysilee’s smile gets a little bit wider as she raises her pinky.
“Promise you’ll share some of that ice cream?” She says, her tone purposefully light— but I know she’s asking me to promise more than that.
The intensity in her bright blue eyes only grows by the second, as I lock my pinky around hers and give her a smile of my own.
“Promise.” I say. “You can have all of it, if you want. Privileges of almost bleeding out.”
I’m not sure if I should be making jokes about it. My whole body feels cold, like I’ve been plunged into ice water. All I want now is to lie down and sleep.
But I can’t. Maysilee needs me now, and I can’t bring myself to let her down again.
I manage to patch up her shoulder pretty well, bandaging it tightly and putting the remaining antiseptic and bandages in our bag. I give Maysilee the icecream and spoon to eat while I pack our bag, ignoring the way my own stomach grumbles.
“You know,” Maysilee says, tiredly, “I think all I needed was a positive attitude.”
I choke on something like a laugh. The corner of her mouth tilts up.
And somehow, the absurdity of it all, that we’re still alive after everything, makes me feel almost euphoric. The rest of my inhibitions melt away, and the anxious, jittery feeling fades into something much more distant.
Silka could come out of the woods right now and kill us, and we’d be pretty helpless— but hey, at least we’ve got ice cream. Positive attitudes, right?
Maysilee empties about half of the tub before offering me the spoon, and I shake my head, trying to push it back to her— “you need it more than I do,” I say, but she doesn’t seem convinced.
I barely catch the spoon as it flies directly towards my face.
Okay then.
We’re quiet as we eat, wiping the spoon off with a clean piece of bandage as we pass it between us. Every once and a while, I catch the way Maysilee’s hand trembles as she takes a bite, or how she winces when she shifts. I don’t mention it.
It feels like betrayal, to make her vulnerable when I know we’re being watched still— I know that’s not how she’d want her poster painted. Not so soon after what happened.
I’ll ask her later, I think, when we have a decent chance of being alone. Of not being watched, maybe. Surely the capitol can’t have cameras in every area of this arena— surely they’re not willing to broadcast every area. Not the edge of the arena with the force field, or the hatch where the gamemakers had come from.
Later— that’s what I tell myself so that I don’t have to think about it now. So that I can pretend like we’re not in danger, still, that we’re not just toys for the capitol to play with.
We sit in silence for a while, even after we finish the ice cream and tuck ourselves into a shady corner of the hedge.
“Maysilee,” I start, trying to map out the arena in my head, “I think that we should—”
I’m cut off. A low and resounding sound echoes throughout the arena, making Maysilee and I look at each other on instinct. A cannon. Another tribute dead, which means that there’s only—
“Three.” I say, quiet.
There were only four of us left before. Three now.
“Silka?” Maysilee says, doubtful.
Something cold settles in my stomach. Something like dread. My heart sinks in my chest as I lean back against the hedge, as Maysilee watches me with a carefully neutral expression.
“No.” I say.
We both know it’s not Silka.
I think of my doves, of the little ones who had followed me so easily— who had trusted me, even when I’d never given them a reason to. Who looked to me like I could save them, when I never could. Who I abandoned for a plan that was never going to work.
The guilt swallows me up as I remember the last dove, the little girl with olive skin and dark eyes. She’d been the smallest, the most soft-spoken— and how could I ever believe that she’d make it on her own?
“Wellie.” I say.
Maysilee goes quiet for a long moment— something flickering in her eyes like remembering. “Wellie.” she says, eventually.
And suddenly, there are no more innocents in this arena.