Chapter Text
It had started raining, like, two minutes after the ocean caught fire, and it hadn’t stopped since, something that made Buffy suspect that the people in charge just weren’t very good with fire. At the very least, they hadn’t paid attention in their mandatory life skills classes in high school – if they even had life skills classes in the evil empire. No one had made Buffy attend one in District Twelve, but given what she had seen so far, that probably didn’t mean much.
She could have mentioned in passing to Haymitch that water didn’t have much of an impact on grease or oil fires, but, honestly, she suspected that it served her purposes better to keep silent. Not even the most murderous of demons would be willing to go out and wreck mayhem in that kind of downpour – it even put a damper on Buffy’s fighting spirit – which meant fewer dead tributes.
Somehow, she had to get those guys to work with her on this whole arena thing.
If only I spoke the language, Buffy thought for about the zillionth time, feeling about as frustrated as she had the first time. No, that was a lie, she was more frustrated. The first time that she had had that thought, she had just wanted to know where she was. Now, she wanted everyone to slow down and stop being idiots. It was more important now.
At any rate, it was pouring rain, and yesterday, they had added little ‘quakes to the arena, something that had so far not killed anyone at all. Today was shaking out to be another day of minor tremors and unrelenting rains that had absolutely zero effect on the fiery ocean of fire.
Buffy was not impressed, not least because she was out in the rain.
Honestly, Buffy would have preferred to stay inside and laze around all day, chatting at Haymitch and plotting and maybe squeezing in a second nap after lunch, but around midmorning her bolt hole had started shaking down around her ears; literally, shaking down around her ears. Buffy had had to grab her things and get out quick. It hadn’t even been a big or bad earthquake, just another of those piddly little tremors, which was just so totally lame and something that she had complained about at length to Haymitch.
But then, after growing up on the San Andreas Fault, Buffy knew about earthquakes. She knew what to do before, during, and after them. And after nearly four years as the Slayer, she certainly knew how to slay during them – not that anything shaking its way through the arena really counted as an earthquake. The only reason that everything was falling over was because the whole town was a crumbling ruin that should have been bulldozed under years ago.
But since she had already been out and about and looking for a new and reasonably structurally sound bolt hole, and everything locked under the Murder Dome – weird creatures, vamps, demons, and other tributes alike – was careening around like a few falling buildings and an ocean of fire were, like, the worst thing ever, she had thought, Hey, why not? Seize the day and all that.
Which is how she had ended up slaying where and what she could; it wasn’t like the search for shelter had been going super well before that anyway.
It felt good to be up and doing something after doing nothing for most of yesterday. And the unrelenting rain and treacherous footing certainly added an interesting element to the slayage – something that she happily remarked on to Haymitch.
Talking to Haymitch was getting to be something of a habit.
And as she cut her way through the slim pickings, Buffy hoped - but didn’t tell Haymitch, because it was just a little too honest – that if she killed enough demons, her Slayer sense might become useful again. You know, if she killed practically everything in the arena except the other tributes, and frankly, Buffy suspected that if she was smarter or more desperate (or Faith), she might be up for killing them too.
It would definitely make everything simpler.
Speaking of which… Buffy thought that something might be closer than everything else. Listening harder, she thought that she heard it again – fwop, fwop, fwop – and a shuffling sound that might have been someone trying to sneak up behind her. It could also have been the wind smashing raindrops against rustling garbage though.
Well, there’s only one way to find out, Buffy thought and grinned.
She really had missed slaying.
The girl’s chances of survival had never been inspiring, not after her interview and especially not after she had made it her personal business to exterminate everything in the arena but the other tributes. Then she had set the ocean on fire, inadvertently proving Haymitch’s personal theory that no matter how bad things were they could always get worse.
Haymitch liked to think that the girl had hit rock bottom – that at this point there was absolutely nothing she could do to make her situation worse – but he wasn’t willing to bet on it. She had a talent. And he was a realist.
“So,” drawled Johanna, “do you think she still has to work at being this irritating or is it just a habit by now?”
“Habit,” he said. Haymitch didn’t even have to think about it. He knew the girl well enough by now to at least know that much about her. At Johanna’s look, he added, “I had to live with her for a whole week, and she was this annoying even before she understood why they’d tossed her on a train to the Capitol.”
“Well, damn.”
“She has her good points,” Haymitch said defensively, and Johanna snorted. Scowling, and maybe more emotional than he otherwise might like, he added, “I mean it.”
He really did.
His girl was a remorseless killer with extensive training across a variety of terrains, weapons, and circumstances. Earthquakes, storms, and fiery oceans of death were all mere annoyances to her, ones that she complained about at length. She was vicious in a fight, a firebug, and absolutely lethal to mutts.
It’s too bad that she categorically refuses to play to her strengths and kill a few people, thought Haymitch gloomily.
“It could just be natural talent,” inserted a new voice before Johanna could say anything cutting, and Haymitch glanced that way to see Finnick Odair bearing down on them. Tucked under one arm he had Annie, who was damp-cheeked, bleary-eyed, and vaguely disheveled. When she stumbled, he righted her. Annie was on a lot of tranquilizers, and apparently had been since the storm started in the arena. Four’s other Victors were taking turns manning Annie’s station and looking after her.
Frowning, Finnick nodded at the screen behind Haymitch. “What’s she looking at?”
Haymitch turned to find his girl tribute crouched at the corner of one of the cracks in the arena’s ground. She was crumbling a clod of dirt between her fingers and frowning.
“Please let it be flammable,” crowed Johanna. To the small screen in front of her, she said, “Set the town on fire too, Twelve.”
“During a rainstorm?” asked Finnick dubiously.
“The ocean is still burning,” retorted Johanna. “I have faith in her talents.”
“Strong words,” teased Finnick, and Johanna scowled.
The ocean was still burning, and it was still raining, but the rainstorm had done nothing to lessen the blaze. It looked like a wasted effort, but the game makers never did anything in an arena without having an underlying purpose of their own.
I’m missing something important, Haymitch thought, frowning. What’s the rainstorm for if not the fire? They can’t be planning to flood the arena again, can they? It’d be boring to Capitol audiences. Except the ocean is on fire this time, so it would be a flood of fire this time instead of water…
Haymitch tried not to shudder.
“Idiot! They’re not anything of the sort,” scoffed Johanna, drawing Haymitch’s attention back to the others. “I just like it when the walking dead give the Capitol something to remember them by. It’s even better when it’s something that’ll shame the Districts. Make them regret everything.”
“Johanna!” snapped Finnick.
“What? Are you worried that someone’s going to hear me?” snarled Johanna, leaning toward Finnick. She bared her teeth at him in a smile. “Even if they did, who do they have to hold over my head? Those unlucky kids they keep randomly pulling from the fishbowls? Those pieces of shit that I’m partnered with? Please,” sneered Johanna. Leaning back, she flapped a hand through the air. “I’m as free as anyone can be around here.”
“Some of us don’t have the luxury of not caring,” said Finnick coldly.
“Poor little Career boy,” mocked Johanna, and Finnick flinched. “Surrounded by people he can stand.”
“Because it’s not like you can stand anyone,” Finnick said steadily.
Not even yourself, thought Haymitch, as Johanna toasted him with Haymitch’s flask.
“Damn straight,” Johanna agreed cheerfully and knocked back a slug of his liquor.
Johanna had learned her lessons and learned them well.
Haymitch watched as Johanna’s face twisted. She swallowed, hard, choking on it a bit on the way down.
“What is this shit?” she roared.
“Watered down,” Haymitch admitted with a certain grim amusement.
Johanna’s eyes widened then narrowed.
“Buffy.” She breathed it like a curse.
Shrugging, Haymitch looked away, knowing even as he did it that it was a mistake. Johanna tore weak things to shreds.
“You’re going soft,” crowed Johanna, as he knew she would. “When did you start? It was real the last time that I borrowed a swallow off of you. Don’t tell me that you’re actually beginning to hope that –”
“Now who’s an idiot?” sneered Haymitch, because he couldn’t bear to hear the rest of that sentence. It was too close to the truth. The sharp, mocking cruelty in Johanna’s face, a thin veneer over something more volatile, compelled him to admit, “She made me promise… before she went in.” Purely for spite, he added, “You did me a favor finishing the other for me. Got rid of the temptation.”
Even with his flask drained and refilled with watered down swill, the temptation was always there. All he had to do was ask – or demand – or even just throw something at the nearest avox and –
Buffy said something then – more complaints about her socks being wet, as if it weren’t her own damn fault that they were – and she neatly diverted Haymitch’s thoughts from all the alcohol that he could be drinking to herself.
Sometimes, Haymitch wondered if she talked so damn much to remind him of his promise, to make him care, to keep him on track. It was a possibility. She was a Career. They got that sort of training along with everything else.
“Then she was playing to win even back then,” said Finnick. He sounded satisfied, even a bit smug, and Haymitch dragged his thoughts away from his (possibly nefarious) girl tribute to the two former tributes snapping at each other like a pair of back alley curs.
“Wonder what changed her mind?” said Johanna, vicious. “Maybe Gloss is right. Maybe she really is trying to commit suicide to escape Twelve.” Canting her head toward Haymitch, she said, all bright malice, “Is he right, Haymitch? Is living in District Twelve that bad?”
Haymitch’s fist clenched, but otherwise he ignored her.
She didn’t mean it.
Johanna rejected the people around her just as thoroughly as her district had rejected her, as Haymitch’s own district had rejected him, after Snow had made examples out of them. It was as much for her own sake as theirs.
Haymitch was more selfish. If he ever managed to bring one of his tributes home a Victor, they were never going to get rid of him. There would be game nights. He would palm Effie off on them as often as possible. And someday, he would hold their hand when he died, hopefully of something boring like old age. He might even share his white liquor with them; maybe. Well, occasionally, provided that they didn’t take up drinking too.
The girl didn’t seem like she would be a heavy drinker – Careers never were. They preferred other vices – but the boy was harder to predict. With Haymitch’s luck, he’d drink like a fish. That wouldn’t be entirely terrible either. They could pretend to be social drinkers together like him and Chaff and everyone out of Ten.
“Stop it,” snapped Finnick, rising to the bait. He almost never did that. “She’s still trying to win, but on her own terms. I admire that.”
“It’s suicide, pure and simple,” said Johanna harshly. “If she wanted to win, she’d have killed them all at the cornucopia. She’d be out already.”
“Shut up,” said Haymitch fiercely, the words directed as much to himself as Finnick and Johanna. “You’re wasting time. Either make yourself useful or get out. Neither of you is supposed to be here anyway.”
Imagining a future with either of his tributes was rushing towards disappointment. Sooner or later, one of them was going to have to kill someone, even if it was just the second to last tribute. The girl wouldn’t, and the boy couldn’t. Haymitch was going to have to go home to an empty Victor’s Village and spend another year in virtual solitude.
“Fine!” Johanna slammed to her feet. “I’m gone.”
Finnick flopped down in Johanna’s vacated chair before Johanna had even finished storming out of the mentors’ control room. Then he stared at Haymitch meaningfully until Haymitch realized that Finnick meant for him to give his seat to Annie Cresta.
Haymitch sneered at him. He did, however, gesture to an avox to bring Annie a chair. She ignored it and them, apparently too busy watching Buffy slog through the mud to bother with anything else.
Finnick stared at Haymitch. Hard.
Haymitch pretended to ignore him.
Burdock was dry in his bolt hole, obsessively packing and repacking his pack. And Buffy – Haymitch slid his eyes to the side to read the subscripts – was telling a story about singing in the rain? That couldn’t be right.
I’ll have to go back and reread that bit later, Haymitch decided; maybe make Effie put together a video of all the girl’s ramblings, see if she trying to say something useful to me.
Finnick was still staring at Haymitch, his pleasant expression as flat and empty as his pale eyes.
Haymitch hated it when the Careers looked at him like that.
“Why are you still here?” asked Haymitch tiredly, giving up and giving in. He wondered if Careers trained to be as irritating as they were or if they all just excelled at it. Either way, the Career districts were probably really annoying places to live.
“You said to be helpful.”
“We aren’t even allies.”
“Haven’t you seen any of our interviews?” said Finnick, gesturing between himself and Annie. “We like your wild girl. She’s practically a Career. And who better to help mentor a Career than a pair of highly successful Careers?”
“I have two living tributes.”
“Yeah, but we aren’t interested in the other one.”
“Just the girl,” Haymitch sighed. One way or another it always came back to the girl.
“We’re drawn to her sparkling personality,” said Finnick blandly.
Haymitch actually laughed at that. “Seriously, though, what do you want with her?”
“Nothing, yet,” said Finnick, flashing Haymitch one of those bright, empty smiles that he had perfected after becoming a Victor. “But if she makes it out of the arena, District Four would like Buffy Summers to think positively of us.”
“She’s not a long lost Career,” said Haymitch, even though it was patently obvious that she was someone’s long lost Career. “She isn’t going to understand what you’re angling at.”
“Even if she’s not one of ours, she’s someone’s Career,” said Finnick placidly, echoing Haymitch’s thoughts. “And when Careers become Victors, they owe it to the ones who come after them to teach a few classes at the academy.”
“Twelve doesn’t have an academy.”
“Twelve doesn’t have an academy yet,” corrected Finnick. “But when you do, District Four hopes to someday have the same close relationship with District Twelve that Districts One and Two have with each other.”
Haymitch looked at Finnick very, very hard. He looked sober, and he looked mostly sane, but sometimes it was hard to tell with him. Finnick was good at hiding things about himself, maybe even from himself.
Finnick smiled at Haymitch again. It was neither bright nor empty. In fact, it was almost kind. But he was looking at Haymitch as if Haymitch had failed to grasp something so patently obvious that even Effie Trinket might have understood it on some level. Effie Trinket.
Haymitch disliked Finnick intensely in that moment.
“Where there are Careers, Haymitch, there are academies,” said Finnick patiently. “No one wants to see the ones who come after them go into an arena unprepared.”
The idea of District Twelve ever becoming a Career district was laughable. But the mere thought of it was enough to make Haymitch’s stomach twist and churn. He couldn’t teach kids how to murder other kids or train them to look forward to the arena. He was already more involved in their deaths than he could stand. An academy in District Twelve might actually break him again.
It was true: things could always get worse.
“Twelve isn’t going to have an academy,” said Haymitch harshly. He wouldn’t let his district have an academy, not one that he was in any way, shape, or form involved with. And as one of the district’s two living Victors – there would have to be two Victors for this to happen, one of them that silly Career girl – he would be expected to help with any academy that the district started. Therefore, the district couldn’t have an academy no matter which of his tributes survived – if either of them survived.
You need to focus on the problems that you actually have instead of borrowing trouble, Haymitch thought harshly, choking off that entire line of thought. To Finnick, he said, “So what are you going to actually do for her?”
“Nothing,” said Finnick. “We can’t. Four’s Victors only support our own district’s tributes until they’re both out of the running. Then we can do whatever we want. All the Career districts are the same way. We’re here in a more advisory capacity.”
Yeah, right. Good advice was helpful. It was more likely that Finnick was there to help his district’s tributes somehow, since it was painfully obvious to anyone with eyes that the Careers in the arena weren’t up to killing Haymitch’s girl on their own strengths.
Annie was probably just along for the ride.
Or to visit the girl, conceded Haymitch, glancing towards Annie. Her attention hadn’t strayed from Buffy’s monitor the entire time that she and Finnick had been there. And she had made the girl’s token… although, at the moment Annie didn’t need to come to Haymitch’s stations to see the girl. The only Career tribute to ever be fielded by District Twelve was dominating the main feed, probably because it was otherwise a slow day in the arena.
The fire, rain, and earthquakes had put a real damper on the other tributes’ activities, and even the Careers had gone to ground, saving their strength for a day when the arena was easier to navigate. Only Haymitch’s stupid tribute was out and about: stabbing mutts, sliding between falling bits of masonry, and looking like a drowned rat while doing it, much to Effie’s open despair.
Haymitch thought it an improvement.
Sure, the girl was pale. And yes, her hair was plastered to her skull, but at least her hair was golden blonde again. For awhile in there, it had been matted with ashes and the fish men’s ichors, rendering her hair an unpleasant grey-green color. Haymitch was no personal branding expert, but he thought somewhat cleaner hair was probably better than dirty hair for a tribute’s image.
“Haymitch,” said the girl, pulling Haymitch’s attention back to her once again. She flashed a grin at the nearest camera, her teeth gleaming wetly in the rain. When she spoke, the game makers translated, her words appearing in bold white print along the bottom of the screen. “What do you think of that sad little forest north of town? It’s just a few trees from the looks of things, but I haven’t been there yet.”
Because there’s something wrong with the dirt in town, thought Haymitch, remembering how Buffy had frowned at that clod of dirt. It was as good a reason to go somewhere in the arena as anything else.
“Does she ever shut up?” demanded Titus from his place at Annie’s console.
“No,” said Seafoam bitterly from her place next to him. “Never.”
“She’s got to sleep sometime,” said Gloss practically.
“We’ve never seen it,” retorted Enobaria. “For all we know, she talks in her sleep.”
“Haymitch,” called Gloss across the room. “Does she talk in her sleep?”
“Shut up,” snapped Haymitch. “I’m busy.”
“See? She talks in her sleep,” said Gloss semi-seriously to the other Careers, and nearer by, Finnick snorted.
Haymitch ignored them, because Buffy was telling him about hunting in the rain and during earthquakes back home. Apparently, she’d never done both at the same time before, and she was excited for the experience. Despite himself, Haymitch smiled.
Since that day at the beach, Buffy had kept up a running commentary, most of her remarks aimed squarely at Haymitch. Once or twice, she had stopped and apologized to Effie for looking a fright – something that never failed to make Effie straighten and earnestly assure the nearest monitor that it was all right, because it showed how hard she was working to stay alive – but all the rest of her words and reminisces were for Haymitch.
He found it charming.
Honestly, it was the only thing about her that Haymitch found charming.
But then, he’d never had a tribute try to woo him before.
And to his utter embarrassment, Haymitch suspected that it might be working – despite his best efforts to ignore and resist her dubious charms, Buffy Summers was getting under his skin. Careers were insidious like that, even the crazy ones from beyond the fence.
“At least she’s not boring to watch,” said Brutus, and a couple of the other Careers nodded.
Haymitch wished them all the joy of that. For himself, he found it exhausting… and irritating. She was irritating. She was the most irritating tribute that he had ever had or even seen in action. And despite the odds against it, some tiny, unutterably stupid part of Haymitch hoped to someday tell her just how much she irritated him.
Hopefully, by then she would understand what he was saying.
Although speaking of annoying tributes…
“Isn’t Annie supposed to be advising her own tribute this year?” Haymitch asked dryly and was rewarded with nearly identical looks from every one of District Four’s Victors currently in the room.
“She’s with me,” said Finnick brightly from his place at the boy’s console. He smiled that winsome smile at Haymitch, the one that made Caesar Flickerman and Claudius Templesmith melt.
Haymitch snorted. “That’s not the recommendation that you think it is. Go away, Finnick.”
“But we were helpful!”
“Not that helpful.”
Finnick theatrically huffed out an annoyed breath, although he looked amused more than anything else.
“Fine, but we’ll be back.”
“I can hardly wait.”
Standing, Finnick waited a moment for Annie to join him, but when she seemed content to stay where she was, he took her hands and pulled her with him. Annie stumbled and looked surprised but, thankfully, not particularly murderous.
But then, she hadn’t looked actively murderous during her victory tour either, and Annie Cresta had tried to stab most of the other Victors touring with her at least once. Not Haymitch – he rarely went to the effort of chasing after new Victors, not unless they actively needed his help – but most of the others.
Finnick tugged at Annie’s hands again, but she dug in her heels. She peered at Finnick, then Haymitch, her eyes sliding past him to focus on Buffy.
“You can see her from your own station,” said Haymitch roughly. And he had some calls to make; ones that he preferred the Careers not overhear all the details of. He and Cecelia had spent all of yesterday trying to track down the source of that sudden infusion of cash to the general fund, but to no avail. Rather than wasting more time of it, he and Effie had decided to strike while their District was running hot. Tiny donations had been trickling into the general fund all morning.
At his words, Annie’s eyes returned to Haymitch. Her gaze was lapidious.
Sighing, Haymitch relented.
“You can come back later,” he said. “After she leaves the main feed, you can come back over here to watch her.”
After a beat, Annie finally nodded. She allowed Finnick to escort her away.
As soon as the Victors out of Four were a decent distance away, Haymitch began making calls. Effie would give him hell if he didn’t at least try to hold up his end of their responsibilities.
There was something hinky going on.
Theoretically, the town should have been the safest place in the arena during an earthquake. It was a crumbling wreck, but it was a crumbling wreck that seemed to be standing on a solid foundation of bedrock, and that was probably the most important thing. Bedrock was supposed to be the best place to be during an actual real earthquake.
Except there was that aforementioned unnamed hinkiness to consider; it was something to do with the dirt’s consistency, although Buffy didn’t remember enough Earth Science to say what. All she could say for certain that someone was up to something and it probably involved the arena’s dirt.
Probably shouldn’t have slept through class so much, she thought grimly. But honestly, who could have guessed that it was Earth Science and not French that was actually going to be useful to her someday? She certainly hadn’t.
So Buffy went north, determined to see what was over there and maybe get away from the dirt that was wigging her out. It might be on fire, it might not, but either way, it was hitting two birds with one stone.
She was coming up on the center of town and the cornucopia when the first earthquake hit – a real one, not one of those stupid little tremors. It sent Buffy scrambling to avoid falling bits of building.
She was doing her best frogger impression when another random not-bear came charging around a corner, no big deal except for the claws that were longer than her hands and the teeth like swords… and the shifty footing.
On the bright side, it’s stupid, Buffy thought grimly.
But between surviving the earthquake and killing the not-bear, Buffy had her hands full. She had to ignore the sudden, frightening spike in demonic heebie jeebies in an arena already chock full of the damn things.
That turned out to be something of a mistake, though, especially when she stepped backwards onto thin air and no vibrating bit of earth jumped up to fill the gap, not even temporarily.
Horror clutched at her throat as she reeled, her balance entirely lost.
Stupid, she thought furiously. It nearly covered the heart-stopping fear. Nearly. Stupid!
The crumbling ground dissolved beneath her feet and Buffy fell, screaming, into the chasm.
There was a short, sickening fall, and something hit her in the head, her scream cut off in a burst of pain. She was dizzy, and it was dark, but she definitely noticed when her flailing leg bumped something hard enough to send it numb.
Yelping, Buffy twisted sharply and reached out with both arms to grab onto it. Her arms wrapped around a curved surface – length of pipe, maybe, she thought – and the abrupt stop wrenched through her shoulders, knocking the breath out of her. Under her hands, the pipe jerked – and her heart lurched with fear – but it held.
It held!
To Buffy’s left, the howling not-bear kept falling.
She held on as around her the ground shook itself to pieces, gritting her teeth against the pain in her leg and the weight of her pack dragging her down.
It was only a few seconds, Buffy knew that it was only a few seconds because she kept count in her head, but it felt like the quake went on and on forever. But when the ground finally settled, Buffy was still there. She was gasping for breath, and her mouth tasted like mud. Her leg was a fiery agony, and her lungs felt like they were filling with dust, but she was still there, and she was still alive.
At the moment, that didn’t feel as good as it probably could.
But at least I’m not dead, thought Buffy grimly, as she waited for the dust to settle. She needed to know which way to go, forward or back, on the pipe.
When it cleared, Buffy squinted at the far side of the chasm.
Forward wasn’t good. It wasn’t a long distance, but there was nothing for her over there. Twisting, Buffy kicked her legs as she tried to evaluate the wall past her shoulder. Backwards was… even longer, but it ended in a narrow ledge.
Buffy hoped that the ledge was strong enough to hold her weight.
Untwisting herself, Buffy turned herself around on the pipe, the backpack making her ungainly. She made her way back to the wall, moving steadily hand over hand despite the little aftershocks rattling through the arena. The ledge was too low for Buffy to test it with her foot before she landed on it, so she dropped the pack on it, wriggling out of first one arm strap on her pack then the other.
The pack hit the ledge with a clunk.
It held.
Buffy’s heart leaped.
A heartbeat later, there was a low rumble, and the ledge crumbled away. She watched, horrified, as her pack joined the not-bear in the seething darkness beneath her.
Wait, seething darkness? Buffy wondered, angling her head to try to look down past her heaving chest.
She didn’t seem much, no matter how she strained to see what was going on beneath her. Worse, her arms were beginning to hurt, and her leg was killing her.
Buffy shook her head at herself then quickly stopped when it made her dizzy.
Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought, Buffy thought. She nearly shook her head at herself. One problem at a time, Buffy decided. I can’t hang out here forever. I’ve got to get on this pipe before I lose my grip and fall off of it. Or pass out. What did I do to my head?
Moving both of her hands to the same side of the pipe, Buffy heaved herself up onto it. She balanced on her shin for a moment, before sliding her leg across the pipe so that she was straddling it. Then she sat there, panting… and trying very hard not to think, because thinking hurt. It felt like her every thought was swimming through pudding. When she brushed her fingers against the source of the pounding pain, Buffy’s hair was wet to the touch, and her fingers came away red.
Well, that explains a few things, decided Buffy.
Head injuries were the worst.
So she sat and shook out her arms, because now that she was no longer in danger of falling to her death, it was easier to appreciate how they burned with lactic acid, and tried to remember what, if anything, she had ever known about head injuries.
All she knew for certain was that she probably shouldn’t let herself sleep. She might not wake up! You know, if she didn’t slide off the pipe first.
A flash of fire and then another at the corner of her eye snagged Buffy’s attention. Leaning to one side, she tried to see what was on fire.
A moment later, Buffy really, really wished that she hadn’t.
In the weeks surrounding graduation, Buffy had comforted herself with the thought that the Mayor’s true form would probably be the worst thing that the demonic world would ever throw at her. And after finally seeing it – disgusting, centipede-like, and practically indestructible – she had been sure that there could be nothing worse.
She had finally found worse.
And she really, deeply regretted taunting the universe with her previous assumptions.
Because beneath her seethed an entire nest of those nasty, man-eating centipede demons, their exoskeletons gleaming dull red and lilac in the brief flares of fire.
But they don’t spit fire, Buffy thought. She squinted, trying to make out the source of the flames. As Buffy watched, one of the plumes of flames winked out, while at the same time one of the larger demon-pedes snapped something up and arched, swallowing the thing whole.
A handler, maybe? Buffy thought. Armed with a flamethrower? If I could get down there, I could have a flamethrower.
Buffy considered that carefully.
It might have been the concussion talking, but for the first time in her Slayerly career, the flamethrower option felt like too much work.
Slowly, Buffy leaned back the other way. She leaned too far and had to catch herself on the pipe.
I’ve got to get out of here! Carefully. Because I’m hurt.
Suiting actions to words, Buffy inched backwards until her back bumped into stone, sending pebbles careening to the ground.
She froze.
When no immense, demonic arthropod reared up before her, intent on swallowing her whole, Buffy relaxed enough to let a slow, shaky breath escape her.
So far so good, Buffy thought grimly. Step one: get out of here. Step two: destroy the nest. Step three: escape the murder dome. Somehow. Step four: burn Panem to the ground. Step five: celebrate!
It was a good plan; a great plan even! And that wasn’t just the head injury talking. Probably.
If any one of those things escaped the Demon Dome, even in a place like Panem, humanity would be doomed. It had taken a volcanic explosion to kill that one in Italy way back when, and Pompeii hadn’t exactly fared well in the aftermath. She had done better, of course, but she had had a better handle on it thanks to that other Slayer’s diary.
It was all in the diaries.
Buffy vaguely wondered if anyone in the orphanage had found or read hers yet, and despite everything, felt a brief twinge of concern at the idea. There wasn’t even anything good in it!
Stupid, she scolded herself, and then banished that thought entirely in favor of focusing on the matter at hand: namely, her escape from near certain mastication.
Buffy took careful inventory of her surroundings, studying the sheer earthen walls around her with a practiced eye. She wasn’t much of a rock climber – she probably should have gone to that station in the gym – but she refused to despair. Despair was for vampires and demons with her hands around their necks. She was going to figure this out.
Plus, Slayer.
She could do this.
She could!
As soon as she figured out a likely looking place to start. None of the crevice’s walls seemed to have steps or any obvious handholds or toe rests.
But they must, thought Buffy grimly, because rock climbers do this sort of thing all the time; for fun even. Or I could make some hand and foot holds, I suppose.
An image – the vague memory of Charlton Heston’s beardy face as he betrayed himself to the monkeys – flashed across her mind, and Buffy grimaced.
Muscling her way out of this mess would be like holding up a flashing neon sign that said, “SLAYER!” That would go against the entire spirit of the Charlton Heston plan. Her awesome Slayer-ly powers were going to be a fun surprise for everyone not named Buffy. Or at least, that was the plan. She thought that’s what it was, anyway. So for now, she was going to have to muddle her way out of this. Maybe figure out what handholds and toeholds looked like.
Settling back on her perch, Buffy studied the wall more carefully for any advantage to be had on it.
She was the Slayer.
And she was going to figure this out.
“It was just so unexpected!” simpered Caesar Flickerman to his captive studio audience. He flashed a wide, insincere smile at the camera. “Earthquakes! We haven’t had one of those in awhile! And who knew that they could open up a tear in the ground like that?”
His tribute had known.
Somehow, she had fucking known what end those earthquakes were heading towards, and Haymitch still didn’t know how. All he knew was that something about the dirt had bothered the girl, had made her want to leave town. She just hadn’t been fast enough.
He tried to consider that and all its potential ramifications as he watched the girl struggle, his one hand wrapped around a couple of her tarnished charms and the other around the neck of a bottle, but mostly Haymitch worried about the girl’s bloodied head and her injured leg. They were affecting her performance, but how much? She needed medication for her head and maybe something for her leg. But could she even catch a capsule without falling off of her perch? And what if she needed something more later on?
Haymitch was loathe to fritter away her hard won funds on medical supplies now, when she might need them more later. But if he didn’t send her anything now, and she died because of it – because of him – then it would have all been for nothing; or maybe for Burdock, though Haymitch hadn’t truly chosen him over her. (Though he would certainly let Burdock think that he had should Burdock survive long enough to become District Twelve’s other Victor.)
On Haymitch’s smaller screen, the girl tried again to climb out. She was about halfway up the side of the crevasse when she lost her footing again and fell.
Haymitch’s breath caught in his throat, some sharp, brittle emotion lodging itself behind his breastbone, as the falling girl reached out to catch herself on the pipe again. The length of metal jerked under her hands, but thankfully it still held. The girl swung herself around it in a move that reminded Haymitch of those first, terrible minutes when he had thought that that the Career pack was going to kill her down that dark alley. He didn’t breathe again until the girl was seated on her pipe again, relatively safe and sound and not being torn apart by snake-centipede mutts.
She was still sitting on her pipe – probably resting up for her next attempt to escape the crevasse – when Flickerman left off prattling to ask today’s panel of experts to explain how the crack in the arena had happened.
There was a lot of technical jargon, but apparently what it boiled down to was the rain. It hadn’t been for the fires in the ocean, after all. The game makers had left those burning as a decoy. Their true intent with the rain had apparently been to saturate the soil so that the water filled the gaps between the grains of soil, causing it to lose all its shear strength, something that would eventually cause the ground to flow like liquid during a larger earthquake. Soil liquefaction, it was called.
“The results aren’t usually so spectacular,” added the speaker, a geologist, Haymitch thought. “But everything is bigger and better in the arena!”
Including the foreshadowing, thought Haymitch bitterly.
The girl’s fall into the pit full of mutts had probably been meant to serve the twofold purpose of killing off this year’s most troublesome tribute while providing a bit of tragic foreshadowing as to what awaited this year’s final four. But she had caught herself, and it had instead turned into a gut wrenching demonstration of the girl’s will to survive, one that he hadn’t been able to look away from.
Haymitch had faithfully watched over the girl all day, forgoing sleep to stay with her and listen to her silence. He had spent all of those hours struggling with the desire to demand that the avoxes bring him something harder to drink, because he hated being lucid when they died. But he had promised, and he intended to keep his word to the girl at least until she died.
He did.
But Effie’s arrival was severely testing his resolve.
“I’m here, Haymitch!” she caroled. “You can retire, if you wish!”
“I’ve got some stuff to do first,” said Haymitch. He had said something similar to Woof, Cecelia, and Johanna when they had each in turn offered to take his place at District Twelve’s consoles. It wasn’t necessarily a lie.
Effie’s expression briefly faltered before she seemed to regain her usual verve. She beamed at him.
“It’s so good to finally see you doing your job, Haymitch,” she said as she claimed the seat in front of Burdock’s console. “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Lunch,” said Haymitch, although he wasn’t particularly hungry. Still, he probably needed something in his stomach to help soak up all the watered down booze that had found its way into his belly.
Nodding, Effie turned to direct soft words to the nearest avox.
In relative silence, they picked at their lunches and watched their tributes struggle through the arena. The girl was doing fuck all to improve her situation, despite her best efforts to the contrary. It should have been something of a relief to know that she wasn’t terrifyingly good at everything. Instead, it just made Haymitch tired and anxious and furiously angry.
“Burdock’s doing fine,” Effie suddenly reported, after a half hour of silence between them. Her voice betraying her worry, she asked, “How’s Buffy?”
“The same as the last time you asked,” Haymitch snapped, his mood foul. “Still trying to climb the wall and get out.”
“I’m glad,” breathed Effie. “You can’t make it through the Games if you don’t even try.”
It had been a trying, stressful day, and Effie’s last remark was just too Effie.
“Get out.”
“Pardon?” Effie actually looked surprised.
“Get out,” snarled Haymitch, rounding on her angrily. “Go write some press releases or drum up some more sponsors or something.”
“Who will watch over–”
“I’ll manage. Leave, Effie.”
“All right, Haymitch,” said Effie, less bubbly than usual. “If you’re sure?”
“Yes,” gritted Haymitch. “Now, please.”
It was a relief when Effie left, her heels clacking against the floor.
Signaling to the nearest avox for another and harder drink, Haymitch settled back to watch his tributes try to stay alive.
Buffy glared at the nearest wall of the chasm. There was this long stretch of wall that she was having serious problems getting past. Every time she made it there, something would squish or crumble under her hands, and she’d fall off the wall. Then she’d have to catch herself on the pipe, cutting up her hands up worse and worse every time, and have to start all over again. And the ongoing rain wasn’t helping.
It was just so frustrating!
If she could have, Buffy would have punched handholds into the wall and been done with it, Charlton Heston or no Charlton Heston, but not even Slayer strength was going to make that bit of wall more capable of bearing her weight. She honestly didn’t know what else to do – or even what else she could do.
It was while she was looking for an advantage against that bit of wall, no matter how small, (and secretly hoping for a handy ladder or rope or even a nice set of stairs,) that Buffy noticed the suspiciously regular shadow. She squinted, putting a hand to her forehead to block some of the drizzling rain from her eyes. It didn’t help much, but…
Rounded top, flat bottom, straight sides, and a tumble of rocks, noted Buffy. That looks an awful lot like a blocked tunnel.
Getting into the tunnel, which was only halfway up the chasm’s side, even if it was about ninety degrees to her right, would be easier than dragging herself all the way up the crumbling wall. And it would be easier, which, considering her state – pounding headache, soaking wet, freezing cold, bone tired, bleeding hands, and a leg that hurt like hell – could only be of the good.
She had to get out of here sooner rather than later. It was only a matter of time before the demons below her noticed her or the post-earthquake tsunami of fire hit. And there would be a tsunami of fire. With the ocean burning, it was too good of an opportunity for the demons in charge to pass up. And she was exhausted. Sooner or later, she was going to run out of gas, screw up, and finish her fall.
And any way you cut it, I’ll be just as dead, thought Buffy, and a small, unworthy part of her twisted with fear. You’re a Slayer, whispered that treacherous part of her heart. And Slayers don’t survive arenas.
Buffy crushed that part of herself.
This Slayer is going to survive this place. I’m not going to die here. I’m not going to die like this, Buffy thought fiercely, and it wasn’t enough. Aloud, she said, “I’m not going to die here.”
Her voice was strange in her ears – low and rough and hoarse, her thirst making her tongue feel dried up and clumsy – and she felt stupid saying it at all, much less aloud, but Buffy said it again, louder.
“I won’t die here. I won’t die like this. I won’t!”
She had too much to do.
She was going to be the first – the only – Slayer to ever make it out of an arena.
Then she was going to burn Panem to the ground, starting with its capitol.
And then she was finally going to get to go home, screw those other, deader Slayers and their angry eyes and their stupid demands. And screw the game makers! Screw this whole lousy hell dimension!
“Screw them all!” snarled Buffy, her fist pump nearly unbalancing her from her seat on the sagging pipe. Catching herself, Buffy glanced down – no snake-centipedes honing in on her yet – and said more quietly, “Surface dwellers, look out! Here I come.”
Step one, escape this literal hole in the ground.
Step two, kick ass.
Step three, escape the arena.
Step four, burn everything.
Step five, burn the ashes.
But first, step one.
Screwing up her mouth, Buffy visually picked out a few jutting bits of hard rock that she might be able to grip onto and a few depressions that she might be able to jam a hand or the ball of her foot into. Recent experience had been a hard lesson in what to grab and what to avoid.
Path decided, Buffy carefully stood up on her pipe.
I hope I can find any of those spots again when I’m actually climbing, she thought, taking a deep breath.
The place she was aiming for might not be as stable as it looked. It could crumble under her weight. She might already be too tired to do this. One of the snake-centipedes in the pit could finally think to look up, notice her, and snap her up like Tucker Wells at graduation. A post-earthquake tsunami of fire could hit at any moment, killing her before she found shelter and making all of this an exercise in futility.
Slowly, Buffy let the breath out, trying to exhale her fears with it.
I can only do my best.
Another deep breath in, another breath exhaled.
And it will be enough. I can do this. I will do this.
A sharp breath in and then, Here I go!
And Buffy jumped.
His heart in his throat, Haymitch watched as his tribute leaped at a new wall.
She didn’t even know if that wall could hold her weight!
The girl hit the wall with a bone jarring impact, crying out breathlessly with what sounded like pain.
But she held on. She stayed there.
And thankfully, so did the wall.
After a few moments, the stupid, brave girl began her ascent, moving slowly, doggedly, and while always favoring her injured leg. She slipped once – only the once, thankfully – and Haymitch nearly died in the moments that it took her to grab a jutting bit of stone and regain her balance.
“It looks like she’s angling right,” said Cecelia’s voice from behind Haymitch’s shoulder, startling Haymitch badly. Twisting in his seat, Haymitch discovered Cecelia standing behind him, her head tipped back as she watched his tribute attempt to climb to freedom on the big screen. Woof was slowly making his way across the room to join them.
“Haymitch,” said Cecelia, and pointed at a corner of the big screen. “What’s over there?”
Haymitch fiddled with Buffy’s observation windows for a moment before saying, “Nothing obvious.”
“Maybe it looked like an easier way to go,” opined Seeder from nearby.
“No, she’s got a plan,” disagreed Seafoam from her place at Annnie Cresta’s console. “She had to jump and hope for the best to get over there. That was a huge risk. She’s heading for something specific.”
“But there’s nothing there,” argued Cecelia.
“There’s something,” said Seafoam grimly. “No one like that one would do something so stupid unless the potential reward vastly outweighed the obvious risks. She’s got a plan this time.”
Her plan, it turned out, was to make for the mouth of a tunnel so thoroughly collapsed that it had honestly looked like part of the wall to Haymitch – and Claudius Templesmith and most of his panel of experts, judging by the official commentary happening on the main feed as Haymitch’s clever tribute pulled herself up onto the narrow ledge between the edge of the tunnel and the rounded side of a boulder. She slumped against the stone with open gratitude in every line of her face and form.
Good girl, thought Haymitch fiercely. You’re almost there.
He wondered if it would be worth it to go through the catalogue again. The game makers rarely added things to it after the games began, but maybe he had missed something useful to the girl on his previous passes through it. Maybe it was worth looking again.
“Well, now that she’s halfway up the wall,” began Gloss, only to fall silent at the simultaneous ringing of all six of the Career consoles’ phones.
Everyone shut up.
They sat in silence, every ear straining to hear the hushed phone conversations happening at the Career consoles. From what Haymitch could discern, the Taraka O. Corporation, the Career districts’ most generous and dedicated supporter, would like to make another donation, but there were conditions attached to this one – conditions that Haymitch couldn’t quite hear.
There was a brief pause, during which all six Career mentors clicked through their screens and exchanged nods, before Cashmere said, “Thank you. It will be as you wish. The gifts are on their way.”
Haymitch promptly lost interest in the conversation. In an agony of anticipation, he waited to see what Taraka O. had sent to the Career tributes. And while he waited, he watched his girl tribute poke at the rubble, looking for ways to climb through it and into the tunnel behind it rather than continuing up the wall. Haymitch approved of the shift in her plans. She was shit at climbing. And if she was lucky, it would put her out of the way of whatever the Career districts were plotting.
Haymitch wondered if her head was still bothering her.
Buffy said something – “I think I can shift some of this and maybe make it through, Haymitch,” according to the subscripts – and pulled one of her sheathed swords from one of her boots. She used it as part of the fulcrum – the sheathed sword was the lever and a carefully chosen rock the pivot – which she used to shift a few of the smaller rocks, opening up a gap near the top of the tunnel. The sword went back down her boot, and the girl through the gap.
Head first, the girl slithered into the tunnel behind the rock slide, landing on her forearms. She walked forwards on her hands, pulling her lower body through the small hole until her legs finally came through after her. When they hit the ground, Buffy yelped. A moment later, the girl popped up onto her feet, hissed, and staggered a few steps before regaining her balance. Slowly, she limped down the crumbling tunnel.
The picture on the main screen flicked away from his girl tribute, going to the heaving seas rather than the Career pack.
Annie whimpered, Four’s other victors hissed, and Haymitch frowned.
Those waves were alarmingly tall. It was hard to tell without anything to directly compare them to, but Haymitch thought that they were probably at least a couple of stories tall.
“Tsunami!” gasped Seafoam, and several of the Victors out of District Four cursed. To the others, she said, “Can we send them into the desert?”
A flurry of tapping keys answered her, as every mentor in the room tried to access their gift catalogue, failed, and tried again.
“No,” said Mags grimly. “We’re locked out of the system.”
There were limits to every mentor’s powers.
Mentors could manipulate and maneuver each other or the game makers. And they frequently lied, cheated, and stole from each other. Stabbing each other in the back, (mostly) metaphorically speaking, wasn’t unheard of between districts or even within districts. Mentors interfered with each other’s plans as a matter of course.
But when it came to the game maker’s actions within the arena or against the tributes, things got trickier. A mentor with enough credits could send a weapon to a beleaguered tribute or medicine to a sick one. A tribute could be warned away from dangerous conditions or even other tributes. But mentors were helpless against overarching conditions within the arena. And no mentor could protect their tribute from direct actions taken against them by the game makers – for instance, a dam breaking and flooding an arena or, on a more individual level, a rockslide designed to kill a particular tribute.
A tsunami of fire was apparently the sort of thing that a mentor couldn’t help their tribute to overcome or avoid. All they could do was sit, watch, and wait to see how their tributes fared when left to their own devices.
In Haymitch’s experiences, it was one of the worst parts of being a mentor.
Claudius Templesmith squealed, his voice laid over the action going on in the arena, and it grated on Haymitch’s last nerve.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” intoned Claudius Templesmith dramatically, “I have just been informed that what we’re looking at is a tsunami,” a dramatic pause, “of fire! This year is certainly looking up, up, up!”
Haymitch snorted.
He glanced between the monitors dedicated to his two tributes, his chest drawing tight. The girl was struggling onwards, while the boy was asleep in his bolt hole. He had no idea what was coming for him.
“Wake up,” snarled Haymitch. He slapped the side of the monitor, as if the boy might feel it. “Don’t sleep through your own death!”
But Haymitch couldn’t warn him. And locked out of the system as they were, Haymitch couldn’t do anything for him either. If the boy survived, it would be by sheer luck.
Haymitch didn’t believe in luck.
Forcing himself to look away from the boy, he turned his attention to the girl, who was her own worst luck.
She was still trotting down that dark tunnel. As he watched, Buffy tripped over a long length of…
Is that a snake skin? Haymitch wondered, as he toggled between his angles on the girl.
It was a snake skin; a really fucking big one. There were lots of them winding through the tunnels, the girl careening past most of them through blind luck. What she knew or suspected, Haymitch couldn’t say, but it was obvious that she was in a hurry. Hopefully, she was headed to the desert, the farthest part of the arena from the ocean.
“Don’t go back to the cornucopia,” he whispered to her; pleaded, maybe. “I’ll send you what you need.”
She had guessed something about the dirt. She had to guess about the tsunami too. She had to.
“Let’s check in on our tributes in the area!” caroled Claudius Templesmith as the shot of the tsunami of fire was replaced by a map of this year’s arena.
“Our One-Two-Four alliance is hunkered down in a building northeast of the cornucopia,” said Claudius as a red pin appeared on a building near the edge of town. The map disappeared, replaced by a visual of the Careers. They were outside in the rain, watching as large packages equipped with a parachute and a cheerfully beeping tracker lazily drifted down to them. “It’s pretty far inland so, with a little luck, they might be safe.”
They’ll be safe, because the game makers want them to be. And because some Victor out of those districts will blow the right game maker to make sure that they don’t change their minds, thought Haymitch bitterly. Already Finnick, Cashmere, Gloss, and a handful of the other Career mentors had quietly slunk out of the mentors’ control room.
“And our Three-Five alliance is due east of the cornucopia,” continued Claudius, another pin appearing on the map. The image on the screen briefly flicked to the trio, one of the Threes sitting with the Five, while the other Three watched them warily. “In the normal course of things, they might be considered by some to be worrisomely close to the One-Two-Four alliance, but now that’s looking like it might be the safest place to be!”
Lucky for them that the Careers weren’t as dedicated to their craft as Haymitch’s girl was. If they had been, the kids out of Districts Three and Five would already be dead.
“Magnet of District Six is, unfortunately, at the western edge of town,” said Claudius, and a pin appeared in one of the buildings closest to the seashore. On the screen, their oblivious tribute hunched over a map of the arena drawn in the dirt floor of his hovel, and at their consoles, the two out of District Six began quietly weeping. As far gone as they always were, even the morphlings knew what was about to happen.
“Welt from District Eleven is in the south,” said Claudius as another pin appeared on the map, “but he’s one of the few tributes to take shelter from the weather in a tall building, so we’ll have to keep an eye on developments there.”
There was a brief glimpse of a dark-skinned boy, hair cropped close to his head and asleep, then the map reappeared and Claudius continued, saying, “His district mate, Laurel, is southwest of the cornucopia.”
The pin that landed in the map was about as far as one could get from the Careers and still be in the town. Under other circumstances, the girl’s hideout would have been smart. Now it was probably going to be the death of her. There was a brief cut to a girl lying on her back with her black hair haloed around her face, her dark eyes half-lidded and her face sweet, and Chaff threw his headset at his console.
Haymitch took a deep breath, bracing himself against his tributes.
“Burdock of District Twelve is southeast of the cornucopia,” said Claudius Templesmith, as a red pin appeared in one of the last buildings before the town gave way to the desert, and Haymitch felt a loosening of the knot in his chest. The boy might make it, despite himself.
There was a clip of the boy napping – there was little else to do right now in the arena – and then the screen returned to the map.
“And Buffy of District Twelve is west of the cornucopia,” said Claudius Templesmith, “but steadily working her way east toward the town square and the cornucopia.”
A red pin appeared on the map, this one the only one in motion. Haymitch watched the pin’s slow pace against the wave’s rapid one, trying to estimate the distance between the girl and nominal safety, and his chest tightened.
She’s not going to make it, realized Haymitch, despairing, and drank deeply from the bottle in his hand. It tasted like… severely watered down wine.
Haymitch squinted at the large green bottle in his hand.
Where did I get this? When did I get this? Haymitch wondered, his mouth turning down, while on the main feed, the red pin that was the girl stopped. And then it started going backwards.
“Oh ho! What’s this?” Claudius Templesmith chortled in a voiceover. “A twist! Let’s look!”
The map was replaced by an image – his girl, grimacing, as she ran back the way that she had come. Her gait was painful to watch.
What is she doing? Haymitch wondered as she lurched to a stop near a tumbling mass of shed snake skins. As he watched, the girl dropped to her knees, bringing it close to her face to try to see it in the nearly pitch black darkness.
The girl frowned. Under her breath, she muttered something. A moment later, while she was looking up for something, the translation popped up underneath her image on the big screen. It read, “This would be so much easier with those goggle thingies. Haymitch, can I have night seeing goggle thingies?”
She could not, but Haymitch tapped at his keyboard anyway, just to make sure that he was still locked out. But if he could have, he would have sent her a set of night vision goggles, if only because of the four of them – him, Effie, the boy tribute, and her – she seemed to be the only one of them with an actual plan. That had to count for something.
The girl sighed.
“When I find another set of goggle thingies, I’m putting them in my pocket. I’ll just… try really, really hard not to break them.”
Haymitch snorted. Is that why she kept them in her pack? No one’s even touched her yet.
Although all those flips and falls probably wouldn’t have been good for a pair of night vision goggles.
On the main screen, Buffy fished her lighter out of her pocket. Haymitch watched, mystified, as she put the skin in it, watching carefully as the flames licked over the snake-centipede’s scaly skin.
Buffy’s face lit up with a smile.
Quickly, she snapped the lighter shut, pocketed it, and began gathering up lengths of shed snake-centipede skins.
“At this point I have to ask the esteemed members of today’s panel,” said Claudius Templesmith, the main feed flicking over to him. Buffy was relegated to a small square in the corner of his screen. “What is she doing? Any thoughts?”
No one had a clue what she was about, but that seemed about right to Haymitch. He never knew what the girl was doing either. He just had to hope that she did.
Slayers, by definition, had fantastic night vision. It was one of the things that let her fight on equal footing with the vampires, the demons, and all the bumps in the night. But it was much, much easier to see what she was doing when there was ambient light to see by. Willow would probably know why that was. All Buffy knew was that in the tunnel it was a pain in the ass.
By touch, Buffy found and gathered as many discarded demonic centipede-snake skins as possible. She was pretty sure that she wasn’t moving fast enough to make it out of town before the tsunami of fire hit. This was plan B.
If there’s a tsunami of fire…No, there’s definitely going to be one, Buffy thought, scowling. The burning ocean left to burn, the rising water, the earthquakes, and the sinkhole from hell meant to keep me in the burn zone – it all adds up. They’re just lucky that I hurt my leg or I’d be out of here so fast, it’d make their heads spin.
Buffy draped the lengths of shed skins around her shoulders, tied them around her waist, and tried not to trip over them where they trailed behind her. They felt like snake skins, sort of anyway, and smelled faintly musty, but other than giving her the heebie jeebies, there wasn’t anything particularly offensive about the demonic centipede-snake skins in and of themselves.
Buffy tried really hard not to think about how big or fat any of the skins were – or, correspondingly, how much bigger and fatter the snake-centipedes trapped in the arena with her must be to have grown out of them – because that way lay borrowed trouble, and she was in enough of trouble as it was, thank you very much.
When she had them all, or at least as many as she could find and carry, Buffy made for the nearest manhole cover. Navigating the rusty ladder while wrapped in flapping demonic snake skins was tricky, but not impossible, and Buffy popped up in time to hear the sucking sound as the ocean was pulled away from the shoreline.
Six minutes, Buffy thought, as she hauled herself through the manhole opening and onto the muddy ground. I’ve probably got about six minutes at most.
Overhead the sky was pinking with the beginnings of sunset, and around her loomed the dead town’s remains, ominous shadows in which nothing living stirred.
Nothing dead is stirring around here either, Buffy noted with some surprise. From the lack of tinglies on the back of her neck, it seemed like the demonic element had gotten the memo to clear out. Bitterly, she thought stupid demons and their stupid, unhurt-y legs.
It seemed like a lot to ask Haymitch if he could swing anything for it. He had already sent her a lighter, and that was one more thing than anyone had ever sent him during his trip through Candyland, the Shockingly Murderous edition. And he hadn’t been able to send her the goggles. So Buffy bit the inside of her cheek and limped onwards, reminding herself that Slayer healing would take care of it sooner rather than later. Reminding herself that it would probably hurt much worse, or maybe even be broken, if she was just a human girl was cold comfort, but it was better than nothing.
By the time that Buffy reached the cornucopia, the sky was scarlet. Sunset came quickly in the Dome that Demons Built.
It’ll be super picturesque when they roast us, Buffy thought darkly as shrugged free of her snake skins. Try to roast us, Buffy corrected a heartbeat later, because I’m not dying here. Not like this.
If her stupid, insane, completely terrible plan worked, she might very well be one of the ballsiest badasses to ever be called as a Slayer; or at least, the only one to have taken Star Wars quite so seriously. If it didn’t… well, she wouldn’t be around to endure the shame of being yet another Slayer to fail, fall, and die in the Demon Games.
Just the thought of seeing her Slayer Sisters again – the uncounted and uncountable girls who had come both before her and after her in the Slayer line – was enough to make Buffy work faster.
She had to live through this. She had to. And those skins – gross and ominous as they were – were her only hope.
The Star Wars references, they just make themselves, thought Buffy. And then, to distract herself from the fear jittering in her stomach, through her veins, at the back of her brain, Buffy told Haymitch the story of Luke, Han, and the poor dinosaur that they had to camp out in overnight as she worked.
If this didn’t work, George Lucas was going to have a lot to answer for.
The girl had gone straight for the cornucopia.
Of course she had. God forbid she ever do what Haymitch wanted her to do.
Frightened for her and irritable from it, Haymitch watched as Buffy tied a knot at the bottom of one length of skin and began haphazardly dumping provisions, weapons and packs into it, all the time breathlessly telling him a story about someone called Luke, who got carried off by something called a yeti.
A knot was tied at the other side of the lump of things, enclosing them in a closed off sheathe of snake skin. It left several dozen feet of empty skin flapping off of the other side, into the end of which the girl tied a rock the size of Haymitch’s two fists together. She lugged the whole thing over to the nearest streetlight, flinging the end with the rock tied into it over the arm of the light so that she could haul the lump of supplies off of the ground. She wrapped the end of the skin around the bottom of the light post and secured it there.
“It’s a makeshift bear bag,” said Johanna Mason from behind him, startling Haymitch badly, “and a complete waste of time, the little feather-brained idiot.”
Seemingly just to spite Johanna Mason, Buffy made and filled another makeshift bear bag, hanging it from another nearby lamp post, puffing something about “Just in case,” as she did.
Just in case of what, Haymitch didn’t know.
The sour taste of wine lingering at the back of his throat, Haymitch watched as Buffy double knotted a third skin, Cecelia hissing, “You don’t have time for this!” from her place behind Woof’s chair.
On the big screen, Buffy stepped into the length of skin, arranging it so that the knot lay against the top of her foot. She pulled it up the length of her leg, looped it around her thigh, and tied it in place. She covered her other leg the same way, and began arranging layers of skins around her thighs, groin, and torso. Buffy made herself into a ball of red-gray skins and knots, even going so far as to pull a skin, knotted at one end, over her head and wrap it around her neck and torso like a particularly long scarf before fumblingly tying it off.
She was looping her last bit of skin around a third lamp post, when Buffy said, her voice badly muffled, “Haymitch? Effie? Are you watching me?”
She paused a moment, and in the lull, Haymitch, fool that he was, nodded as if she could see him, because yes, he was watching over her. Right now, everyone in Panem was watching her.
“If you’re not, I hope that someone tells you to watch this recording,” said the girl. She was testing lengths of skin against the pole. As they watched, she tied a knot in the skin and leaned back, using the tension in the loop of shed skin to help her shimmy up the lamppost.
When she reached the top of the post, she stopped. There, the girl dragged in a deep breath, expelling with it a cloud of words.
“Look, this is… not one of my better plans. I mean, I think it’ll work! I am fifty – well, maybe more like forty or, uh, twenty-five – percent sure that this is going to work the way that I think it will, which, hey, is better than a lot of the other plans I’ve had over the years. But if it doesn’t – if something goes wrong, I want you both to know that whatever happened to me wasn’t your fault.”
And there, Haymitch closed his eyes, feeling pierced through. She couldn’t have hurt him more if she had cut him up and left him with his guts hanging out. Again. Fucking Careers. They always knew where it would hurt the most.
She said something else – something involving his name – and Haymitch’s eyes snapped open, lest he miss any of what were likely to be her last words. But her image had already disappeared from the main feed, replaced by an aerial shot of the Career tributes in their lair, and Haymitch switched his attention to his own monitors in time to see her say, “Did you hear me, Haymitch? I am not your fault. You never could’ve changed my decisions. So if I die here, it’s my own damn fault. Don’t you dare try to take responsibility for me, Haymitch. The only person responsible for me is me.”
She briefly glared at the camera there, like she was going to toss him in another shower, and Haymitch automatically scowled. The familiarity of it hurt enough to make his eyes ache.
Damn Career, he thought, as he dashed a wrist across his watery eyes. They must practice that; hurting people in ways that they can’t expect.
A hand settled on Haymitch’s shoulder, its painfully tight grip a welcome relief when Buffy said more gently, the subtitles flicking under her masked face, “If this goes wrong… Look after yourself, okay, Haymitch? And keep my necklaces. If I can’t wear them anymore, you should. Effie, keep being fabulous. And don’t let Haymitch drink too much. He’s kind of an idiot that way. And Annie? If you see this, thanks for the bracelet. I loved it. Oh man, I can hear the wave coming. I really hope this works.”
The sound of Buffy breathing in and out heavily, catching her breath… and then a wave of fire swept over the arena. In moments, Buffy was underwater – fiery, burning water that was going to burn her to a cinder.
Annie screamed.
A lot of people did – including Haymitch.