CHAPTER TWELVE;
morituri te salutant

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( warning: potentially disturbing imagery )

     Once she is safely backstage again, Vesper releases a breath she didn't realise she had been holding. Her hands still tremble from the adrenaline of being up there in front of millions, and not just those seated before her. She had underestimated stage fright before, but having experienced it herself, she sees now it is no joke. It's almost more frightening than the prospect of the arena.

     Some of the tributes who have already had their interviews mingle backstage with their district partners — the tributes from Five are carefully pouring themselves cups of water, Levin and Coral seemingly conversing about something, and Hermes appears to be chatting up Emerald. But it's impossible to miss Boaz, alone in the corner with his knuckles whitened as he clutches his cup in his hands. Vesper purposely ignores his eyes, unable to face him right now.

Icarus is just making his way onto the stage as she takes a seat in front of the flat screen. The silver accents on his suit glitter brilliantly in the stage lights, and his radiant confidence shines through as he gives Caesar a handshake with a hint of nervous energy. Once seated, he places both of his hands on the armrests and dangles his legs over the edge of the chair.

He seems to be something of a crowd-pleaser, chatting about his life back home and talking about his favourite parts of the Capitol. "That lamb stew though..." Icarus closes his eyes, pretending to be reminiscing of its taste as the crowd cheers in agreement. The boy seems as captivated by the bright lights and attention as the Capitol are.

"Mind if I take a seat?"

Vesper glances over her shoulder to see Telle, looking surprisingly pale as she hovers by the plush couch. "Yeah, of course," she replies, shuffling over to allow room for the District Three girl. As she sits down, she notices Telle obsessively massaging the wooden ball in her hands — perhaps a coping mechanism.

"He's great, isn't he?" she says, smiling weakly up at the screen. Right on cue, it cuts to a close shot of Icarus laughing at something Caesar said.

"But hey, so were you!" says Vesper. "The crowd went wild for you."

"Thanks..."

This is the quietest Vesper has ever seen her. Her stare seems to burn into her lap, biting her bottom lip anxiously as she continues to roll the wooden ball around in her freckled hands.

"Are you alright?"

"Hm?" Telle looks up, her eyes piercing blue and startled. It's up close that Vesper notices small dots of magenta glitter at either side of her eyes, her lashes slightly clumped in thick mascara. "Yeah, I-I'm fine, I just..." she pauses, perhaps knowing there is no point faking it. "I'm thinking 'bout tomorrow."

Vesper had guessed so, but nods in understanding and waits for her to continue.

"I hadn't really thought 'bout it as much 'til now. I mean, I got into the training, the interview went well, and I got a great score. But the minute I walked off that stage... I d'know, it just hit me. And I walked into this room of people with huge muscles, scary-lookin' faces, and I suddenly felt so... small."

Telle swallows thickly, perking up briefly at the crowd's final cheer for Icarus, before she looks Vesper in the eye with a panicked expression:

"I'm really scared, Vesper..." she whispers. Suddenly she looks as though she might cry.

     Looking around, Vesper checks that no one is eavesdropping or staring, before leaning her arm on the headrest of the couch and enclosing her and Telle in their own private space for a moment. She can't make promises, of course, but there's something about the naïvety she still has underneath all that prodigious intelligence, a reminder of her only just turning fourteen, that Vesper cannot simply neglect her.

     "Remember what we talked about a couple of days ago? About being allies?" When Telle nods, she tries to smile at her. "I'll keep my word with that. Whether Huxley sticks with you or not, you're not gonna be alone, okay?"

     "Everything alright?"

     "Yep!" Telle shoots her head back up, flashing Icarus another one of her trademark grins. The boy lingering at her side takes this as confirmation that she's alright, and a warm smile washes over him. He seems to think nothing of the interaction he almost caught, but just as he sits down, Telle shoots Vesper a glance of thanks.

     So that makes Icarus, Telle, possibly Huxley. And she can think of a couple other names too. The list of people who she feels inclined to protect appears to be ever-growing, watered by their warm personalities and their pitiful circumstances, before suddenly they are out-of-control ivy scaling her walls...

     "Well, weren't you the little crowd pleaser tonight, Icarus?" Vesper smirks at him, to which he just shakes his head in embarrassment.

     The trio then sit to watch the rest of the interviews. Up next is another potential ally Fern, who sports a sleek jumpsuit appearing to be made of pine needles, accentuating her slim and tall silhouette to the audiences. Her blonde hair is in a tightly combed, long braid down her back, vines appearing to be threaded through each plait. She maintains a calm confidence about her the entire interview, almost making Caesar appear out of his depth with his shallow questioning.

     Towards the end Caesar asks, "Fern, you do strike me as quite the determined type. And from your mentors, we have heard that you seem quite set on winning this Hunger Games. What can you tell us about that?"

     "Well, Caesar," says Fern, stroking the leg of her pine needle attire, "I think if you're thrown into such a situation as this, where it's life or death, you might as well adapt to it. People underestimate some of the lesser districts, but I intend to prove them wrong. I will prove everyone who underestimated me wrong. And I'll make sure no one stands in my way."

     Vesper's brows shoot up in revelation. Fern appears to have changed since they last spoke — sure, she'd had some sort of air of danger from the beginning, but this is different. Her last few words plant a seed of doubt into Vesper's mind; maybe she wouldn't be the best ally to let within the vicinity of someone like Icarus. But then again, it could simply be the angle she is playing. Fern seems difficult to read.

     District Eight and Nine's interviews pass swiftly — she recognises a few faces, namely Twyla who shyly tells Caesar of her camouflage skills, and the poor boy named Calico from Eight who still seems to be suffering through allergies. When District Ten come along, she remembers Merona as the girl Levin has chosen as his ally. She seems somewhat capable of surviving the Bloodbath, and even more so of survival following it. Apparently she can set a good snare trap.

     But who the crowd really waits for is Talon. He receives an astounding applause as he rushes onto the stage, wearing a tight-fitting shirt that almost seems see-through. Of course, the crowd goes wild for this — and the same cannot be said for Talon, who looks as though he would rather be anywhere else. He adjusts the collar of his shirt uncomfortably as he sits opposite Caesar, looking too big for the chair.

     Knowing virtually nothing about him, this should be an interesting interview.

     "So Talon, I have to bring this up... your training score. A ten!" At this, the crowd cheers wildly, making Talon gulp visibly. He seems to hate the attention, which is unfortunate seeing how the Capitol have been all over him since he came.

     "And I think it might have something to do with this, eh?" Caesar reaches over and playfully slaps Talon's bicep with his notecards, and an audience member whistles. "What kind of weights are you lifting at home to get this bulked up?"

     Talon rubs a hand along his thigh, as if he's working himself up to speak.

     "Butcher," he finally chokes out, in a carefully controlled manner. "It's the, the fuh-fuh-fuh... family b-business. We d-d-drag lots of buh-big hu-hunks of... m-meat."

     Someone in the audience giggles through the awkward silence that follows. Caesar picks up on this, thankfully with some respect as he elaborates on Talon's point for him ("Yes, I can imagine that would be hard work. Here in the Capitol, I suppose we're used to our lovely slices of ham, but forget the folks like you in District Ten hauling those bodies around with a meat cleaver in your hand! Ha-ha!").

     Who would have thought? All of this time, Vesper had misjudged his quietness for scheming, or a dark brooding façade. But here he is, muscle and all, struggling through one of the most severe stammers she has ever seen. She can't help but feel sorry for the boy; although he doesn't seem like the type who would want his image to be one pitied or laughed at by the whole of Panem.

     "Poor guy," Telle sighs. "D'you think that's why he didn't wanna talk all this time? 'Cause he was scared of how he might've sounded?"

     "Maybe..." says Vesper.

     "At least Caesar seems to be helping a little," Icarus adds pitifully.

     "Yeah. But shouldn't he have gotten coaching for it or something? Just to make him feel better?"

     "Maybe, but what could he learn in a week?" the red-haired girl argues. "Besides, they're more pronounced under stress, anyway. And that... seems stressful."

     Vesper feels a wave of secondhand relief when Talon's buzzer goes off, after which he quickly clears from the stage in a similar fashion Emerald had earlier. When he emerges into the lounge backstage, he avoids eye contact with anyone and keeps his head low. She doesn't have to guess which Career tribute the one snicker in the room is coming from...

     Luckily for Talon, the next District Eleven interview seems to captivate the audience enough to distract them as Briony quizzes Caesar on his knowledge of knives. Durian's is moderately memorable but nothing special, and as always, District Twelve rounds off the evening with an anti-climax. Caesar bids everyone a good night, gives a quick reminder of how to cast donations for their sponsors tomorrow, and then the Panem anthem plays. Everyone stands up out of necessity, the grandeur of it filling the room.

     On their way out, Vesper and Icarus meet Hermia and Irma for the first time since their interviews. Hermia is beaming, much to Vesper's relief, and Irma seems pleased from the looks of it too.

     "Oh, you two! The people loved you, I can tell you that much," says Hermia. "I'm sure the sponsors will be coming in with a steady trickle. Oh, and Vesper... that moment about your mother." At this, she clutches her manicured hand to her heart and closes her eyes. "There wasn't a single dry eye in that room."

"Thanks, Hermia. I managed fine on my own in the end," Vesper shoots back. Maybe not the response Hermia was looking for, but she doesn't feel particularly in the mood for sentiment with someone like her right now.

Irma calls an elevator for them to take back to their apartment, and when it arrives, the four of them file in.

"You two had better get some sleep," she says quietly. "You've got a big day tomorrow."

"What's happening tomorrow?" Icarus asks prematurely, not missing a beat. Then all of a sudden his face drops, as if someone had slapped him. "Oh..." he barely whispers.

"Yes, tomorrow is the big day," sighs Hermia. "Benedict and Lysander will see you both off just before you depart, since they have your attire for the arena. But yes... you could call this the end of a journey."

Vesper hadn't been as caught up in all the glamour and glitter as he had, but even now the realisation of tomorrow morning knocks the wind out of her lungs.

This is it. Tomorrow, they truly will find out whether the odds are in their favour.

It comes out of nowhere, shattering the lingering euphoria of the interviews. What a cruel ordering of events in this long week. For once, Vesper finds herself longing for the vertigo of the elevator ride to continue forever, if it means they don't have to face up to whatever arena tomorrow will bring. But it arrives on their floor in the quickest elevator journey so far, and they spill out into the living room.

Irma and Hermia walk out in front of them and turn around, silently gazing at them both.

"This is where we say goodbye," Hermia murmurs, suddenly unable to fake a cheery temperament. She never did do it all that well.

Vesper can't say she particularly liked Hermia all that much, but in a strange way, her presence has been a comforting one this week. At the end of the day, however harsh, enigmatic or removed from reality she might be, she is still her escort, who well and truly has escorted them to the end. So when Hermia surprisingly goes in for a hug, Vesper doesn't fight it. She lets her hands rest on her back, patting it lightly.

As she breaks away and turns to Icarus for his own hug, she looks as though she is battling tears. "I probably shouldn't be saying this, but..." Hermia shudders through a deep breath, straightening her back again. "You two have been my favourites to escort. It has been an honour. No offence, Irma..."

"None taken," Irma smiles weakly.

After that, Hermia rushes off before she can break in front of the children. Icarus's hands dangle limply by his sides, face numbed with impending fear. Irma, appearing to notice this, takes his hand and Vesper's in each of hers.

"Come," she says gently, leading them over to the sofa. She sits them down just opposite her, still holding their hands tightly.

"So... any advice for tomorrow?" Vesper croaks.

"Don't run straight into the action if you can avoid it. The best thing you can do is get out of there, as fast as you can. Find food and water. The Careers will often claim the Cornucopia as their own little camp... but if you're to grab anything, grab one of the packs scattered on the ground. These are often invaluable. Anything in there, however small, can be useful."

     Irma's voice catches on her last word, and she closes her eyes for a moment to recompose herself. This has to be the worst moment of the week for her.

     "It's not going to be easy," she adds, her stare intense with empathy. "I can't really prepare you two any other way for what it'll be like tomorrow. No matter what you see on TV, it can't give you even an inkling of the shock you feel after experiencing it."

"That's... nice to know," Icarus whimpers.

"I'm rooting for you both. Remember that." Irma leans forward and wraps one arm around each of them, bringing them in for a closer hug. She has the most gentle touch even then, still cradling them like they might break. It makes Vesper wonder how she ever survived the Hunger Games.

As they pull away, Vesper clears her throat. "Is there anything else we need?"

"Faith. Have faith."

The room now intoxicated with the suffocating air of doom, Irma sends them off to bed. On their way out, however, Vesper stops and waits until Icarus has wandered numbly down the hallway. Then she turns around again.

"Irma," she says, catching her mentor's attention. "You remember what we talked about? On the train... Icarus takes the priority."

     A pant of guilt flashes across her features, like distant lightning from a faraway window that illuminates the trepidation creasing her face. In the end, Irma just nods feebly. Not very convincing, but she's sure it is all the confirmation she will be getting tonight. She thinks of Axel tonight, kissing goodnight to his parents and walking down that hallway half the length and width of this one, past the empty bedroom of his little brother...

     She has to bring him home. There is simply no other option she can live with.

     When Vesper reaches her bedroom door, Icarus is still standing in his doorway looking perturbed as ever. He has already changed into his pyjamas, and stands clutching his pillowcase like a small child. Leaning against her own doorway, she sighs. "Look, about the—"

     "What if I die tomorrow?" he blurts out.

The very words stab her in the gut, Icarus's hopeless expression slowly twisting the knife. In a flash, she sees his death in a hundred different ways — his hand clawing at an arrowhead in his chest, his slit throat wearing a necklace of red, Boaz snapping his neck without batting an eyelid...

     No. She can't be having any of this. Not now. Vesper half-crouches down in front of him, meeting his eye level and gripping his shoulders firmly.

"Now you listen to me," she demands, her jaw clenched. "I'm going to protect you in there. I will. We don't know what the arena is going to look like, but whatever the hell it is — a desert, a forest, a jungle, whatever — you stick with me."

"But what if I lose you, i-in the Bloodbath—"

"Then I will find you."

     Icarus considers this for a moment; he doesn't even seem to be able to cry, just gaping at her with a stunned look in the deep brown of his eyes. The boy slowly nods, blowing air softly out of his nose, averting his gaze down to the floor. And then before she can do anything else, he has launched himself into her — his face nestles into Vesper's chest, his arms gripping like a vice around her torso so tightly she struggles for breath. Overwhelmed she wraps her arms around him too, embracing him back.

     In blissful, ignorant silence, they hold each other.

     Tomorrow doesn't need to exist yet. Right now, they're simply just two friends from back home. Maybe they will wake up tomorrow to Blythe's endearing nagging and the smell of Mrs. Brunel's love-injected homemade cooking once more. It only strikes her now how little time she's spent with him this week; it should have been much more. If only they had more time...

     As soon as the hug had began, it's over. Icarus pulls away abruptly, giving her a curt nod and stepping back into his room. "See you tomorrow, I guess..." Vesper winces at this but tries to hide it, transfixed on this boy. The boy who she has to protect, for all or for nothing.

     "See you tomorrow," she echoes. The door shuts.

     Until tomorrow.

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     Vesper tosses and turns for most of the night. Her eyes lull with exhaustion, beginning for a drop of rest, but her mind raves on — she feels as though she should scream, throw up or run away, maybe even all at the same time. But instead she lies paralysed in bed, clenching the corners of the duvet like her life depends on it. Against her will, she starts to wonder what new bed she will find herself lying on tomorrow, if she makes if that far. Desert sand? Forest floor? Frozen tundra?

At some point, she doesn't know when, she finally manages to drink up a few small drops of sleep. Tonight, the dreams of her mother seem to have ceased. This place is new, the floor cold and stone-grey. Warehouse floors. The walls seem to rise up infinitely into the dark abyss, and her voice reverberates off every one of them.

And then she sees her. It has to be her. In the centre of this lifeless place lies a grey-skinned body, light brown hair hanging drably over her head and malnourished hands clawing out with raw, peeling knuckles. She lies in a thin blanket of soap suds, bubbles still popping like sea foam. The air reeks of the stuff — bleach, choking her from the inside.

Vesper finds herself running over, crouching down as she tries to catch her breath.

"... Blythe?"

Uncertainly, her hand reaches for her bony shoulder and lulls her over onto her side. Instantly she recoils, barely suppressing a gasp.

A pair of blank, lifeless eyes stare back at her, engaged in a skeletal, hollow-cheeked ghost of her stepsister. Blythe writhes on the floor for a moment, fingers curling into claws — truly the stuff of which nightmares are made. Her chapped lips part, their cocoon of dry skin cracking, as if she wants to say something. She gurgles something intangible; Vesper, unable to hear, grimaces.

"What?"

A glistening drizzle of foam froths at Blythe's mouth, dribbling down her chin. She wants to reach out to her desperately, nurse her, help her, but somehow she can't. She is simply too far away.

"You weren't here."

Vesper tries to swallow saliva, but her mouth is parched, scratching her sandpaper throat. "W-what?" she stammers, heart thudding in delirium. "I... I don't understand..."

A crook of light splashes onto Blythe's face, the squeaking of a door opening emanating from behind her. Suddenly she is back on a grim October day, coming back and seeing her stepsister at the door. She doesn't wait for her to crumble; she is reliving every footstep, bang bang bang up the fire escape stairs, slam goes the door against the wall as she swings it open. Vesper freezes. It's just as she remembers it, illuminated in the darkness shrouded from these city slums that finished him off. It's right there.

The bed where her father drew his last breath — without her.

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     By the time a knock on the door stirs her from bed, sunlight dapples the plush carpet of her room once more. It doesn't feel right on such a grim morning. Vesper's skin swims in clammy sweat, sticking to her sheets as she manages to will herself up out of bed and splash her face with water, over the nape of her neck.

She stops. Thinking of what might come later, Vesper bows her head over the sink and cups the running water in her hands. She laps it up like a parched dog, slurping it and gulping every mouthful down she can... whilst she can.

     A gentler knock than usual moves her from her room. This morning, it is not Hermia — instead a nameless Capitol servant of some sort. She and Irma are probably already down sorting out sponsors, or something of the like. So this is it. "Get dressed and be out for breakfast promptly," he addresses her in a monotone voice, handing her a soft pair of leggings and long-sleeved shirt. "Your outfit for the arena will be provided in the launch room by your stylist."

     Vesper simply nods weakly, shutting the door again. Once dressed, she follows the instructions and makes her way out to the dining room. Breakfast today is a much less indulgent affair than previously — a plate of buttered toast already laid out for both she and Icarus, complete with a glass of water.

     Icarus walks out only moments after one another and they catch each other's eye. Neither of them say a thing, not out loud anyway. Her chair scrapes agonisingly against the floor as she takes a seat, nibbling her toast despite her lack of appetite. Better something than nothing, after all. The pair queasily eat through sickly, rich butter as the servants watch over them in stony silence, waiting for them to finish. The large, minimalist clock hanging on the wall ticks incessantly.

     Tick, tock, tick, tock...

     Once they finish their toast and drink all of their water, their escorts do not take any hesitation in ushering them over to the elevator. They file in, almost in identical outfits which will soon be exchanged anyway, sandwiched in-between the two sinister-looking men. One of them presses a new button, and the elevator rockets upwards; a whole new feeling. Vesper instinctively clutches her stomach, the nausea hitting her harder than ever before — it had only ever been a descent until now, and this seems much worse.

     Maybe Icarus had noticed, or maybe he hadn't, but he nudges her gently in the rib with his elbow. Endearingly, she manages to nudge him back. It is all that needs to be said.

     The doors whoosh open to suck in a sudden blast of open air, along with the deafening roar of the crowds on the streets. It truly is a celebration for them. But right now, Vesper is more concerned over the giant hovercraft perched on the rooftop's helipad, tributes from their preceding districts all lined up in the same attire as them. She and Icarus are brought over to line up with them before their escorts leave. Gradually other tributes from Seven, Eight and so on join the queue.

     Once the girl and boy from District Twelve finish the queue, a member of crew onboard the hovercraft waves them in. They file in two-by-two like ants, strapped into leather seats with buckles over their waists. Vesper has never seen the inside of a hovercraft before — only the ones they hang for display sometimes in the Epicentre, particularly during a Victory Tour since they tend to provide the most majestic backdrop for a stage. She studies each part of its interior, wondering which people back home had worked on which parts, and at what cost?

Icarus instantly notices Telle opposite him, and without a moment's hesitation performs some sort of gesture — raising his foot out slightly, pointed in her direction. She can't find the energy to smile, but she still manages to mirror his gesture. Perhaps it had become a secret code between them. Now that she has noticed her, Vesper notices how completely forlorn Telle looks this morning. She can't even fake a smile this time... not that she can blame her. The wooden ball in her hands rolls in her palms obsessively to the point of mania, left to right, right to left.

A woman comes over with a syringe of some sort in hand. She approaches Icarus next, holding out her hand. "Give me your arm please," she commands sharply.

"What is that?" Icarus mumbles, staring at it sceptically.

"It's a tracker. We'll need to insert it into your arm, so we know where you are in the arena."

Gulping, Icarus extends his arm out to her. Grabbing his forearm, she aligns the exceptionally thick needle up to his skin. It shoots something into his bloodstream and almost immediately a flashing white light emulates from inside his skin. Icarus stares and examines the spot, both in awe and disgust.

Vesper reluctantly complies too. She doesn't know how he didn't flinch, but the inserting of the tracker sends a punching sensation of discomfort through her arm that almost makes her vomit on the spot. As if I weren't feeling delicate already, Vesper thinks to herself, weakly massaging the spot where the blinking light inside her skin is.

Her delicate state isn't helped by the hovercraft journey either, still smooth and sleek as it slices through the air thanks to District Six's manufacturing, but it's too smooth. And no window exists to look out of, or fresh air to ventilate. Vesper leans back in her seat, breathing deeply in through her nose and out of her mouth as sweat beads on her forehead.

Maybe Icarus was right. Maybe she really does get motion sickness — or air sickness, specifically.

The only distraction she can think of is to look at other tributes. Unfortunately, the first person she lays her eyes on is Boaz. To her surprise, he is already staring right at her from a few seats down, his scrutinising stare bores into her tense one. But then he does something so unexpected, so disturbing that completely throws her:

He smiles at her.

It's only small, his lips twitching upwards ever so slightly. But it's enough to hitch her breath and send chills rolling down her spine. She sincerely hopes Icarus isn't anywhere near that monster in the Bloodbath; yes, monster. Vesper doesn't regret thinking it. A sob story or not, she's witnessed enough of Boaz's behaviour this week to know he is bordering psychotic.

When the hovercraft lands far too soon, the door opens into a dull hallway. Fluorescent lights line the ceiling and cloak the corridor in dull light. In single file the tributes file out, a man standing where the hovercraft ends to direct them to either go left or right. From there, they follow numbly. As Vesper and Icarus step out, she is directed to go left whilst he goes right. Swallowing hard, Icarus stares at her one last time. Vesper widens her eyes at him: I'll find you, she insists telepathically. She thinks he gets the message.

     Turning her back to him, she continues down the hallway, trying not to notice whoever is in front of her as guards escort them on the long march. The corridor seems to go on forever, turning in a slow arch. Gradually, one by one they start disappearing into different doors marked with their district number. One of the guards at Vesper's side suddenly halts at a door, numbered 6F. This is her stop.

The guard opens the door and Vesper walks in slowly. It's a small room, metal walls and all, and right in the very corner stands a claustrophobic-looking tube — this is where she will be launched into the arena. The only person in the room reacts and whips his head around, shoulders tensing at the sight of her. He's a sigh for sore eyes that she never expected to be so happy to see.

Benedict, for once, seems to be thinking about what he says before speaking. Finally, in a surprisingly lack of hyperactivity, he manages a bitter smile.

"You know..." Benedict sighs, shaking his head, "This is my least favourite part of this job. I always get so excited about everything else, all the designing and glamour, that I forget about this bit until the end. I suppose it's the naïvety of getting lucky my first year..."

Vesper says nothing. Her glance drifts over to a small pile of clothes on the metal table, surprisingly anti-climactic after everything.

"Right. Shall we do this, then?"

As Benedict gradually unravels each article of clothing and hands it to her, she tries to conceptualise what the arena might look like. From what she can tell, it won't be a frosty climate (unless the Gamemakers are being really cruel). He hands her a navy blue cotton shirt, a beige over-shirt that she leaves unbuttoned, and some synthetic hiking pants — all very light layers. On the lower half, she puts on a pair of wool socks and some seemingly waterproof boots. Finally, Benedict gives her a small maroon bandana.

     "You don't need to wear this one right now," he adds. "Not if you don't want to."

     Vesper decides to tie it around her wrist for safekeeping and convenience. She does a small test walk in her new gear; so this is it. Her clothes for however many weeks she's here. The clothes she will die in.

     What else is there left to say? She looks around the room, thinking of her mother in this moment, and the parallel to her father watching back home. What must have been going through their minds? Vesper almost doesn't want to waste what could be her final moments on dwelling too much.

     "I don't wanna die," she suddenly bursts out. God, she really doesn't want to die; but then she thinks of the pain in Axel's eyes in the Justice Building. It will hurt less if she goes than Icarus, surely. Her eyes prickle with tears and she frowns. Not now, and in front of anyone but Benedict...

     Thankfully she doesn't have to fret about hiding it, because he pitifully pulls her into an embrace. She seems to be getting a lot of them the past twenty four hours. But she accepts it, furiously blinking the impending tears away over his shoulder.

     "Oh, Vesper, I don't want you to die either. Truth be told, you've been one of my favourites."

     "Really?" she asks.

     "Oh yes," Benedict nods, "you certainly mean business!"

     Vesper runs a hand through her hair as she steps back from the hug, tapping the floor with her boots a little. "Do you think you could give me a hint?" she queries, knowing she probably won't get an answer. Maybe just to stop her stomach from doing endless somersaults.

     "What? About the arena? The cheek!" Benedict somehow manages to chuckle, slipping his hands into his pockets. "You'll know soon enough, it's only about a minute until launch anyway."

     Right on cue, a robotic voice announces: "Thirty seconds until launch."

     Benedict cowers, pointing up to the omniscient speaker. "I stand corrected," he grins. As soon as it happens it fades though, and he peers behind her at the tube. "... I suppose you had better go now."

     Does she really? Does she really have to? Vesper opens and closes her mouth like a goldfish gaping for air, before finally saying, "Thanks, Benedict. For everything."

     "It has been a privilege, Vesper."

     Turning her back to him, she forces herself to carefully approach the cylindrical glass tube. Vesper places one foot in, then the other, and looks up at the sealed ceiling for now as she wipes her sweating palms on her trousers. This is it. What if this really is it?

     "Morituri te salutant."

     Vesper spins around on the spot to look at Benedict again, her fears being dispelled for a moment to be replaced by confusion. "What?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at him; is now really the time to be reciting old Latin gibberish? Understanding her perplexed body language, Benedict recomposes himself. This time, he translates it into a much more chilling rendition:

     "Hail, Emperor," he recites. "Those who are about to die salute you."

     A glass shield suddenly separates the two of them, making her jump. Vesper places her trembling hand on it and feels her breath quicken — all at once her blood begins to thrum in her ears, her fight or flight reflex kicking in, and her panting leaves fearful condensation on the glass. The ceiling breaks open above her and searing white light pours in with lukewarm air.

     Vesper feels the plate she stands on begin to ascend upwards. She cups a hand over her eyes, shielding herself from the blinding light and instead first being hit with the humidity pouring in...

She doesn't remove her hand until she feels her plate has fully risen up. Time to survey what she is up against. Her eyes slowly adjust to the light, revealing greenery to surround her everywhere. Instantly her skin feels greasy and sticky with humidity, and bugs seem to chirp everywhere. Vesper can make out trees in the distance — however, only a few seconds later she also clocks the fact the tree trunks seem to be largely submerged in thick bodies of green water or clumps of land, getting wetter and wetter the further away from the podiums it stretches.

When she looks back to the centre, she sees mostly green, grassy land with large puddles at first glance. But with the sheen of algae covering them, who knows how deep they will go? Even the sun glaring above on what seems like the only clearing in the whole arena can't penetrate the murky depths. Wiry skeletons of what must be old trees dot around the inner circle between the podiums and Cornucopia, finishing off this derelict No Man's Land.

Vesper makes her conclusion — this must be some kind of swamp.

Claudius Templesmith's voice booms from above, so jarring to hear inside the arena and not from a TV screen like before:

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-Eighth Hunger Games begin!"

A giant hologram of a clock hovers above the Cornucopia, the seconds decreasing rapidly. Sixty seconds. Now fifty-eight, sixty seconds is all the tributes will get to plan their next move before the carnage that will be the Bloodbath. And she will take every chance she can to get this right.

Vesper first looks to either side of her: to her left is the District Five boy, Edison, and to her right is Levin. Edison will be easy to outrun, but Levin? She doesn't have a clue. He might be the one to beat to the Cornucopia — but what would she actually do if they came head-to-head? Kill him?

No time to consider that yet. Next she looks for Icarus. She can just about make him out, a pin-point in her vision to her diagonal right. He hasn't seen her yet, but hopefully he will look around soon enough.

She checks the time again: Forty four seconds.

And now she scans the Cornucopia. The metallic horn glitters in the sunlight, gifts pouring out from the middle — unfortunately most of the bounty inside, the most risky stuff, is inside the mouth which happens to be turned almost directly away from her. But she can still bargain with the various goods scattered around it. She even makes out a sword, internally rejoicing at the possibility of seizing it; if she just springs directly that way and makes a grab for it, circles around the arena for Icarus and gets the hell out of there, all could be well.

Then she remembers what Irma said, to prioritise getting a pack. Survival before shiny sharp objects, Vesper...

Thirty six seconds.

Vesper looks over to her left again and sees Telle, a little closer to her than Icarus is. She's still fiddling with that wooden ball. She hopes to make eye contact with her, to somehow inform her telepathically of how she will tackle this Bloodbath and help her get out alive...

And then it happens so fast.

The ball slips out of Telle's hand. She tries making a clumsy grab for it but only clutches air, her eyes following it with dread. The tiny artefact bounces once on the metal plate — plonk — before ricocheting off through the air, travelling a minuscule distance and plummeting towards the grass—

That's when the ear-splitting explosion obliterates Telle, her podium and everything around her.

▬▬▬▬▬▬

A/N;

well... that happened.

[ published: 27th may, 2021 ]

— Imogen