Feb 11, 2024
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This Pin was discovered by emotionzz | Digital Mental Health Tools. Discover (and save!) your own Pins on Pinterest.
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Development on an update of Earthsong continues slowly. We've had a heat wave here in Australia and our aircon broke, so staying in the house at all, much less using the computer, has been hellish.
I'm sitting outside writing this - the heat broke this afternoon with a sudden brief bout of rain - and the creature I've heard on my roof for the past few months finally hopped out to say hi. It's a quenda (bandicoot)!
I take it as a good omen - I spent a lot of time today on Earthsong, but I really do need to write about what I know... And that's now Australia, I suppose, ever since my move here. The setting is shifting to a pretend village or island in Western Australia with a quokka as the guide. Quokkas are not only adorable and known world-wide, they are also a vulnerable species, with their mainland numbers and spread diminished greatly in recent years, so it will still serve the same role as the kākāpō did in the original jam game!
https://www.dcceew.gov.au/environment/biodiversity/threatened/action-plan/priority-mammals/quokka
Visiting creatures will still include birds such as cockatoos, magpies and ibis, but also creatures like my backyard's quenda helping keep pests out of crops or an echidna serving as a bioturbator.
The game has shifted to more of a simulation game as a way to work through grief/depression, with hobbies you can choose, changing room descriptions based on things you do as well as time of day/seasons, a village to participate in and nature to explore.
I've been updating the UI. The background images feel too busy and the icons are placeholders so I'm not done with it yet, plus I will be swapping this all for Aussie creatures!
Today I added this unskinned (it will look nicer when done!) journal system - the eventual goal is to give players a way to work through feelings as they experience them, to help process grief. Take a look in the video below!
Check out the original jam version, set in New Zealand, bugs and all (please read the itch.io page for details on how to bypass those bugs):
An interactive story about regenerating both the land and yourself.
Follow me here for updates!
10. The First to Fall
The story in which a typical angst-ridden teenager is thrust into an arena and forced to compete for survival.
Author’s Note: Kinda violent. Not very, but just watch yourselves.
01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08, 09
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
BLINKING DOESN’T MAKE THE WHITENESS GO AWAY. As the holographic digits projected over the Cornucopia’s gaping maw count down from sixty, I glance frantically about myself and realize: the whiteness will never go away. That’s why the tribute uniforms this year are insulated with thermal panels. That’s why Darius kept quizzing me on flora indigenous to the arctic.
The arena is a frozen waste.
45.
Standing between me and the Cornucopia – a large golden cache of food, weapons, and survival gear named for its shape – are 500 feet of ice.
40.
The other tributes and I are only able to stand because we’re on top of a metal platforms. I know from watching previous Games that if I step off this platform before the disembodied sky voice reaches zero, active land mines blow me to smithereens.
30.
I pivot to study the arena. At least a league beyond the Cornucopia, the ground slopes upward in mountains of ice. The glaciers are riddled with holes, like translucent, blue-tinted Swiss cheese. Beside those are your standard snow-capped rock mountains. Behind me is what looks like a petrified forest: hundreds of skeletal, white trees with no leaves. But, before I can get to that, there’re 500 more feet of the frozen lake ringing the Cornucopia and Tributes. Whether I’m running toward or away from the Cornucopia, I have to scramble across ice to make it to safety.
15.
My gaze snaps back to the Cornucopia. The Gamemakers usually leave weapons that play to each of the Tributes’ strengths. Incentive to run in and die in a bloodbath. And there, displayed against a canvas of black velvet near the Cornucopia’s mouth, is the Andy incentive: a shiny new set of throwing knives.
10.
On the one hand, if I run to the Cornucopia, I’ll have to recover twice the distance when subsequently running for cover. Also, if I head straight for the Cornucopia, I’ll probably die.
8.
On the other hand, if I’m left without weapons, I will die.
7.
But wasn’t that the point? Didn’t I volunteer for the Games so I could die?
6.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Asher sneaking a glance at me.
5.
Shaking it off, I look again toward the Cornucopia.
4.
Asher angles himself toward me. Rolling my eyes, I turn to face him.
3.
He shakes his head.
2.
Age old rage burns in the pit of my stomach. The image of him making his way to the stage as thousands of bodies flung themselves toward him – clung to him and tried to drag him back – flashes across the backs of my eyes. I remember the promise I made to myself then. And I decide.
1.
One of those knives is meant for him.
A sound like feedback travels through the arena. Asher and the other tributes around me raise their hands to cover their ears. I don’t waste my time. I wince my way through the reverberations in my skull and step out onto the ice.
Immediately, my feet slip out from under me. Bullets of pain shoot up my tailbone as I come down hard. Even though it hurts just as bad as any of the scars on my arms, I don’t cry out. Embarrassment strangles the cry in my throat. I would be the first to fall on the ice. And, of course, I would fall on my ass. Such a typical Andy thing to do. I wonder how many hundreds of thousands of people are watching me now and laughing. Gritting my teeth, I force myself to sit up and take stock.
No one’s come at me yet. Everyone in the immediate vicinity is making their way across the ice with all the speed of lethargic turtles. They’re on their feet, taking cautious, stuttered half steps, dipping their toes first to see if their feet can find purchase. And suddenly, it occurs to me: maybe it’s better to be down here. I roll forward onto my knees. Then, I lay myself out, propping my elbows on the ice. Moving right knee and right elbow in unison, I begin to crawl.
It feels awkward, at first. My body hasn’t moved like this in a long time. But the more of me presses against the ice, the more traction I gain. And, as my body to remembers, I move faster and faster, until I’m crawling so quickly my knees ache, my elbows hurt, and my hips feel like they’re falling out of their sockets. But the Cornucopia’s growing closer and closer. Unfortunately, so’re the competition.
In my peripherals, I see the boys from Districts 11 and 10 on their knees, army crawling across the ice. The girl from D10 leaps sure-footed across the ice, like a dancer. The girl from D11, the one with the blood red hair, has her arms tucked tight to her chest. She’s rolling across the ice like a bowling ball. Even Asher’s wising up. Pitching forward, he takes a few running steps and slides on his belly like a penguin. No doubt the Tributes on the other side of the Cornucopia – the ones I can’t see – are having similar epiphanies. “Hrmph”ing under my breath, I plant my hands on the ice and drag my feet underneath me into a crouch. I think back to the brief gymnastics unit we were forced through in gym class. Tucking my chin to my chest, I somersault toward the Cornucopia. Every time I come up, I go right back down. I won’t stop until I make it.
Everything’s head and heels and up and down and down and up and up and down and down and up and heels and head and ow.
The jagged lip of ice that looks like it froze over the Cornucopia’s bottom edge cuts into the small of my back, halting me mid-sault and splaying my arms and legs. Wriggling up to balance on my elbows, I stay still and blink a few times to reorient myself. As soon as directions start making sense, a light-skinned girl with green eyes, freckles, and a curly mane of sun-kissed brown hair stands over me with a tomahawk in her hands. Every muscle in me clenches.
Before either of us can move, a silver-tipped spear stabs through her ribcage. The girl stiffens and looks up, her eyes glassy. Then, the holder of the spear yanks the girl’s body backward. Grabbing at the jagged ice, I claw my way to a stand. I catch a glimpse of the guy holding the spear before his back turns.
It’s Asher.
Somewhere in the distance, a cannon fires. A bitter chuckle escapes me.
I always knew he was a lady killer.
Something heavy and sharp swings at my head. I duck, dodging what would’ve been a lethal blow by the skin of my teeth.
Guess there’s no place for internal sarcasm in the Games, huh?
Before whoever swung at me can regroup his weapon, I dash for the throwing knives, ripping one out of its mold. I twirl it between my fingers as I whirl to face my opponent. When I complete the turn, the knife’s handle nestles into my palm like it was forged there. My assailant – a broad-shouldered white boy with a shock of dirty blond hair and eternally reddened cheeks – holds his pitchfork out in front of him. The tines tickle my stomach. He’s already close enough to run me through. He grits his teeth and draws his elbows in.
An ax blade comes down hard and fast on the pitchfork’s staff. Splinters fly, and the fork tips away from me and into the ground. While the staff’s playing the part of hypotenuse between redneck boy and the ground, the ax wielder brings his foot down on it and snaps it in half, showering myself, himself, and redneck boy in another round of splinters. Ax boy spins the staff of his ax in his hands until the dual blades are right-side up. Redneck boy lunges for the dismembered metal fork. The second he moves, though, Ax Boy takes a step toward him. Redneck takes one look at the double-bladed ax and scrambles in the opposite direction. While he flees, Ax Boy turns to me and blows the flyaway brown hairs out of his face. I release the air I didn’t realize I’d been holding.
It’s Leo.
My relief is short-lived.
He reaches behind his head to stow the ax in the harness contraption tied around his torso and lunges toward me, arms outstretched. Clenching the knife, I aim for his chest and stab. He swats my wrist away with the heel of his hand. “That’s good,” he says.
He makes another swipe for my throat. I duck out of the way.
He tilts his head to the side. Raises his eyebrows. “Now, think you can hit me?”
Redneck boy – now holding what looks like a trident – barrels into Leo, knocking him out of the way. Rather than waste time crying over it, I turn my attention to the throwing knives. With this shit going down, I’m gonna need weapons, and I’m gonna need them like now.
Lucky for me, the knife set includes a stylish belt with sheathes for all the blades. I work as quickly as I can, winding the belt around my waist and clasping the buckle, but for some reason, my hands won’t stop shaking. There are about eight knives in total, two two-inch blades, two three-inch, two-four inch, two six-inch. I sheathe the six-inch in my hand first, then grab the second two largest. The second is barely in the belt when something thick and heavy rams into my back. I topple into the knife display, and we both go down together. Not only am I struck with the crippling pain of belly-flopping onto solid earth, but the knives pinned under me dig into my stomach and sides. Maybe it’s the blades pricking my skin, but something kick-starts my adrenal gland. Palming one knife in either hand, I roll onto my back.
Towering over me is the ochre colossus from District 2. He grabs fistfuls of the front of my uniform and hauls me… not even to my feet. He plucks me off the floor like I weigh nothing – not to undermine him or anything, but I pretty much do – and raises me high enough that he has to look up to make eye contact. I catch sight of the brass woven around his knuckles and decide it’s best not to wait for that free hand to strike me in the head. I slash the wrist of the arm holding me with both knives. I don’t hit anything major, so he won’t exactly bleed to death, but it’s enough to get him to drop me.
A cannon fires.
I land in a crouch, then use the momentum of standing up to drive the butt of my hand into Chris’s nose. There’s a sickening crunch on impact. Chris’s head snaps back. He stumbles with it a few steps, then rights himself. Another cannon fires as he rolls his head from side to side. He stretches his neck and steps forward, suddenly seeming way more than a foot taller than me. “You’re gonna pay for that, Capitol bitch.”
Somewhere in the back of my brain, it clicks that this is the end. I am going to die. So, you know what? Fuck it. Maybe I can goad him into making this quick. I smirk up at him.
“Cash or credit?”
Chris’s face contorts first in confusion, then in abject fury. He draws his arm back behind his head. I squeeze my eyes shut and pray to whatever god will listen that I’m so brittle, the first hit will break me.
“Shit, man!” a new voice jeers.
My heart drops into my stomach.
I know that voice.
That voice is about to ruin everything.
“Chris Chambers got punched out by a girl!”
I open my eyes.
Asher, shining with sweat, hair tousled, lip busted, neck and uniform smeared with dried blood, tossing his javelin into the air and catching it like someone might a basketball, stands behind Chris, grinning from ear to ear.
Chris turns one inch at a time to face Asher.
I don’t wait to see what happens. Asher has wounded Chris’s man pride enough to attract his attention. That means I no longer have it.
That means it’s time to get the Hell outta dodge.
I stash the knives I have and turn to collect the rest – straight into Leo’s waiting arms. He clasps me by the neck and spins me toward the Cornucopia wall, pushes me backward, and pins me there. He’s clutching one of the daggers in his free hand. There’s fresh blood on the handle. I reach for the knives in the belt, but Leo steps in closer, pinning me with his body.
“Listen!” he snaps.
My eyes dart to his face.
“When I cut you, you’re gonna slide to the floor, and you’re gonna lie completely still.”
My brows draw up and together.
He huffs. “You’re gonna lie still until I yell ‘clear.’ Then, you’re gonna get up, and you’re gonna run.”
I squint at him down the bridge of my nose.
He sighs. “Trust me, Andy.”
Then, he fixes me with these wide, blue eyes that prove impossible to deny.
“Run to the woods. Move as quickly as you can. Erin picked up an extra backpack – she’s waiting for you there.”
He takes a final step closer. The distance between us is virtually non-existent.
“Don’t move until I yell ‘clear.’”
He raises the knife to my throat. Then, he unclasps it, holding it only between forefinger and thumb. The blade points away from me. When the handle swings toward me, I see what was underneath it: an open slice across Leo’s palm, pooling with blood. He runs his hand across my neck, coating me with warm, metallic Leo juice. Finally catching on, I take a sharp inhale, clench my gut, and go rigid. Leo releases me and steps back. I, like a good little Andy, slide down the wall. I flutter my eyelids a few times for effect, then slump to the ground and close them. I hear the rustle of Leo’s uniform as he rejoins the fray.
It takes an obscene amount of willpower not to flinch at every ensuing clank of weaponry, shout of triumph, and wail of agony. Seconds stretch into what feels like minutes, into what feels like hours. I wonder what happened to Jarrod and Katie. I haven’t seen them anywhere. I just know, though – like some feeling deep in my bones – that they’re still out there. That they aren’t dead. As I wonder, the din of battle dulls, like everyone’s moving farther and farther away. Somewhere in the midst of it all, another cannon goes off. My heart clenches at the thought that it might be Leo. Finally, when I’m on the cusp of a heart attack, I hear it: his voice traveling across the distance to get to me.
“CLEAR!”
I scramble to grab the last two knives off the ground. When I straighten, I see them. They’re fighting in clumps on the ice. The ones who’re still gunning for supplies from the Cornucopia, anyway. Asher and his body double are there, along with an Asian-looking dude from their weight class. They’re pitted against an athletic looking brunette girl, Chris, and Chris’s district mate: the caramel-skinned beauty named Tabby. Except, she’s not such a beauty anymore. She’s lashing at Asher with what looks like a whip. She gets a good shot at him, though, and it comes away leaving several deep gashes in his face. Not one long, shallow gash, like your average whip wound.
Whatever. Asher deserves everything Tabby can throw at him.
Shrugging it off, I step over the frozen mouth of the Cornucopia and sprint across the ice. I follow the dancer girl from earlier’s lead and stay on my tip-toes, never slowing enough for gravity to catch up with me.
At least, I do until I see her.
Katie stands on the snow bank between the ice and the petrified forest.
I’ve been running straight at her.
I pitch forward and land on my forearms. Momentum propels me forward. I skid into the snow bank, stirring up a dusting of flakes.
Someone bellows out a war cry. I tilt my head back and see tan, dark-haired girl who was fighting with Leo a second ago hurtling towards us. She slides her feet past each other like a figure skater without the skates, and she’s brandishing a sword.
Before I can flail my way to an upright position, Katie tosses handful of something over my head. One of the crystals misfires and lands in my lap. Katie leaps over me and lands on the patch of ice she’s just covered with the stuff. She then proceeds to walk toward the oncoming assailant with ease.
Salt.
Of course.
But where’d she get salt?
Figuring there are better times to worry about the how and the where, I take advantage of the distraction and jog up the bank, toward the woods.
The second I hit the tree line, a cannon fires.
Holding my breath, I turn to look.
The dark-haired girl’s sprawled unmoving at Katie’s feet. There’s a deep slash running from her right hip to left shoulder. Blood’s pouring out of the wound, onto the ice. More seeps from her mouth. Katie’s holding the girl’s sword. The blade is dripping.
Katie drops the sword next to the girl’s body. She just leaves it and walks back to the pack she’s left in the snow. She slings the pack over her shoulder, tossing her long brown curls out of her face. Her gaze scans the tree line.
Before it can land on me, I turn.
And I run.
09. The Will to Survive
The story in which a typical angst-ridden teenager is thrust into an arena and forced to compete for survival.
Author's Note: It's shorter than the others, but suck my dick.
01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07, 08
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
RISING SUN SPLATTERS DARIUS’S FEATURES with vibrant oranges and pinks. He casts his gaze across the horizon – across the shining metallic domes and spires comprising the Capitol’s cityscape. One arm’s around me, his thumb idly caressing my back. The other’s crooked against his knee, balancing there while he cradles his chin. In this moment - with the breeze whisking my cheeks, his cheeks, our hair – it’s easy to forget: today is the day I die. From here on out, the breaths I draw are numbered. The minutes I waste are precious. I should waste them well.
As I study Darius’s features, I can think of a few good ways to spend my last morning on earth. Follow him to his room. Lay out on the bed. Let him cook me breakfast. Curl up in his clothes until Rochelle strips me out of them and shoves the standard Tribute uniform over my head. Kiss every inch of him, just to see how they all taste. Just to bask in someone’s loving gaze, before the only people I’ll see will all want to kill me. Just to feel some kind of warmth – some kind of human contact – before the last thing I touch is the blade that strikes me down. But, of course, I can’t do that.
That wouldn’t be fair.
No one has any reason to miss me: I can’t be giving anyone reasons now.
I gently nudge the underside of Darius’s chin with my knuckle. “What’re you thinking?”
His arm falls away from his face as the air leaks out of him. “A lot of good people are going to die today.” I scrutinize him from the sides of my eyes, watching for some indication that he mostly means me. I don’t know where the need comes from, especially now. I avert my gaze, squelching the thought quickly. If Darius notices, he doesn’t let on. Just unwinds his arm from my back to twiddle his thumbs in his lap. “A lot of good kids with futures. And there’s not a damned thing I can do about it.” A dry chuckle punches from his lungs. “At least I get to watch some kid knock Jarrod’s teeth in.”
Looking up, I regard him through slit eyes. “You don’t think he’ll win?”
“If he does,” his gaze sweeps the rooftops, “God has truly abandoned us.”
I brush my shoulder against his. “Is that a personal vendetta?”
His head turns toward me, but his eyes stay down. He holds the pose for a moment, then turns away. My elbow knocks him in the ribs. “Don’t lie to me, Dare. You’ve never even met the kid.”
For the second time, he refuses to answer. This time, he doesn’t even try to look at me – just glowers at an invisible evil in the distance. The silence stings like a slap to the face. Before I register what I’m doing, I clasp his chin in my palm and turn him to face me.
“Darius,” I insist. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
For the longest of microseconds, he doesn’t say anything. He looks into one of my eyes, then the other, and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and then –
Then, his lips are on mine, my nose is squashed against his cheek, his fingers are in my hair, his taste is in my mouth, and my breath is in his lungs. There’s a fraction of time where I enjoy this, followed by the fraction in which I reach up, plant my hands on his shoulders, and shove him away.
He topples into the force field. The force field bounces him back a foot from the roof’s edge. His eyes are wild, scrambling about him, trying to make sense of what’s happened. Finally, they come to rest on me. “I’m sorry?”
I suck all the air out of the sky to try and calm my panicked heart. “I thought we weren’t do that,” I pant between inhales. My eyebrows pucker. “Why would you do that?”
His eyebrows collapse into each other. “What do you mean?”
“I mean why!” I snap at him. “You had all this time. You had all this time. You had all that time at the sick house. You had all those visits at your mansion. You could’ve sought me out whenever you wanted, and you chose the morning I go into the arena to die?”
“I love you.” The response snaps out of him too quickly. “I…” His hands are spread, hopping up and down like beached fish. “I needed to tell you. Before…”
“No you don’t.” I’m snapping again. Because I can’t believe he would say that. Now, of all times. Because it’s bullshit. Because it hurts.
“You’re just trying to placate your conscience. If you really loved me, you would’ve been my friend.”
I watch his face. He doesn’t understand, at first. He just looks lost and confused. Then, it hits him, and the guilt creeps in.
“But you weren’t.”
I watch him wince.
“You locked yourself in that fucking house and you locked the world out. And now, you’re scared, ‘cause the one person who ever gave a shit about you – the only person who ever believed you were anything more than a drugged out mess – is about to die.”
He looks down.
I wait for him to deny it. Give him a full minute. To tell me he was afraid. To tell him he didn’t know if I’d be receptive to him, and that’s why he never came. To do anything other than sit there, staring at the hands that mere seconds ago were clinging to me for dear life. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, staring at his damn hands.
I look down at mine. “But I guess that’s exactly what you are.” Rise slowly to my feet. “Isn’t it?”
He tilts his head back to look at me, hair sweeping out of his face. “I never said I wasn’t.”
Staring again at my hands, I nod. Then, I turn away.
“Andy, wait.” I hear him scramble to his feet behind me.
“Let me guess.” I pause. Look straight ahead. “You never meant to hurt me, right?”
He doesn’t respond right away. “Something like that.”
I draw a deep breath. It hitches on a sob in my chest. I turn to say over my shoulder, “Well, you did.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Less than an hour later, I’m climbing onto the helicopter that will carry me to the arena. Asher’s already strapped in one seat over from the seat opposite me. He takes one look at my face and scoffs. “Who pissed you off today, Cappy?”
I glance up long enough to glower at him, then resume glowering at the floor.
I don’t look up when the Gamemaker injects a tracker in my arm, or as we pass over the Capitol, or as Asher attempts to sweet-talk the Avoxes standing guard over us. I’m sure they wish they had the license to rip out his tongue. I don’t look up when we land. I don’t look up as Gamemakers drag me away from Asher, out of the sunlit landing strip and down a series of maze-like hallways toward my dressing chamber. I don’t look when the Gamemaker explains I’ll be meeting a final time with my stylist, and she’ll dress me in the tribute uniform for the games. I don’t look when I’m locked in that chamber – when I slip out of my clothes and rest against the wall, bare. I don’t look up at all until Rochelle slips into the room.
She keeps her back to the door as she closes it behind her. I crack a smile in spite of myself.
“It seems kind of stupid to ask how you are.” She reluctantly releases the doorknob and strides into the room. I catch sight of the uniform, zipped in a clear plastic dress bag and hung from the crook of her elbow. “It also seems kind of stupid to ask if you’re ready. So I’ll just tell you what I know.”
She grabs the dress bag in her free hand and holds it up, letting it cascade toward the floor. “The fabric’s thick, lined with thermal panels. Designed to trap your natural body heat. It’s also got detachable gloves and a hood.”
She swallows. “Wherever they’re sending you, it’ll be a bit chilly.”
The smile broadens. I let it.
“A bit?”
Her eyes roll toward the heavens. She tosses the dress bag at me. “Shut up and get dressed.”
As I do, she quizzes me on the plants she’s heard me drilling under my breath. The uniform is a form-fitted black unitard with matching boots. It zips in the back, and Rochelle’s right: the gloves detach. I discover that by accident, when I punch my hands through the sleeves and the gloves go flying. Rochelle shakes her head as she moves to collect them. Once I’m dressed, she pulls me in close to pull the gloves back up my arms.
In the midst of this, she produces a broach from her pocket. It’s a small, silver bird’s claw. Clenched in the talons is a sapphire.
“What’s this?” I ask.
“Shh!” she cuts me off almost immediately. Keeping her head forward, she checks her peripherals. Once she’s satisfied that no one’s listening in, she and continues pinning the broach on the forearm of my unitard. “Not so loud.” She speaks quickly and quietly. “No one can know you have this. You’re not allowed to bring trinkets into the arena.”
“Okay…” I’m still confused, but I take care to whisper. “So… what is it?”
“It’s from Darius.” She finishes pinning and unrolls the glove to cover it. The gloves Velcro into place halfway up my arms. “He said, and I quote, ‘If you ever feel yourself spiraling down the rabbit hole, I want you to call me.’”
“What?” I frown.
“How should I know?” Rochelle snaps. “He told me to give it to you, so I’m giving it to you. Look.” She clamps her hands on my shoulders and locks into my gaze. “He’s rooting for you, okay?” She wets her lips.
“We all are.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Somehow, “thank you” doesn’t quite cover it.
Rochelle leans in and plants a kiss on my forehead. She lingers there a long while. Finally, she releases me and steps back. “Goodbye, Andy Boyle.” Tears well in her eyes. “I’m gonna miss you.”
A tidal wave of emotions crashes over me. Frustration, anger, fear… lots of fear. And… and something else. Something stronger than fear. Something like determination. Something like fight.
Something like the will to survive.
I rush forward and catch her in my arms. I hold her there long enough to think of all the people I’m leaving behind. Her. My mother. My father. Then I think of all the people I’ll have to watch die. Erin Guthrie. Even with my help, she won’t last. Leo. Physically, he stands a chance, but he’s too good of a person to kill.
Katie.
Katie I were friends, once upon a time. No – more than that. We were sisters. We lived and laughed and cried and joked and hurt and loved together. It’s almost poetic that we’re going into the arena to die together.
I give Rochelle a parting squeeze. “I’m gonna miss you, too.”
Before we both can choke to death on our own tears, I step back, into the glass tube of an elevator that will deliver me to the surface. As the tube lowers over me and locks into place, Rochelle presses three fingers to her lips, as though about to blow a kiss, and then raises them over her head.
The dams burst. Tears spill down my cheeks. I reach out a hand to her and press it against the glass. She starts to walk toward me, and that’s when it happens.
The door behind her bursts open and tons of Peacekeepers – ten, at least – stream through. I scream out her name, trying to warn her. She turns away from me, and the second she does, the Peacekeeper in the lead closes the distance between them and strikes Rochelle in the face. Her head spins toward me and ricochets off the glass, splattering blood across the place where my hand rests.
The lifters kick in. The elevator begins to ascend. I scream and cry out to Rochelle as the Peacekeepers close around her, kicking her and beating her with their batons. The last things I see before the elevator breaks the surface are the lights going out in Rochelle’s eyes.
Sound tears from my throat. I can’t stop the screams – I can’t stop the tears from coming as I pass through a layer of earth. Then the elevator breaks the surface, and I’m basked in blinding light.
All I can see, for miles and miles, is white.
08. A Warmth in the Dark
The story in which a typical angst-ridden teenager is thrust into an arena and forced to compete for survival.
01, 02, 03, 04, 05, 06, 07
PLANT NAMES ECHO IN MY HEAD as Rochelle adds some finishing touches to my makeup: bearberry, Labrador tea, diamond-leaf willow, the works. Darius drilled me in practice every day this past week. He kept repeating the names, descriptions, and uses of each while I worked through the exercise routines he forced upon me. I’ve done more sit-ups, pull-ups, push-ups, squat-thrusts, and running in the past few weeks then I ever have. I do it because I'm full of hate. Because I need something else to do besides cower every time I see Katie's hologram on a monitor. Because I can't hit Darius, no matter how much I want to, so I'll punch a bag instead. I punch so many bags, I even develop a little muscle mass. I’m still the runt of the litter, but I have at least enough of a figure to fill out Rochelle’s dress.
It’s sleeveless, with a beaded, form-fitting bust and a layered skirt. The color pallet reminds me of a river: white foam on the top that fades to crystal blue and, at the very bottom, into a small strip of teal. The embroidery on the bottom catches light in such away that it looks like sunlight filtering through murky depths. To continue the theme, Rochelle beads my hair with the beads that glitter like water droplets. My hair hangs in a braid down one shoulder, reminiscent of my Reaping style. A few furls hang loose in the front to frame my face. She’s also painted my arms with an hombre of body glitter – silver shoulders fade into light blue arms. My eyes are done to match.
Finally, to ensure my personality isn’t lost in the dress, Rochelle has outfitted me with a dangerous pair of boots with double buckles, laces, and four-inch heels, and a draping silver and gold necklace comprised of a cross, a skeleton key, and multiple dangling skulls.
In short, I look like a fairytale princess ready to kick ass.
Done up like this, I can’t help but smile at my reflection in the mirror.
The feeling fades when Rochelle gives my hand a parting squeeze and delivers me to the escort waiting by the door. Darius, Marissa, Asher, and a pair of guards – one for each of the volatile tributes, I assume – comprise this escort. I note Asher's been styled to match me, sporting silvery-white slacks and a vest layered over a button-down shirt featuring the same crystal-blue-to-teal gradient as my dress. Any ordinary human being would look mildly ridiculous in this attire. Asher, however, is as annoyingly handsome ever. He flashes me one of his “you know I’m sexy” smirks, I roll my eyes, and we proceed down the hall.
We assume our places at the end of a line of Tributes waiting anxiously outside the backstage entrance to the television studio. I don’t even bother casting a glance down the line, because I know it won’t help to ebb the waves of nausea crashing inside me.
I don’t need to see Katie all done up and shimmering in another play on diamonds. I don’t need to see Jarrod sporting his own clothes because his stylists are too afraid to come within a thirty-foot radius. I don’t need to see everyone else, and everyone else is inconsequential. So I fold my arms across my chest, prop my back against the wall, and stare at the miniature LED screen on the wall opposite me. Asher settles in at my side, takes one look at the steely expression on my face, and furrows his brow.
“Ay Cappy.” He nudges me with his shoulder. “These are the interviews. You’re supposed to get people to like you. Didn’t Hart go over how to not be scary as hell in training?”
The muscles in my face twitch, but I refuse to spur him on by rolling my eyes. Instead, I stare straight ahead and sigh, “Didn’t he teach you how to be charming?”
The creases in his face smooth into a half-smirk as his eyes roll upward. “No need to teach what comes naturally."
The PAs guarding the stage door hiss us into silence. Glancing at Asher out the corners of my eyes, I shake my head at him. I straighten and look away when the television monitor across the way flickers to life.
A suspended camera rushes over the heads of the audience members. Cheers and thunderous applause play through the monitor’s speakers. The camera finally halts over the stage, and a text title announcing the 74th Hunger Games Tribute Interviews sweeps out of view. A loud, booming voice introduces tonight’s host: Donny Osmond. A single spotlight lights the silhouette on stage, illuminating the back of Donny’s bedazzled sapphire-blue suit. His hair, dyed the same garish shade, is slicked practically to his skull and shining with gel. A second after the light clicks on, he spins dramatically to face the camera and aims two finger guns in its direction. This elicits another round of cheers and applause from the audience. Donny begins his welcoming spiel same as every year. I've begun to lose interest when Asher leans over and whispers in my ear.
“So, Cappy, what angle are you working?”
Blinking, I furrow a brow at him. “What?”
“Your angle. Y’know… your strategy for wooing the crowd. What did you and Dare Bear come up with?”
An icicle of panic stabs through me.
Then I remember: I’m not trying to win. I don’t need the favor of the crowd. I shrug.
“We didn’t really discuss it.”
Asher scoffs. “Your funeral.”
Irritated by his behavior, I snap back, “And what’s yours: seducing the camera?”
Asher laughs. A particularly annoyed PA scowls bloody murder. Asher flicks his wrist at the PA. The man turns away, shaking his head as if to say “kids these days." Asher regards me from the corners of narrowed eyes. His eyebrows dance when he quips, “You’ll see.”
Jarrod takes to the stage then, and I snap to attention. He’s dressed head-to-toe in leather, but it’s the worn, faded kind, not the shiny kind that reflects all kind of light. He’s so dark,the studio lights barely pick him up. He crosses the stage like a ghost, the light washing out his pale skin until he looks almost translucent. Once he settles into his chair, his silver-blue eyes immediately flick to the camera. He doesn't have to look for it. He knows exactly where it is. He stares the lens down like a hawk.
My heartbeat quickens. A clamped sort of tightness takes hold of my chest. My throat begins to close. I feel like I’ve been bound in a corset three sizes too small.
“Hey, Jarrod!” Donny begins in his usual chipper TV host voice. “We heard about some drama,“ he leans sideways toward Jarrod and cover's his mouth, like he's imparting a secret, “between you and your stylist at the tribute parade. Could you tell us about it?”
“I killed her.”
Jarrod doesn’t even blink.
“Yes, all of Panem knows that,” Donny chides in his “you’re so silly: it’s adorable” tone. “Can you tell us why?”
Jarrod shrugs. “I felt like it.”
My head spins. Some of the other tributes exchange glances. For the briefest of seconds, Donny’s ear-to-ear beam falters. Then he recovers it. “Don’t we all have those days. Anyhow, a little bird tells us a few old acquaintances are also tributes in these Games. How does it feel, knowing you may have to kill some familiar faces?”
The ghost of a smile toys with the corner of Jarrod’s mouth, but instead of brightening his expression, it makes him look positively murderous. Once again, he makes direct eye contact with the lens. “Oh, I’m looking forward to seeing Andy again. We have the most-" he looks into the lens, runs his tongue along teeth "-intimate relationship.”
The veins in my temples throb. My vision blurs. The last of the air leaves my lungs. I realize I haven’t been breathing.
“Cappy!” Asher shifts between me and the screen, blocking it from view. I look up at him. His face comes in and out of focus. “You okay?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and shake myself. The rushing of blood past my ears fades as my pulse slows back to normal. Drawing a deep breath, I open my eyes and fix Asher with the most agitated expression I can muster. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh,” he scoffs, his “are you serious?” eyebrows suggesting he knows otherwise. “Well, I’m just gonna stand here for a while, if that’s okay with you.”
I roll my eyes. I try shifting my weight onto my left foot to peer around him, but he shifts with me, regarding me with a severe expression. I capitulate with a sigh and sink back on my heels. Folding my arms across my chest, I lean into the wall and rest my head. After another minute or so, the backstage door opens. Out strides Jarrod.
He's flanked by an entourage of Peacekeepers - probably a result of his escapades with his stylist. He breezes through the hall with all the lethal grace of wolf. As he passes, his eyes find me. His mouth splits into a wicked smile.
Asher pivots to face Jarrod, holding me behind him and shielding me with is body. Jarrod chuckles and looks away. My heart hammers against my rib cage, and it won't stop - not even when Asher spins back into me and pins me to the wall. In this new position, I can’t see anything but the front of his suit jacket.
I want to be angry with him – to shove him away and defend my honor – but I don’t have the strength. Instead, I cling to his lapel and bury my face in his chest.
My whole body wracks with the force of silent sobs. Asher wraps his arms around me. “It’s okay, Andy,” he whispers into my hair. His hands travel across my back and shoulders, caressing them until the tension leaves.“I won’t let him hurt you again.”
Asher doesn't release me until Katie has finished her interview, so I don’t see head or tail of her. When he finally lets me go, I blink up at him. “Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?”
He smiles a small smile down at me – a genuine Asher smile, not the goofy grin he usually hides behind – but does not answer.
We stand in silence for a long while, studying each other. Then, Donny Osmond announces Tribute Leo from District 3. I snap, "Asher, move!" And I shove him out of the way.
Leo takes to the stage with his shoulders hunched, one hand tucked into his pocket. The other, he extends just above his head in what passes for a wave to the crowd. His expression is so serious, it borders on comical. Something tells me that's his intent. As he crosses over to Donny, I notice for the first time how attractive he is. The v-neck red t-shirt underneath a sleeveless black denim vest show of his lean, athletic physique, and his angular cheekbones create dramatic shadows that read well on camera. When he reaches Donny, he pauses, turns out to face the audience, presses his hands together in front of him, and bows. The audience cheers him on. A few loud, high-pitched shrieks ring over the applause. Leo cracks a half-smile as he settles into his chair.
The questions are standard. Osmond asks Leo about growing up in District 3, and about how he was forced at a young age to work in a factory, manufacturing guns. Leo makes some quip about it preparing him for his destiny of tribute: the audience laughs. The audience laughs at him a lot, actually. Not because he’s overtly trying to be funny. He delivers each of his well-timed jokes with a sort of humble realism – like he knows he’s going to die, but he’s decided to make the best of the experience. Then Osmond says, “You seem like a fun guy, Leo. You’ve certainly made friends during the training period, haven’t you?”
Leo’s gaze flickers to the camera. He looks up at it from underneath his lashes. My chest tightens as the feeling that he’s staring straight at me settles in.
“One,” he says so quietly, it’s almost to himself. “And I’m pretty sure she’s gonna win the whole thing.”
Osmond leans forward in his seat. “And which one is she?”
“She knows,” Leo answers, his gaze unfaltering. “She just doesn’t know what she’s capable of. But she will, before the end.”
Then Osmond thanks Leo for his time, and everyone’s favorite tribute from District 3 leaves the stage. The audience "awwww"s in dismay.
I study the proceeding interviewees, trying to get a feel for their strategies. Erin certainly has the underdog sympathy vote wrapped up. The busty Asian beauty from District 4 giggles for the camera, obviously gunning for the male vote. Josh is candid and overtly funny, running the “class clown” route. Scarlet – the girl with the crimson hair – opts for intimidating her fellow candidates instead of pleasing the audience. Finally, Asher and I are the only two candidates left in the hall. A PA taps Asher on the shoulder and directs him to the door for his interview. He throws an over-the-shoulder glance at me. “Wish me luck, Cappy.” Then, he disappears.
Another second later, he reappears on camera, erupting onto the stage with a loud “whoo-hoo!” and raising a fist to the audience. As he makes his way across the stage to Osmond, he bends over to high five some people the crowd. He shakes the hand of one Capital beauty, lingering long enough to place a kiss on her knuckle, then lopes off to his seat. The audience eats it up.
Osmond chuckles softly at Asher’s antics. No one's immune to his boyish charm. Then the host gets down to business. “Hey there, Asher! You seem pretty excited for a Tribute.”
“Yeah, pumped!” Asher replies. “It’s not every day guys from District 12 get to appear on television in the Capitol. And check out these duds!” He pops the collar of his jacket for the camera. “We don’t get to wear shit like this back home.”
“It sounds like the prospect of the Games hasn’t dampened your spirit. Aren’t you a bit concerned, going into tomorrow?”
Shaking his head, Asher rolls up his sleeve and flexes his bicep. “Pretty sure I’m covered, Donny Boy, but thanks for worrying about me.”
He talks a big game, but I can't help noticing the way he won't look Osmond in the eyes.
The audience laughs. Osmond quickly refocuses them. “A little bird tells me you have a reputation for being a ladies man. Are you afraid some of your female competitors might serve as distractions during the Games?”
“I don’t see them as distractions, Don.” Asher strokes his chin thoughtfully. “I see them more as… silver lining. I mean, if I’m going to fight to the death in an arena of strangers, at least I have something to take the edge off.”
I roll my eyes. Leave it to Asher to go down in history as the first Tribute to get laid in the Games.
“Anyone in particular caught your eye?”
“Well, there are so many gorgeous girls this year, Don,” Asher quips. “It’s been hard narrowing them all down.” He cocks his head to one side. “But..." Slits his eyes like he's thinking. "...there is one.”
Osmond raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”
The words Asher utters next hit me like a punch me in the stomach.
“I’m sure you all know Andy, the girl from my district.”
“Yes!” offers Osmond. “My sources spotted the two of you canoodling. And you did give her quite the introduction at the tribute parade.”
“Then you know,” Asher continues, “that she puts out.”
My heart crashes through the floor and into the ninth circle of Hell.
Osmond flashes Asher a knowing smile. “What are you saying, Asher?”
“I’m just saying,” he waves a dismissive hand and leans back in the chair. “A knife isn’t the only thing I’d like to drive in to her, if ya know what I mean.”
I......
What?
Rage paralyzes me, devouring the previous stress and panic in flames. I cannot think, I cannot blink, I cannot breathe. I can only stand there, staring slack-jawed at the monitor while Osmond wraps up the interview and Asher walks off camera. Then he emerges from the stage door. I turn slowly to face him. We lock eyes for a moment. He lowers his gaze to the floor, and all the friendship he has expressed toward me over the past few weeks sours.
Unthinking, I stride toward him. Then I overtake him.
My right hand rockets forward. My fist catches him in the nose. A crack resounds as somewhere inside his nose, a bone breaks.
“It was all a lie, wasn’t it?!” I scream, clasping at his throat even as Peacekeepers surround me. They pin my arms behind my back as Asher doubles over to cradle his nose. “You were never being nice to me! You were trying to get me close so you could sell some story to the cameras!”
“Andy, it’s not what you think!” Asher straightens - with the aid of some 'concerned' female PAs. “I didn’t do it to make myself look good, okay? I did it for y-”
“You’re sick.” My voice is steady – steady and cool. Devoid of any emotional attachment.
Asher purses his lips.
All the energy, all the fight drains from my body in a few quick seconds.
"Just..."
I can't look at him anymore. I lower my gaze to the floor.
"Just leave me alone."
The Peacekeepers tug at my elbows. “Time for your interview,” one of them says.
They escort me into the backstage wing, shoving me past dark curtains and into the bright lights. My right toe sticks under my left foot and next thing I know, I’m pitching forward.
My knees strike the stage first, bullets of pain shooting up my legs. I collapse forward onto knees and elbows and squeeze my eyes shut. The audience draws a collective gasp. I hear muffled footfalls. Then, Donny Osmond’s voice. “Andrea?”
“Are you alright?” He’s reached me by the time I open my eyes. His eyes are wide, peering down at me with concern that doesn't extend beyond the surface. He extends a hand. I ping-pong back and forth between the eyes and the hand. The skin's too smooth to pass as real. And then it returns.
The Rage.
I meet his gaze.
“It’s Andy.”
I push off my elbows, sweeping back into a kneel. I gather my skirt into clenched fists and spit, “No, I’m not alright.”
Straightening, I brush past him and take my seat.
Flustered, Osmond hastens to follow. Once he’s resumed his position, he lathers on the compliments. “You look absolutely stunning this evening.”
I don’t dignify him with a response. I just glower.
He swallows.
“The District 12 costumes this year have been rather unconventional. We hear your stylist, Miss Rochelle Blanchard, dreamed up the designs. Has she shared her inspiration with you?”
“In less than twenty-four hours, I will be trapped for slaughter in an arena full of kids my own age, where I will either have to kill them or be killed by them” I snap, “and you want to talk to me about fashion?”
“You were once interested in fashion, weren’t you?” Osmond changes the subject so fluidly, I don’t even notice the bullet until my teeth clamp around it. “Back when you lived in the Capitol?”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Well, fashion isn’t a luxury a girl can afford when she’s starving to death in the reject district.” I shrug. “I’ve learned to adapt.”
“Is that how you see your district?” Osmond prompts. “The reject district? You haven’t made any friends there, like the ones you had in the Capitol?”
If I thought my first laugh was bitter, the one that follows is positively acrimonious. I toss Osmond a paperthin smile.
“Actually, Donny, I did meet a friend like mine from the Capitol. I made a friend who betrayed me, just like the old ones did. You might know him: he was just interviewed here.”
“Are you glad, then,” he jumps on my response, “that those so-called friends of yours, the ones who hurt and betrayed you, will be joining you in the Games? This is your opportunity to seek revenge.”
“Why would I be glad?” I fire back. “I never wanted revenge. All I wanted was a second chance, but I didn’t get one. That's why I volunteered for the Games.
"What they did to me? It didn’t merit death. Nothing they could have done to me would merit death - least of all, death at the hands of people who have barely experienced life.”
The world begins to blur. I'm seeing through tear-filled eyes. The audience has gone dead silent.
“Everyone deserves to experience life.” My voice begins to quiver. I swallow in a futile attempt to steady it. “No one deserves to die.”
We sit in silence for a long while – a silence so thick, it’s palpable. Then a small voice in the back of the room takes up a chant. Soon, another voice joins in. Then another, and another, and another, until the whole studio is chanting.
“An-dy! An-dy! An-dy!”
It swells louder and louder and louder. I feel something stirring inside me – something I haven’t felt in a while. Something I'm scared to name. Something I'm scared to feel.
I stand, fully prepared to flee the stage, but Donny Osmond takes my hand.
“Ladies and gentleman,” he bellows, “Andy Boyle, the Lady in the Water!”
The audience erupts in cheers.
Hours later, Darius finds me on the roof. As a tribute of 12 staying in the penthouse, I’m one of the few people – including Asher and the rest of our personnel – with access. I’m up here alone, hugging my knees to my chest. I sit on the edge, wishing I could pitch myself over. I can’t, though. The edge is surrounded by an invisible force-field, just like Dr. Bradley and the gamemakers.
“Can’t sleep?”
The words don't startle me. I felt his presence before I saw him, like a warmth in the dark telling me I was no longer alone.
I don't turn to look at him. I just shake my head.
Darius settles in beside me. He's wearing one of his usual sweaters. He's no longer a warmth: he's a heat, radiating in waves.
“I couldn’t sleep before my Games, either.” He speaks to the hands in his lap. Then, slowly, he raises his head. “You really should try, though.. Never know when you’ll get another chance.”
“How did you win your Games?” The words are out before I can stop them.
Darius coughs. He bows his head, disappearing behind a wall of charcoal waves.
“Sorry,” I scramble. “You don’t have to answer that.”
“No...”
He swallows. Raises his head again.
“It’s okay.”
Takes a deep breath before the plunge. Dives in.
“It was down to me and this crazy girl from District 2. I'd spent the entirety of the Games up to then evading and surviving, but the Gamemakers got bored of that. They set a fire to drive us together. I was stronger than her, and I knew it, but I didn’t want to fight. I… I was never meant to be a killer.”
I look over to see tears glisten in his eyes.
“She had this ax she’d picked up at the Cornucopia. She caught me in the small of my back as I was running away and she… she severed my spine. I knew it. I could feel it. I fell over and tried to get up, but I couldn’t move my legs. I couldn’t even feel them. I couldn’t feel anything below the blade. But I wasn’t dead.
"She came at me with a knife to finish the job - and I was panicking, 'cause I couldn’t feel my legs - and it all happened so fast.”
He doesn't say anything after that. I press “What happened?”
“She was about to jump on top of me, so I pulled the ax out of my back. I rolled over, and she… Well, she fell on it.”
His eyes are wide with so much pain. I'm overcome by something: Not rage - something else. Something equally pressing and powerful. I want nothing more than to soak up all the pain in his eyes and his heart so he can't feel it anymore. I reach for his hand and squeeze it.
“Darius," I say, startled by the ferocity in my voice, "she would have killed you. You didn’t have a choice.”
He meets my gaze. He doesn't say anything - just looks at me for the longest time. Then, he turns my own words against me.
“But she didn’t deserve to die.”
I cock my head to the side. "Maybe not."
Scoot in closer.
“But you deserved to live.”
Then he does something I don’t expect.
He reaches up to tuck a curl behind my ear and says, “So do you.”
My heart shatters in my chest.
I look down, close my eyes, and sigh.
“I know."
It doesn't really. hit me until the words are out.
"I felt it for the first time today, when the crowd was chanting my name. I realized… maybe I do have something left to fight for.”
I swallow. “But now it's too late.”
“It’s not too late, Andy.”
“Yes it is.” I open my eyes to face him. “I haven’t been training, and you said it yourself: I’m not a killer. I’m going to die tomorrow.
"But if I don’t go quietly, at least my death will matter.”
“Andy…” He cups my face in calloused hands. He leans his forehead against mine. His breath comes in slow, heavy sighs. His touch burns into my skin, setting every nerve ending in my body on fire. “It already would have mattered. To me.”
In this moment, I want nothing more than to kiss him. But a little voice in the back of my mind tells me it would ruin everything. It would be cruel of me to give him hope, only to rip it away. And it would hurt me that much more to know that I could have had another life: a life with him. So I don’t kiss him.
He must be on the same page, 'cause he doesn’t kiss me, either. But he doesn’t let me go. We curl up on the roof, holding each other until dawn breaks on the horizon.
-- LADY IN THE WATER -TTG MANIP ( feat. taylor momsen as andrea boyle )
-- Andrea Boyle, the Lady in the Water x08
( the dress ) ( the shoes ) ( the necklace ) ( the ring ) ( the hairpin ) ( the bangles )