Chapter Text
"Your winner of the 39th Hunger Games, from District 1, Cocomori!"
Applause, a tinny, crackled from the speakers of the arena hologram screen. Always buzzing, always watching, always listening: she'd felt their cameras stalk her every move for a month. The moment her name, written on a slip of paper, was picked out of thousands in a crystal bowl, she'd been ensnared in their trap.
And now, it was done. She’d won. She’d beat them all. Bodies laid limp at her feet, still warm to the touch, curled in forever-sleep. They could not hurt her now.
Yet, no relief welled up in her like she thought would happen when watching the games on the other side of the screen. Instead, her mind, slow and sluggish as it was, screamed danger, danger, danger, as her sword slipped from her failing grip. Tremors shook through her body as she began hyperventilating. With gut-deep certainty Cocomori knew: She’d never be safe again.
From her position on the ground — the back of her knees were slit wide open, her ankle was twisted unnaturally — she tracked the approach of drones through swollen, tearful eyes. They carried slings to ferry the corpses from the battleground, herself included. A needle extended from one of them, which she willed herself to still for. As much as they hated her, her victory was cemented on a thousand screens. They would not kill her, but there were far worse things than being alive.
The last tribute she killed, his name was Astor. That name belonged to someone who drew breath mere minutes ago. She had torn his back until he lost enough blood to paint the desert hill red. When his limbs gave way, his body crumpled atop hers, and she’d felt his shallow breaths slow till they stopped entirely.
He was her district mate.
He was meant to win.
Metal arms scooped her into a thin hammock. The white fabric was soaked a deep red almost immediately, liquid seeping along fibre highways. On the underside of the drone carrying her was a camera, glassy like Astor’s eyes. In its reflection she could only see an animal.
This was a fact everyone knew: The Games were due for a classic Career win. In the last few years, a disproportionate number of winners had come from non-Career districts, with most winners relying on stealth and brains over brawn. The concept of it was thrilling at first, no doubt, but before long the capitol audience had tired of these “unexpected”, intellect-based wins. Underdogs were only underdogs if the audience couldn’t see it coming.
It was predicted that this year’s Hunger Games would break records with their violence, Cocomori was only unfortunate enough to be reaped for it. They’d pulled her away from her weeping family, placed her in gowns and suits and in front of cameras. Before long, the mentors came to the unanimous conclusion: Cocomori could not be allowed to win. She did not have the charming looks that could melt the audience, nor the deft tongue to talk her way into hearts. On stage she was awkward and bumbling, her presentation far from that of a potential winner, much less one from District One. In comparison, her district-mate, Astor, was born for the stage. Here was a man Cocomori could shadow, who had the presence to lead the Career alliance. He did not speak with the hesitance Cocomori felt and he did not choke on emotions at the mention of their home like Cocomori did. He drew the spotlight of every room he stepped into and bantered with the Capitol stars like they’d known each other for years.
The plan was simple: This year, the Careers would hunt. Aggressively. They would hold nothing back in practice rooms, evaluations and interviews, honest in their intention for carnage. When they got into the Arena, Astor would attack the nearest tribute after the countdown and best them in hand-to-hand combat. Cocomori herself would grab supplies from the Cornucopia. Hopefully, the show of strength could catalyse some interesting team-ups in the other districts. Otherwise, the bloodbath would be entertainment in of itself. The Gamemakers, impressed, would reduce the amount of arena-hazards to leave enough tributes for their hunt.
Somewhere along the way, Cocomori would die conveniently, for the sake of or in the hands of her own alliance. Astor would turn away and grimace, shield his eyes with a hand in a rare display of vulnerability. Maybe he would whisper some words, loud enough for the camera to hear, that hinted at some mysterious relationship between the two. Maybe he was the one who killed her, right girl, wrong time. The audience would weep for her potential, blush over the drama, then cheer for the gore and guts. Post-arena, Astor would bounce back, the darling winner of District One.
At least, that was the plan.
“Idiot girl!” Kim hissed. “You absolute imbecile!”
The gamemaster would twist this ending — the one with her winning — into a satisfactory one for the masses, but no one involved in the Hunger Games would be daft enough to think she was off the hook that easily. District One had many past winners and therefore mentors, and not one of them was happy with Cocomori right now. Kim was perhaps not the last mentor she would choose to be accompanying her now. Kim obviously did not feel the same.
After the brief interview right after her victory, Kim brought her through hallway after hallway, silent until they’d passed by the last stranger who’d congratulated her with plastic smiles. Well-manicured fingers crushed her arm in an iron grip as she was pulled along. Where squeezed, her skin bulged white. She could not help but feel glad at the contact.
“You knew the plan." Above, artificial lights shone blindingly. It glinted off the tinsel weaved into Kim’s hair. Every wall was washed with an even brightness without any shadow. “Was it so hard, you daft girl, to simply die?”
The air in here was frighteningly still, the tiled floor even and smooth. In the arena, she stepped only where her alliance stepped because she couldn’t tell quicksand from stable ground. “You want this, huh? Huh? You wanted to win? You don’t know what it means to win, cause you’re a fucking idiot. You’re dead. I’ll tell you this now, you better watch your fucking back. You’re dead.”
The weakest part of her wanted to respond, "You're scaring me. Why can't you be nice to me? You were a winner too.” She could not, not that she would. Medicine thickened her tongue. Her concussed head wandered.
The walls were a cool grey, panel after panel a near seamless fit. Compared to the expanse of the desert, this maze was a tight cage. She could do nothing but stumble through, the wild creature in her aching for the comfort of the killing grounds she was snatched out from mere hours ago. That feral something borne in pools of warm blood, was now whimpering and lost. It clawed at her numbing heart. “-even listening? Can you at least act like a-”
From very far away, her mind tells her an easy truth: something is not here anymore. There is an emptiness in her that is glaring in its presence, yet she finds it impossible to remember what was once there. She left it back there in her childhood bedroom, on the reaping stage, on the arena floor with her weapon. She carved it out of herself under a starry sky on her second night watch. She will not find it now in this sterile room.
The grip on her arm tugs sharply, suddenly. An open palm moves to strike her cheek. Mori cannot tell if it connects. She is unaware, as one often is, when she slips into unconsciousness.
This was the narrative they spun: The girl was steadfast. She was faithful to the her pack, quick to strike on command, quick to defend cries of help. It is a valuable trait to have, they murmur, uncommon nowadays, that steadfast loyalty. But a dog is a dog, and the owner’s flesh is still flesh. On every TV screen, the now-edited playback zoomed in on her with angles that boasted the Capitol’s technological prowess. In a particularly tasteful frame, they catch her staring at Astor’s back, with a heated look in her eyes. There, our diligent winner, they'd crow, patient with her prey. She’d been looking to hunt the hunters from the start! Then they’d pat themselves on the back and laugh at their shitty wordplay.
Needles slipped under her skin as they marched her out of the arena. it was an odd feeling, anticipating the failure of her cognition, awareness slipping without her being aware, and unexpectedly staying awake. Most winners were half-dead at their point of victory, so it was procedure to tranquilize them and rush them to the hospital wards. Cocomori was injected with a poison antidote, adrenaline and some miracle medicine. Flesh wounds begin to knit themselves in front of her eyes.
They haul her onto the stage. Lights flash in the back of her eyes as every reporter in the audience pulls out a camera. Dazed, she lets herself be pulled into a seat. A nameless man sits across her, white hair coiffed in a gravity-defying manner. The suit he's wearing is a garish purple, embellished by golden flowers that vine across his arms and chest. His rogue-red lips flap in a rapid manner, but for the life of her she can't hear what he's saying above a whisper.
“Cocomori! What an upset! What a run-!! Dearest, how do you feel?” Is what she thinks the commentator says. Before she even responds, the commentator barks with laughter, “Of course! Of course! My dear, it was all too refreshing to see you and the Careers on the screen this year. Don't get me wrong - I love those mind games as much as the next guy - But from the moment the timer went off! Oh-! You just can't replace that feeling! You can't! Don't you agree, everyone? Ahaha!"
"My favourite, of course, has to be the final showdown. Here, let's watch your winning moment together.”
Following his pointed finger, she watches a screen whir with incomprehensible colours. The man chatters on while her world narrows down to those pixels. Green, brown, red, green, blue, red, red, brown, red, pink, red, red, red, red, red, red—
A light tap on lap snaps her attention back to the commentator. He smiles, teeth perfect white. Expectant.
“What?” She croaks. Again, the man and his audience laugh uproariously. “Look at this girl! So arrogant! I LOVE it!” A hand shakes her shoulder, the one that looks like minced meat, bumpy with scars and decorated with yellowing cuts. Somehow, there is no pain at all. Its fingers are clenched, frozen around the handle of a weapon. Shards of broken nail dig into the nail beds, some torn off completely. When she wills the fingers to flex, nothing happens. This limb of hers is entirely foreign.
Suddenly, she is acutely aware of how she must look on that polished stage, a battered body that couldn't engage with an interviewer at the basest of levels. She must not be too smart, did you see how confused she was when he asked her that question? Oh, but, poor thing- What the world must see is the way the spotlight casts sharp shadows around her sunken cheeks, the yellow-purple-black bruises that pepper her skin. Those fighter types, they come out lost. ...Did that make her endearing? Did they find her simple? Did that make her simple to love?
Or was she simply grotesque?
("Well, I wouldn’t want to keep you from your rest. She’s been a dear, hasn’t she? Our winner of the 39th Hunger Games, give it up for her once again, Cocomori!”)
This is how it ended: four Careers swung at each other the moment the last boy from District Six died. A canon shot rang in their ears, but the blood roaring in her veins drowned it out. Cocomori ducked beneath an arrow and went for the knees of the girl from District Two. “FUCK! Bitch!” Chipped daggers dipped in poison surged in her direction, but she leapt back to keep her distance. “I’ll fucking kill you!” A furious clash of metal sounded to her right, but she kept her eyes straight on the wraith charging her. Cocomori could not reconcile the sallow face in front of her with the girl who shared her dinner with her mere days ago.
It was a clumsy battle, all of them dehydrated and hungry, some with already broken ribs or twisted ankles that made them all the more desperate to defend themselves. For every heavy swing of her axe that connected, a lithe hand sunk a blade into her flesh. Each cut set sparks of pain blooming across her skin, the poison acting fast, until every part of her was on cool fire. There was a flurry of movement, bloodlust thick like fog as four animals fought for their own survival. Cocomori only saw the moment her axe split the girl’s skull with clarity. She saw the blood splatter on her arms and the white-knuckle grip she had on her axe, but she could not feel any of it. Not the sensations nor the horror she knows she should’ve felt.
Instead, she turned to Astor. He, too, was unidentifiable compared to the person he was before. Parts of his skin had peeled under the heat of the sun, pieces of his scalp were torn bald. Spittle fell from his lips as he decapitated the other tribute. Red poured from a deep gash in his abdomen, scent making Cocomori drool.
Astor lunged, keeping his killing momentum as he turned towards her. Twin crazed creatures collided, a horrible wail of steel on steel. In that moment, she did not remember to die pitifully. She went for his gut like a wild animal, and he her throat. Each kiss of blade made her bones creak with force, poison eating at her vision with promise. No time, she had to kill him now.
She stumbled backwards, letting herself crumple, before hurling a handful of sand into his eyes. The blood that slicked his hand let her knock his sword away when she tackled him at the waist. They tousled, nails drawing blood across each others’ scarred skin. Astor wrapped his legs around her arms in a poor restraint, while she tore into chunks of flesh with her teeth.
A pained howl spilt from his lips as he slammed his fist onto her head, stunning her into releasing him. Immediately, he pounced onto her again, hands gripped in a tight chokehold around her neck. Oxygen escapes her crushed windpipe, spots of darkness swimming in her vision. Dazed, she registers as the boy on top of her shakes violently.
Her hand grasps, searching the ground, cutting her flesh on something sharp. She grips it tight, lets the blade bite her palm, and plunges it into the back of Astor’s neck. Her palm slides along the length of the blade, muscle and bone bunching for the resistance she needs to drive the sword, again and again, across the expanse of Astor’s back. Hot liquid splashes into her gasping mouth, both of them wheezing the same horrible wet sound.
Then, the canon goes off.