An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Word count: ~4,000
Their feet slammed into wood as they tore across the boardwalk, Charlie in the lead with Benny and Billie at his heels. Anna waved frantically from the opening to the alley maze. His legs pushed harder. Charlie stole a glance over his shoulder as he skidded around the corner and down into the alley. Al, Nelson, and Sigrid had reached the boardwalk now. The gap was closing.
“C’mon, c’mon, we can lose ‘em,” he called, skidding around a corner. Charlie overtook Anna in the lead, taking turns at random. They only had to outrun them long enough to get out of sight. If they could find an opening to duck into, they’d be in the clear.
His shoulder slammed into brick as he skidded around another corner. His lungs heaved in his chest. Where was a fucking door when you needed—
Charlie skidded to a halt. Benny plowed into his back.
He woke up in bed, head pounding, tongue heavy in his mouth. The shadows encircled the corners of his room in the Training Center, the window tinted to blot out the twinkling lights of the Capitol below.
He shifted slowly, memories and pictures of what happened seeping through the fog of fatigue hanging heavy in his mind. He’d had a nightmare and Charlie had come in, had sat with his arms around him. The memory of it twinged. Charlie shouldn’t have seen him like that.
Meyer heaved himself upright. The bed was empty. The room held only shadows. Right, of course. That was before. There was only the smooth sheets of the Capitol bed, tucked too tightly into the corners, like he might escape even in his sleep. If only he could.
He stumbled out of bed. The room wobbled with the sudden change as he rose to his feet. He was still dressed, that was good. Arm still attached, which was strange. His head hurt. Did he hit it? No—food. He needed to eat.
The bedroom door slid open as he pressed his hand against the panel. There was light at the end of the hallway in the main room of the penthouse suite. Soft voices. He walked towards the sound, blinking as he passed into the light.
Carolyn sprang to her feet at the sight of him. Her vibrantly purple hair was obscured by a multitude of glittering dark beads woven onto the strands and piled high on her head in a delicate style that wobbled with her sudden movement.
“You need to take better care of yourself!” she chided, guiding him into a chair with her hands on his shoulders. He tried to shrug out of her touch. “Arnold, what were you thinking? Letting him stay up all night like that.”
He let himself be pushed into the chair, looking AR in the eyes from across the table. “Are they dead?”
“No,” AR answered. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, sleek device that hung on a chain from his pocket. It opened like the old compact mirror his mother had and wouldn’t sell. It had been his grandmother’s once. But this was different, Capitol technology. AR swiped through a few screens on the projection from the device and clicked it shut. “No,” he confirmed, this time with the ghost of a smile.
“What are they doing?” His voice scratched in his throat.
AR nodded towards the empty place setting in front of him. An Avox stepped closer to the table and filled Meyer’s glass with water, herbs encased in the ice cubes.
“Quail?” AR asked, holding out a tray of small dead birds atop a bed of potatoes and green beans, a pool of sauce sloshing beneath.
Meyer didn’t move. “What are they doing?” he repeated.
“Eat and I’ll tell you.”
Meyer stabbed his knife into a quail hard enough that AR needed to brace the tray with his other hand. He dropped it onto his plate, pulling the knife out, glare fixed on AR. Carolyn tutted beside him, fussing about table manners per usual.
He cut into the quail, shoved a piece into his mouth, swallowed. Set down the knife and fork, even though it made the emptiness in his stomach more painfully pronounced. He raised an eyebrow at AR, who sighed.
One bite wasn’t what AR had in mind, his look said that plainly. The challenge in Meyer’s face replied that he didn’t care. Or maybe AR was thinking back on last year, that if he’d thought Meyer was surly as a tribute… Well, Meyer knew that, too.
“Fine,” AR said, in response to the squabble they’d been having with their look. “I can’t tell you what they’re doing at this exact minute—I’m only privy to the main camera, like the rest of Panem, as well as the current odds courtesy of a… connection of mine.”
He paused, looked meaningfully at Meyer’s plate, and Meyer shoved another piece of quail in his mouth. “But I can tell you that Anna has formed an alliance.”
“Has she?” Unexpected. What did anyone stand to gain from that? Sympathy from the audience, maybe? That was a foolish strategy. If the audience had sympathy, they wouldn’t have the Games at all.
AR nodded, beckoning the Avox to pour him a cup of tea. He added his own milk to it, liberally, until the contents swirled soft tan brown. “The tribute of our dear friend Mr. Thompson from District 4.”
Meyer frowned. “The boy Charlie pummeled this morning?”
“The other one. Billie.”
He hummed, took another contemplative bite. She had been personable in her interview—funny, bright, charming. Not a killer. He hesitated, found he couldn’t meet AR’s eye. “And Charlie?”
“Still asleep as of an hour ago. That’s all I can tell you.”
The quail was heavy in his stomach after so long without food. “I should get back—”
Carolyn’s talon nails—a grey-flecked shimmery black—latched onto his arm and tugged him back down. “You need to eat.”
“I can’t just sit here eating quail soaked in I don’t know what, not while the Games—”
“It’s truffle oil,” AR interrupted.
“I don’t care what it is, I need to get back—”
Carolyn’s grip tightened. “If you don’t keep your strength up—”
“I’m not a child!” Meyer snapped, a bowl of berries toppling to the floor as he wrenched his arm back. The room held its breath in the silence that fell after the fruit. Only the Avox moved, scurrying to collect the berries before the juice could stain the floor. He leaned down in his chair to help, dropping them into the palm of his hand instead of looking at the Rothsteins.
“Sorry,” he mumbled.
“That’s quite alright,” Carolyn huffed.
Meyer said nothing. He hadn’t been talking to them.
The Avox stepped away with the rest of the mess, as Meyer deposited his little pile of berries onto the corner of his plate and wiped his palm flat against the napkin. He stared fixedly into his water. “I’m not a child,” he said again, less forceful but no less sharp.
He heard Carolyn’s brisk inhale, like she was going to say something, but AR cut across and said quietly, “Of course you’re not. You’re free to return to the mentors’ room.”
Meyer nodded and backed his chair away from the table slowly. Those few bites had been his only food since yesterday morning, besides the coffee from AR. The hollowness in his stomach protested against getting only a taste but not enough to be full. It was remarkable how his body started to expect more after only being in the Capitol a few days. Remarkable, too, how they only ever gave a taste.
“Arnold, surely you can’t—”
But before Meyer could resume the argument, AR said, “He is free to make his own decisions.” He raised the teacup to his faintly painted lips. Meyer stood, watching him. Free was a funny way to put it.
Carolyn huffed and grabbed the serving spoons in her talons. She began serving potatoes and greens directly onto Meyer’s plate like she hadn’t heard the conversation at all. “It’s bad enough—the hours you keep, staying up until sunrise and sleeping all through the day half the year, pastry for dinner—but he’s a boy, Arnold, and you can’t—”
Awareness arrived. She dropped the spoons back onto the tray with a clatter, a mountain of green beans piled precariously on Meyer’s plate. She sat back, righted her posture, and pushed a few stray hairs out of her face with an air of compulsion. “Well, someone ought to take care of him while he’s our guest in the Capitol.”
They stared at her, but she pretended not to notice, busying herself with arranging the napkin on her lap. He couldn’t say what AR was thinking as he looked at his wife, his expression a perfect mask of blankness. But for Meyer, it was the first time he realized that maybe she did care. Not enough and not in the right ways. But enough to feel guilt, perhaps. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing at all.
There was movement to his other side, and Meyer startled and whipped around. It was the Avox from before. Slowly, carefully, eyes wide yet lowered, he placed a container with an ornate lid on the table. Without looking up, he nodded once at the food in the center, before hurrying quickly back.
Meyer’s eyes trailed after him. They were never supposed to initiate an interaction.
He set aside the marble-inlaid lid and dumped the contents of his plate into the container. He grabbed a second quail with his hand—Carolyn made a noise—and added that in, too. He glanced around, hoping he might be able to catch the Avox’s eye, but he had disappeared. “I’m heading back,” he announced, replacing the lid and tucking the container under his arm.
The Rothsteins stood as well.
“You don’t have to walk me there, I know where it is,” Meyer grumbled.
“And we’re supposed to sit around here all night?” Carolyn asked, smoothing down the front of her dress. “We don’t live here, you know. We only stay here with you while you’re a guest in the Capitol.”
“Guard me, you mean? If the Capitol thinks—” He broke off and ran his tongue along the back of his teeth to keep the words back. Best not to point out that he could kill either of them with terrific ease.
The elevator was already waiting. The three of them stood shoulder to shoulder in silence as they whizzed down from the top floor.
Carolyn clicked her tongue. “Your collar is all ruffled.” She ran her hand along the back of Meyer’s shirt, curling his collar. He tensed. She patted him once on the back and smiled. Meyer tried to return the gesture, but his mouth didn’t quite make the shape.
She was nothing like her—purple hair intricately arranged, her face powdered and dusted in opalescent powder, wearing an elegant and complicated dress of burgundy and silver that cascaded in asymmetric layers. But Carolyn’s hand on his back, fussing with his collar—Meyer’s stomach rose into his throat as the elevator leveled with the ground floor. He missed his mother. He missed when she would smile at him, tired and warm, worrying over whether he had enough to eat, always with that knowing look in her eyes. It had been different, since last year. He wasn’t a kid anymore. She knew it, too. He could see that in her eyes.
The elevator doors slid open and they passed several Peacekeepers as they walked through the lobby and onto the street.
“I’ll meet you at home,” Carolyn said, breathing in a whiff of late night air.
“You aren’t going to walk with us?” AR asked.
Carolyn chuckled, raising her shimmering hand towards the street, where a silver-paneled craft glided over at her beckoning. “In these shoes? Arnold…”
She looked down at Meyer with a teasing smile, pointing to the container tucked under his arm. “I want you to finish every last bite, do you understand? I don’t care what my husband says, you’re a growing boy.”
AR shook his head and leaned up on the balls of his feet to peck her swiftly on the cheek. “You never do care what I say, my sweet.” For a moment, they almost seemed like real people.
“Have Meyer around for dinner one of these nights!” Carolyn called over her shoulder as she headed towards the curb. “You two are too much alike, and somebody needs to make sure the both of you remember to eat.”
Meyer looked down at his feet. “You don’t have to cook for me.”
He heard Carolyn laugh as the door slide down behind her. “Darling, I never cook.”
Meyer followed AR along the sleek, polished walkway towards the observation building, the buildings set apart by small squares and plazas connected by stretches of streets and small manicured shrubs in glimmering metal planters. It was not far from the Training Center, which made for a short commute for the mentors who were staying in the Capitol. They probably didn’t want mentors wandering all over the city. Even when they were invited into the luxury, the Capitol liked to offer only a short leash.
“Do you live far from here?” Meyer asked. It had never really occurred to him that the Rothsteins lived somewhere.
“Mm, in the western sector, overlooking the river,” AR said, like that meant anything to him. “And she’s going to hold me to it, by the way, bringing you around for dinner.”
“I don’t think now is really the time for me to be attending dinner parties,” Meyer responded tersely.
“She can be quite stubborn when she wants to be, you know.”
“She’s not the only one.”
AR hummed and looked up at the night sky. There were no stars in the Capitol. It was nothing like District 12, where the night sky glittered with millions of specks of light. The only light here was artificial, pooling down onto the streets from the buildings above. The sky hung dark and empty, a blank darkness staring back at them. “No, I suppose not,” AR said finally. Then, he chuckled. “It can be quite a useful tool, stubbornness, if you know how to direct it.”
There was something in his tone; suspicion prickled against the back of Meyer’s neck. “What do you mean by that?”
AR shook his head. “Just a… small strategy, if you will. Leverage.” He paused. “Tell me honestly. What do you think of their chances?”
Meyer swallowed and buried one hand deep in his pocket. He spoke slowly as he picked each word, paving out sentences like the sidewalks panels that passed under his feet. “Charlie’s a fighter. He doesn’t give up easy. I know it doesn’t seem like much yet, but he… Well, I think he’s impressed them more than I had at this point in the Games.” The second portion of the question didn’t need to be answered. It was better if they didn’t say anything at all.
“Don’t sell yourself short, there were several keeping an eye on you,” AR chuckled.
Meyer scoffed. “Please. A twelve-year-old from a district with no victors? Nobody thought I could win this early into the Games.”
“Ah, so you do think he can win.”
Meyer faltered. For once, he didn’t know what he thought. From a purely mathematical standpoint, there were still too many tributes left—many of them with far more to their advantage. But the Games could change at any second. For the worse or the better.
“Like I said, he doesn’t give up easily. That’s what matters right now.” He had the distinctly uneasy sense that AR was weighing Meyer’s own confidence against the odds and figures in his head—and he couldn’t tell whether AR judged him too naive or too cynical.
With the tone of someone still making up his mind, AR said, “Well, at least we’re in agreement about playing to his stubbornness.” Before Meyer could ask, he explained, “We had a conversation, just before the Games. We’ll see if the strategy pays off.”
The warm evening air burned cold in his lungs. In a tone that matched the ice in his inhale, Meyer asked, “What did you talk about?” Without waiting for an answer—in case that smirk on AR’s face meant it wouldn’t be forthcoming—he added, “As his mentor, I believe I’m owed that information.”
Idly, AR tugged at the chain from the small device in his pocket. The building with the mentor’s observation room loomed up ahead. As they neared the doors, AR surveyed the plaza—empty apart from a few Peacekeepers either keeping the mentors in or keeping the rest of the Capitol out. Finally, he said, “I may have implied that I’m betting against him.”
Meyer stopped. His feet were too heavy to lift from the ground. “You what? Are you? Did you bet against me, too?” he demanded. “How could you say that to him?”
AR leveled his gaze at Meyer, looking him up and down, appraising. He seemed almost surprised, even disappointed, by Meyer’s outburst. “I’m not. But he’ll win just to spite me.”
“That’s cruel,” Meyer spat.
“Is it? If he wins, then it was merely an incentive. An advantage, even.” He opened the door, pressing his palm against the panel until Meyer stepped through into the lobby.
“And if he doesn’t?” he demanded, more quiet but no less angry. The lights inside were bright, casting a ring of shadows around AR as he stayed on the threshold.
AR shrugged. “Well, if he’s dead, then I suppose it didn’t really matter.”
The door sliced shut between them. His eyes strained as AR and the night’s darkness disappeared behind it. But his gaze stayed locked on the sleek white doors as though he could burn straight through them.
“Then I guess that’s the difference between you and me,” he said under his breath.
Meyer turned on his heel, footsteps echoing in the high-ceiling dome of the lobby. They needed him upstairs. He had tributes to look after.
**********
He woke with a start, bolting upright, alert in the darkness. Moonlight filtered through the grimy window and spilled across the floor, just enough to illuminate the peeling wallpaper and the silhouette of Benny slumped and snoring beside him.
The taste in his mouth was beyond foul. His head throbbed. He licked his lips—dry and peeling. It all tasted like metal.
Charlie smacked Benny in the chest, who also jerked awake, fumbling with the crossbow and slurring a string of curses.
“Time’s it?” Benny mumbled, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand.
“Middle of the fuckin’ night.” He sat up on his knees, peering out the window. The Cornucopia’s silhouette loomed in the distance; it was too dark to tell if it had been abandoned while they slept. “So much for stakin’ it out…”
“Hey, who’s idea was that? I wanted to go for it but somebody—”
“Shut up, will ya, I’m lookin’.”
“What, your eyes and your ears don’t work at the same time?”
Charlie swatted at him aimlessly as he pressed his forehead to the glass. “Somebody’s down there—look.” A little ways down the beach, in the opposite direction from the Cornucopia, the low flames of a small fire burned. Charlie’s stomach rumbled deep from his core. “Think they’re cookin’ dinner?”
Benny hopped up onto his feet. “One way to find out.”
Hunger did funny things. It carved a hole in his insides, hollowing him out. It pulled him down the stairs and back onto the boardwalk with an energy he couldn’t have summoned on his own. When Benny hopped the railing and leapt down into the sand, Charlie didn't stop him this time. He ducked beneath the beams and dropped down beside him. But this wasn't stupidity, the hunger reasoned. It wasn't the same group as before; he knew it without seeing them. Nobody'd be dumb enough to give up the Cornucopia to camp half a mile down the beach instead.
They had the cover of darkness, Benny's crossbow, and surprise on their side. And if the fire meant food—or water or a weapon—it would be worth it. They needed something.
“Quiet,” Charlie mouthed. He didn't need Benny blowing their cover by being stupid about it.
Night hung heavy around them, the air humid. They picked their way carefully across the sand, moving slow, getting closer. Charlie could see better now. There were two of them, sitting around the fire. He squinted in the dark, but they were cast in shadow. Definitely cooking though, he could smell it. Fish.
“Maybe I can get them from here,” Benny whispered, hoisting the crossbow and closing one eye.
“Wait.” Charlie flung out his arm. One of the tributes stood to flip the fish over the fire. Her silhouette was small, scrawny, long hair falling around her shoulders. “Wait!” he hissed as Benny reached for an arrow.
Benny didn’t wait.
The arrow fired; Charlie dove into him sideways. They crashed into the sand together, Benny yelling and kicking and Charlie scrambling to look around. The arrow stuck in the sand several feet from the target. He exhaled.
Someone slammed into him. He hit the sand, flat on his back, and kicked up. The girl doubled over. He scrambled to his feet, but she was faster. In two quick motions, she knocked the crossbow from Benny’s hands with the end of a spear and swung around to Charlie. The sharp point jabbed against his throat. Up close, Charlie recognized the bob of curly hair around her round face—Billie, District 4.
“Don’t move or I gut you.”
Charlie raised his chin and his hands. “Prefer it if you didn’t,” he said back, clear and loud.
“Charlie?” a voice called from the fire.
The girl with the spear to his throat hesitated. Benny glanced between the two of them and his crossbow in the sand at her feet. Charlie ignored them both and called out, “Looks like you made a friend, huh?”
From the fireside, Anna hurried over. “It’s okay, he’s okay,” she said until the other girl lowered her weapon. Once it wasn’t under his throat, Charlie realized it wasn’t an actual spear. It was the baluster from a staircase with a knife tied around the end.
Anna seemed relieved to see him. Charlie wished he could have said the same; he couldn't think about much else other than the scent of cooking fish. There’d been a weapon to his throat, but he couldn’t take his gaze from the flames flickering around dinner. “Oh, are you hungry?” Anna asked, when she noticed him looking.
Billie sighed and leaned on her makeshift spear. The end of the wood was still wet. Of course—it was for fishing. “Great, more mouths to feed.” She shook hair out of her face and cocked her head, studying them. “You know, if you want a meal from us, we're going to need something in return.”
In a flash, Benny snatched the crossbow from the ground and aimed. “How about we don't shoot you?”
“Benny.” Charlie glared at him, raising his hands in exasperation. “You can't shoot somebody from my district.”
“I could shoot her,” Benny pointed out, smirking at Billie. “One less mouth. Besides, she was gonna do the same to us.”
Charlie shook his head, ignoring Benny and focusing on Billie instead. “How 'bout this? You got food, we don't. We got weapons, you got... a stick thing. Me and Benny are plannin' on lootin' the rest of the Cornucopia. You share what you got, and we'll share anything we get. Sound good?”
He directed the last part firmly at Benny, who groaned. “You are no fuckin' fun.”
“I want to point out that I kicked both your asses with my stick thing,” Billie said.
“Imagine what you’ll do with somethin’ better,” Charlie countered. “Deal?”
She grinned. “Deal.”
Charlie looked at Anna next—whose gaze fixated on Benny's still-loaded crossbow—and said, “Ignore him, he's an asshole. District 1 don't even want him.”
Benny snarled. “Maybe I'll just kill all three of you!”
Charlie scoffed and started towards the campfire. “You keep sayin’ that and not doin’ it, so I ain’t exactly quakin’ in my boots here.”
“Maybe ‘cause you’re too dumb to know what’s good for you. You got coal for brains.”
Billie dropped down around the fire and jammed her homemade spear into the sand, end pointing up at the sky. “Wow, they ought to give you two an act, traveling around to all the districts, doing your little comedy routine.”
Charlie sat down opposite and smiled at her across the flames. “Ain't what we're doin’ now? I'm Charlie, by the way.”
“So I heard,” she grinned, bright and gleaming, the light of the fire dancing across her face. “Billie Kent.”
“Can we eat?” Benny complained, plopping down between them with a frustrated sigh.
“Not yet, unless you like raw fish.” She rotated the fish to its other side as Benny groaned. “You wanna be helpful? Fill this with seawater.”
Billie searched through a large backpack sitting between her and Anna and pulled out a small cast iron pan. Charlie eyed the bag curiously, but before he could ask, Anna chimed in. She explained that she found it inside an old crate. It came with the pan, plus a few empty canteens and some rope. They boiled seawater earlier to fill up one of the canteens, but they were trying to collect as much as they could.
“I'll go,” Charlie said, grabbing the pan. Benny didn't look like he planned on moving anytime soon. Sitting around always made his skin itch, anyway.
He walked down to the water with the pan dangling in his hand and stooped to let the sea water rush in. It foamed as the waves broke, cool droplets splashing against his hand.
He stood upright, but didn’t turn back to camp. So this was the ocean? He knew about it, knew some districts were on the coast, but he’d never seen it before. They had a lake in District 12, but it was nothing like this. He’d never seen that much sky, either, with all the trees and mountains of District 12 blocking the view. Here, the night-black water slithered back and forth under the expanse of stars—stretching on forever into the horizon, the waves cresting and lapping at his shoes. The moon glimmered and shifted on waves that moved like a pit of liquid coal.
Even the air was different. It was fresh—crisp, like salt. The lake back home smelled like wet earth, like sediment and mud and coniferous trees. It was better than the stench of the mines, but it didn’t smell as clean. Back home, the earth clung to his lungs even when he came back above ground. He breathed in deep, the salt air filling his ribs as he inhaled more and more, before letting it out in a rush. It was like breathing for the first time.
It wasn’t even the real ocean—just the Capitol’s creation—but it was still like nothing else.
“You drown?” he heard Benny shout.
“No,” he called back.
“Damn.”
He scoffed, took a last look at the water, and walked back to the fire. He handed the pot of seawater to Billie, who put it over the flames, as he dropped back down into the sand. Charlie leaned back on his hands, fingers burying through the little grains and rocks and shells. “Does it smell like this? Where you’re from?” he asked, looking to Billie.
“Does it smell like this,” Benny repeated, scoffing as he watched the fish cook with hungry eyes.
“Sure does,” Billie answered, then paused. “Well, sometimes—if it’s a good, clear day. But most of the time, it smells like rotting fish.” With a grin and a theatrical flourish, she leaned towards Anna and scrunched up her nose. “And if you don’t have fish where you’re from, that smells like our pals Charlie and Benny here.”
Anna giggled; Charlie shrugged and said, “Hey, I’ve smelled worse before.”
“I bet you have!” Benny hooted.
Charlie swiped at him, Benny shoved him back, and all four of them laughed. It filled his lungs, filled his body, his face burning with a bright smile. For a moment, they could have been friends. But as the sound faded, their faces falling, the reality settled around them again. Charlie scanned the shoreline, left and right, for movement. Silence settled heavier in his stomach than hunger. He sighed and tipped his head back. The stars above him still twinkled.
After a long quiet punctuated only by the lap of the waves and the crackle of the fire, Billie announced that dinner was ready. She served them each a portion of fish, pulling on an exaggerated imitation of a Capitol accent. “For tonight’s delicacy, we’ll be having seared wild striped bass in fine herb sauce.”
It certainly wasn’t anything like the delicacies of the Capitol, but they didn’t care. They tore into the fish, gnawing around the bones and ripping every bit of meat off with their teeth. Anna offered him a canteen and he tipped his head back, chugging. The water was tepid and warm, but he let it flow into his mouth and out of the corners of his lips. It seemed like mere minutes until they were only left with a pile of bones.
Benny’s stomach grumbled in the silence.
“Guess I’ll go catch some more.” Billie hopped to her feet, pulling her makeshift fishing spear out of the sand. She gestured to Benny with the tip of it. “You, with me. I’ll show you how it’s done. You’ve got too much energy, do something with it.”
Charlie watched their retreating backs as they walked towards the water. He kept scanning in both directions, periodically turning to check behind him.
“Sounds like you done okay so far,” Charlie finally said into the silence.
Anna sighed, hugging her knees up to her chest. “I guess. Billie’s nice. She found my hiding spot and—” She broke off, tracing a pattern in the sand with her finger. She didn’t need to say anything else. Good thing Billie’s nice.
“Two whole days in the arena and District 12’s still in it. Better than most years, huh?” Charlie said. He meant it to sound encouraging. It didn’t. Past expectations for their district were low. Except for Meyer, District 12 had never even come close before—at least not as far back as Charlie could remember.
They didn’t say much more until Billie and Benny returned with more fish. Billie set to work preparing them over the fire, narrating the process. Anna refilled one of the canteens and fetched more water from the ocean. Charlie was far from full, but at least his stomach didn’t hurt with emptiness anymore. At least he could swallow again.
Billie served their second round of fish and they all started eating, though they were able to at least pace themselves this time. “I’m surprised you two get along so well,” Billie said, looking between Charlie and Anna. “You know, like at the parade and everything.”
Charlie frowned as he tore into his second fish. “Why wouldn’t we? We’re from the same place.”
“Yeah, but… A lot of people keep the other tribute at arm’s length. You can only team up for so long, you know?” Billie said.
“Trust me, it does not look good if you come home after killing the other tribute from your district,” Benny chimed in. “We had that happen a couple years back and nobody likes her.”
Billie murmured her agreement. Charlie looked between them, brow dipping into a scowl. There was a lot he could have said—like how that was only a problem for rich districts, the poor districts didn’t even think about those things because their tributes never lived long enough to have a problem like that. But they were all getting along. He wasn’t about to go running his mouth off. Benny might finally make good on his threats to shoot him.
Instead, in case the cameras were on them, he pulled a smile and playfully knocked Anna with his shoulder. “We look out for each other back home.” They didn’t. But it sounded nice. Isn’t that what the Capitol wanted?
Changing the subject, Anna asked, “What’s that?” She pointed to a large silhouette jutting out into the water far in the distance. It was even farther that the Cornucopia—some massive shadow coming off the beach and shooting out into the waves.
Benny craned his neck over his shoulder. “Looks like a landing strip. They gonna hovercraft us outta here?” he joked.
Billie shook her head and flicked a fishbone at him. “It’s called a pier. We have those back home. You fish off it.”
“Can’t you just fish off the beach?” Benny asked.
As Billie explained the different types of fishing in District 4, Charlie’s gaze drifted from the pier in the distance to the much closer silhouette of the Cornucopia. He tilted his head, squinting in the darkness. He couldn’t see much better here than he could at their stakeout. But he didn’t see any movement, that’s for sure. Only the waves and the cool breeze moved along the beach. He sat up on his knees, even though it didn’t help his vantage point. But if nobody was moving… Either the Cornucopia was abandoned, or whoever had claimed it was inside—asleep and vulnerable.
“If you’re lucky, they beach themselves, but they’re so big—whatever you’re picturing, think bigger—that sometimes it drags the whaling boat under—”
“Hey, you think we oughta check it out?” he said, interrupting the conversation. He looked away from the Cornucopia and back at the group.
Billie shook her head. “Yeah, I don’t think whaling’s that interesting either,” she said with a smile.
“Don’t worry, neither’s mining,” Charlie replied with a smirk.
The back of his neck prickled. Charlie’s hand shot up to silence the group. He only had a split second to process the sounds under their voices—the crackle of the campfire, the wind, the crash of the waves, footsteps.
His head whipped around as three shadows closed in around them—one hulking, one small with a gleaming machete, and the one in front squat and chuckling.
“Aw, ain’t this cute? You havin’ a little cookout? Swappin’ stories?” Al said, as he passed a spear—a real one—from hand to hand.
Charlie shot to his feet; they all did. His eyes darted between them. One crossbow and one knife-on-a-stick against Al’s spear, Sigrid’s gleaming blade, and hulking Nelson with his brute force and what looked like a club. His pulse pounded in his ears. They’d have to run for it—he just had to keep Al talking until they found their break.
“Yeah, we were actually,” Charlie said. His fingers twitched at his side—fists curling and uncurling—even as he pulled on a sharp smirk. “Talkin’ about how your mother couldn’t stand your ugly face, so she begged the Capitol herself to pick your name this year.”
Al’s spear flashed in the firelight as he snapped into a fighting stance. “You wanna say that again?”
“Why, you wanna hear it again? You get off on it or somethin’? That’s messed up.” He didn’t even know what he was saying—the words were coming out—but if he was talking, Panem was watching. They all knew it. If they put on a show, it gave them time to stay alive.
“You got a mouth on you. You get one victor, and District 12 thinks it can talk to me like that?” Al spat in the sand. “Why don’t you be a big boy and let the kiddies make a run for it? That oughta give ‘em maybe ten seconds head start while we finish you and the girl.”
There it was. An opening. “Go,” Charlie said without taking his eyes off Al.
Benny laughed. “Yeah, right!”
The arrow whizzed passed Charlie’s head. Al’s eyes went wide and he turned at the last second, the arrow burying right into Nelson’s shoulder, who roared with rage.
The night exploded in a frenzy. Al's spear whipped past his head, clattering into Billie's as she deflected. “GO!” Charlie yelled, grabbing Anna by the back of her shirt and practically chucking her up the beach, the open backpack clutched in her arms.
Al's body slammed into him. Charlie staggered, slipping in the sand. He caught himself, turned, and kicked the campfire; embers sprayed into Al's face. He ducked a fist, grabbed the cast iron pan and swung—right into Al's jaw.
“Benny! C'mon!” Sand sprayed under his feet as he ran. Up ahead, Anna had reached the boardwalk, but the others weren't following him. Charlie skidded to a halt and looked around—Al nearly careened into him as he turned on a dime and charged back towards the fight.
Silver flashed in the moonlight as Billie and Sigrid sparred in the surf—Sigrid's blade glinting, Billie dodging and parrying with her own weapon. Benny ducked around Nelson's huge fists as he swung with his left arm, the right shoulder blood-soaked through his shirt.
Charlie didn't have a plan and Al was right on his heels. He snagged the spear from the sand and hurled towards the ocean.
“How’d you miss!” Benny shouted.
“GET THAT!” Al yelled, gesturing to the silver gleaming in the waves. It was enough to distract Sigrid and Nelson for a split second. Benny leapt forward, throwing his small weight on the arrow lodged in Nelson's collar. Billie swept low, knocking Sigrid's legs out from under her.
Again, Charlie skidded to a halt and changed directions—this time Benny and Billie ran behind him. He only glanced over his shoulder once to see Al wading through the waves, Nelson righting himself in the sand. He pushed forward harder.
“Into the alley, we can lose them!" he called over the wind and surf, breathless. They didn't have long, but it could be enough.
He grabbed the railing of the boardwalk and heaved his weight up. He crashed onto the boards. “Hurry, c’mon!” Charlie scrambled to his feet, locking his hands with Benny’s and flinging him up off the sand.
In the distance, three shadows charged up the beach after them.
he shows up in Boston’s resident lists in the 1937 volumes, with his residence for Jan 1st 1936 listed as Beacon Street, so presumably he formally relocated to Boston sometime in 1935. He wasn’t listed as living there on Jan 1st 1937, though, but Anna was, so he probably split his time between NYC and Boston the year before and just listed Manhattan as his primary residence on his taxes that year. ...in 1936. while Charlie’s trial was happening. fuck.
uh. anyway. moving past that painful discovery. Anna and Meyer are both listed as having lived in Boston Jan 1st 1938, and then Jan 1st 1939 only has Meyer, with neither of them being on the residence list for 1940, so presumably they moved back to NYC as their permanent residence in 1939. I think Buddy was still under the care of the Boston Children’s Hospital’s residency program in 1940 but I don’t have access to my hoarded census records at work so I’m not entirely sure, but the rest of the family moved back to Manhattan at that point.
I’d have to do a little more research to find out when he moved away from NYC for good, but as far as I know he was splitting his time between Manhattan, Miami, and Havana throughout the 50s and then just Manhattan and Miami in the 60s, before he applied for residency in Israel in the 70s. after that I’m pretty sure he was in Miami on a permanent basis.
Whatever happened to Anne Lansky after her divorce from Meyer?
nothing good, honestly:/ by all accounts her mental health continued to deteriorate for whatever reasonafter she left Meyer. the divorce agreement stipulated she got some money forchild support while the kids were living with her, and Meyer continued to sendher money after they all moved out [not a lot, by any means; according to Little Man he paid her $300 weekly as longas all the kids were living with her, which was reduced by $50 for each kidthat moved out, and once she was living alone she received $400 monthly [whichwas equivalent to $3600 in 1952, which is about when Sandi moved out, and to $915 in 1984 whenAnna died. so like I said, it’s not a lot,but it would have covered the majority of rent in the 80’s, and that’s assumingshe didn’t have a rent-fixed lease or anything]]. Sandi moved out in theearly-to-mid-1950’s, and by then Anna’s mental state had already taken a steepdecline; just before the section on Sandi moving to Florida, Sandi talks abouther mother keeping dead cockroaches in a cigar box, “arranging the bugs inmilitary file, like a marching platoon. ‘My West Point cadets,’ Mommy said,without a smile or change in her flat tone of voice.” [DotK 119] Anna hadstopped going to psychiatrists at this point, though she was still takingprescriptions, and she didn’t talk to Esta Siegel or Flo Alo, Jimmy Blue Eyes’wife [both of whom she was previously veryclose with] or leave her apartment for pretty much any reason. I think the onlytime Sandi mentions Anna leaving the apartment is when Sandi got married, andeven then she fell pretty swiftly back into depression inside of a few days.she never remarried or anything and it seems like the Citrons took care ofwhatever additional living expenses she had until she died in 1984, a yearafter Meyer.
one single static frame: you ought to head for the exits. the sooner the better.
autoclave - the mountain goats // money - mystery skulls // the sound of settling - death cab for cutie // first - cold war kids // the silence - bastille // in the sea - ingrid michaelson // no children - the mountain goats // goodbye mr. a - the hoosiers // gold - imagine dragons // all alright - fun.
