The dry tears that stained Denver's face itched. The bloodbath had been brutal. The cameras now followed a District One girl, Brighton, as she ran through the tunnels in search of her husband. Wrong way, she thought. That's a dead end. It was surreal - Denver knew every inch of the Arena intimately. She'd been in those tunnels. She'd made that exact incorrect turn. Brighton began to circle back and the screen switched to another tribute, in the corridors before you got to the turnstyles, now absent of the glass cases of artifacts. Denver wondered if they'd been destroyed, or if they'd been stored in the museum so short a walk away from all of this death.
To think, to her it had once meant glory. It had once meant honor. A unifying respect for the history of Panem. The singular most important part of their culture. How wrong she'd been.
Darkness was falling in the Arena, just as it was in the windows around Denver. In what was standard for the winter in the Capitol, it was only mid-afternoon now, even if it felt like an entire day had passed since the launch. The tributes were getting the same sunset, and presumably the same sunrise. The tributes were right down the street. And with their uniforms, it may as well be the distance between base camp and the front lines in Seven. Once again, surreal.
Denver stood to refill her glass - it was water, because she didn't think she could handle anything stronger right now, but stopped when she saw the figure standing in the doorway. Monty. Denver smiled, her shoulders relaxing and her breath calming. It was Monty.
"Hell of a thing, isn't it, this Arena?" she asked him.
@montgomery-cannon