Uhhh... hi.
I am so sorry that this has taken so long for me to update. As I mentioned in chapter 5, I went away to college... and then poof, real life took over. It was nuts.
Anyway. I'm home for the summer so I'll hopefully be able to update more often now. No promises-I'm working on getting a job and finding a lot to do to make money-but as life if nowhere near as crazy as it once was, I'll hopefully have more time to write now.
In the mean time, enjoy the story, and review if you have time!
I love you all.
Thanks for reading!
The Mutant Games
Chapter 6: One Engine
Breakfast was a silent affair the next morning. Charles picked at his enormous helping of toast and tried not to think about what was going to happen.
Cinna and Portia arrived before breakfast was finished, ready to escort Katherine and Charles to the hovercrafts.
Haymitch broke the tense, awkward silence.
"Some last minute advice," he said, his voice rough. "When you first enter the arena, you're going to be by the Cornucopia. There's going to be all sorts of things there that will tempt you. If you want to stay alive, don't give in to temptation. Run like hell and stay away from the Cornucopia."
Historically, in the Games, the Cornucopia was the place where the majority of the tributes died, especially on the first day.
"How will we get supplies to stay alive?" Katherine demanded.
"Be clever," Haymitch replied shortly. "Use that brain you have in your head."
Before Katherine had the chance to say anything else, Effie announced that breakfast was over.
Charles swallowed a last bite of toast, the combined anxiety of everyone in the room sweeping over him like a tidal wave.
A hand brushed against his arm, and suddenly, the tide receded. The young telepath froze as Haymitch pulled back his hand.
You're an empath, Charles projected to Haymitch, stunned. How had he missed that before?
The older man blinked, his face giving nothing away, save for a slight, nearly imperceptible nod of the head.
Suddenly, it all made sense—the drinking, the roughness, the sarcasm, all of it. To be able to feel every single last one of the emotions around you, and not be able to shield or do anything about it… While Charles did feel what everyone else was feeling, he at least had mostly effective shields that protected him from the worst of it. From what he knew of empaths, they had no such shields. Charles felt as though it was a testament to just how strong Haymitch was that the older man hadn't given up completely on life yet. Especially when he was forced to watch children die, year after year, and have to deal with the emotional aftermath of that.
Anger shot through Charles, but it was tempered by the knowledge there was nothing he could do about it. This had been going on for seventy-four years, and the young telepath knew there had been others like Haymitch. As much as that thought hurt, it was the truth.
Suddenly, Effie was ushering them to the elevator, ending Charles' train of thought.
(0)
The tributes were put onto a hovercraft, which would take them to their designated holding areas before the Games began.
The hovercraft was tense and silent, with no one wanting to say a word.
Charles spotted Erik a few seats away, but the second they made eye contact, the District 4 tribute looked away. The young telepath wasn't sure if he should have been offended by that or not, but decided, that it was probably for the best.
A middle-aged woman walked down the aisle way, stopping at each tribute to inject a tracker into their arm. Charles knew that this would be the way the Gamemakers kept track of the tributes throughout the Games.
The shot took all of a second, with a quick, sharp sting, and then it was over.
Moments later, the hovercraft landed, and the tributes were ushered off the plane.
Charles was immediately surrounded guards dressed in white uniforms, separated from the other tributes. He knew, consciously, that this was the same for all of the tributes, but it still didn't help his ever growing sense of insecurity.
The guards led him to a small, windowless room. They were in the tributes' dressing room, which was located directly underneath the arena. After the Games were over, the dressing rooms would become a monument of sorts to the tributes, and opened to the public, so the citizens of the Capitol could explore them. There would even be video pods set up throughout the building so that the citizens could watch the Games over and over again, reliving the deaths of the children in the arena.
The entire thing was despicable.
There was a circular shaft in the far corner, one Charles knew would take him up to the arena. But before that happened, he would have to change into the outfit that would perhaps be the last one he ever wore.
A door slammed shut behind Charles, leaving him alone in the room, but only momentarily. Cinna appeared a few seconds later, carrying a plain, black garment bag.
Unlike the rest of Charles' outfits, Cinna had no control over this one. The young telepath would be wearing whatever the Gamemakers had declared fit for the Games.
Charles swallowed anxiously.
Cinna smiled softly.
"I know you're nervous," he said, his voice calm. "But it's going to be all right."
He handed the garment bag to Charles, who took it cautiously. Inside would reveal clues to whatever lay in front of him. It would make all of this real, a fact up until that moment, Charles had been wishing so desperately wasn't true.
He unzipped it slowly, revealing a one-piece suit of bright yellow and deep blue material.
"Well, that's obnoxious," he said before he could stop himself.
Cinna smiled. "It won't do well for camouflage, that's for sure," he agreed, handing Charles a set of thick, black boots. "Go ahead and put it on—I have something for you."
Curious, Charles hurriedly stripped out of his training gear and put on the suit. The material of the suit was scratchy and felt like plastic, but the boots were a comfortable leather on the inside.
Cinna smiled at Charles' expression. "The suit is waterproof," he said. "At least, partially."
The stylist walked over so he was standing directly in front of Charles. He gestured to Charles' collar.
"May I?" he asked.
Charles nodded uncertainly.
Cinna reached into his pocket and produced a small pin. Upon further inspection, Charles realized that it was the X pendant Hank had given to him before he left.
With a pang, Charles realized that he hadn't even noticed that it had been missing.
"Where did you get that?" he asked softly.
"The prep team found it in your pocket," Cinna explained. "I asked if it could be the representation of your District. It took a little convincing—the Gamemakers thought the pin could have been used as a weapon. But it eventually passed. Would you like to wear it?"
Too stunned to speak, Charles merely nodded. He watched with wide eyes as Cinna's deft hands neatly put the pin into place on Charles' collar.
"There," the stylist said, taking a step back. "Now you're ready."
Charles shook his head. "I don't think I can do this," he whispered, his voice barely carrying.
Cinna frowned ever so slightly. He placed a gentle hand on Charles' shoulder.
"Listen to me very carefully, Charles," he said, his voice soft, but persuasive. "You will be brilliant in the Games. If I were allowed to bet, I'd place all my money on you."
The young telepath's eyes widened impossibly further as he looked up to meet the stylist's eyes.
"Really?" he asked.
Cinna nodded. "You're amazing," he said. "You're smart, and 'll do fantastic."
Somewhere in the distance, a buzzer sounded, signaling that it was time for the tributes to enter the shafts that would take them to the Games.
Fear squeezed Charles' lungs, threatening to cut off his oxygen. He cast one last glance at Cinna, who nodded encouragingly, before walking to the shaft.
There was a faint woosh, and suddenly, Charles was being thrust up into darkness. His stomach dropped through his feet as the platform came to an abrupt halt and his eyes screamed in protest at the sudden bright light.
Charles' eyes were slow to adjust to the brilliance of his surroundings. A wall of vivid blue came into focus, lined with a pristine, white semi-circle. A huge, ugly black gash lay in the middle of the semi-circle, marring the otherwise scenic view.
Although the young telepath had never seen one, Charles instinctively knew the blue was an ocean, and the white semi-circle was the sand. Upon a further glance, the black gash proved to be what looked like the remains of an oval, metal house. It had to be the Cornucopia, for in the rips and dents in the metal were glistening pieces of survival equipment.
A few yards away from Charles stood a beautiful bow and quiver of arrows, gleaming in the bright sunlight.
The press of twenty-three other, anxious minds caught Charles' attention next, drawing his attention to the fact they were all placed in a line. The order of the line was at random—Katherine, for instance, was on the complete opposite end than Charles, while the girl from 11 was only a few places down.
Charles caught a brief glimpse of Erik before a huge, hulking mess of red muscle shifted beside the boy from District 4 and blocked the telepath's view.
A loud, droning countdown caught Charles' attention next. It was at ten. Which meant in ten seconds, the Games would begin.
"Nine… Eight… Seven… Six… Five… Four… Three… Two… One…"
There was a loud buzzer.
The 74th Mutant Games had officially begun.
(0)
For a brief moment, nothing happened.
Then, the world exploded into noise, screams, and the sick sound of flesh on flesh as Charles burst into a run. He wasn't sure what he was running toward, but he knew he had to get away.
There was a sharp scream next to Charles, followed by the sickening sensation of a mind being torn from Charles' telepathic reach.
The force of it almost caused Charles to stumble as he realized what it meant. The mind had been one he had been in before, if only for a moment.
Katherine was dead.
Before he had the chance to fully process it, a knife whistled past Charles' cheek. The razor sharp tip grazed his face, right underneath his eye.
Charles reached out with his powers, finding the perpetrator immediately as he reached for the knife.
It would be all too easy to just overpower the mind of the District 3 girl and kill her. She had tried to do the same to him—why wouldn't he do it?
The telepath's hand curled around the knife handle as he squeezed his eyes shut.
The girl from District 3 fell to the ground, unconscious.
It was too early in the game for him to resort to such measures. Granted, her being unconscious would merely lead to someone else killing her this early in the game, but Charles refused to be the one to do it.
Not yet.
Charles opened his eyes, hardly believing his luck when he saw a giant black backpack sitting right in front of him. He didn't hesitate to grab it and take off at a run again.
He had enough trust in his telepathy to alert him to any pursuers, so Charles barely paid any mind to the chaos going on behind him. His one thought was to get as far away as possible before night fell.
One stray image from another mind flitted through Charles' head. The image alone was almost enough to draw him up short; the emotion behind it sent him stumbling for a brief moment.
It was the knife, sailing through the air toward Charles' prone back. Heartbeats before the knife was meant to bury itself in Charles' spine, it suddenly changed course and barely grazed his cheek instead.
There was an overpowering sense of relief in the mind from which the memory originated.
Charles knew immediately that it was Erik's.
Thank you, he projected as he once more got back to his feet and took off.
He wasn't sure what to make of the gesture, but he hoped his gratitude for the District 4 tribute saving his life showed.
(0)
Night was beginning to fall as Charles finally slowed to a halt, breathing heavily and completely drenched in sweat. He had paid very little attention to his surroundings until now.
He was in a small, sandy palm grove. There was a small pool nearby, which Charles prayed was freshwater.
He wearily set down his backpack, knowing that he was entirely alone here. There were no other minds within easy range, which meant the closest mind was a good four or five miles away. Definitely not close enough to bother him.
Charles pulled off his boots and stumbled to the stream, feeling his body cry out with relief as he put a handful of the refreshingly ice cold liquid to his mouth.
It had been a long time since breakfast that morning, and while he was used to ignoring the hunger pains, the thirst after a long, humid march was becoming almost too much to bear.
He drank his fill, before splashing his way back out of the water. He sat down on the sandy bank, not really caring if his jumpsuit got dirty, and pulled his backpack over to him to inspect it thoroughly.
The outside was simple and black, easy enough to camoflauge if need be. It was made of the same sturdy material as the jumpsuits, which Charles apathetically noticed happened to be waterproof. It made sense, given the ocean the young telepath had seen earlier, and how humid the air was.
Charles carefully unzipped the bag to inspect the insides. He couldn't believe his luck when he found that he had a canteen, some prepackaged rations, a coil of rope, a sleeping bag, and an extra pair of socks to go along with the knife he had collected earlier that day.
It was far more than he had ever hoped to gain so early in the Games, and it briefly gave him hope that he might be able too survive.
A brief moment was spared in lustful envy of whomever ended up with the bow and arrow that had clearly been intended for him.
Boom.
The sound of a cannon firing jolted Charles out of his momentary daydreams. He chastised himself, knowing the cannon firing was part of the Games.
Because the opening day was generally such a blood bath, the Gamemakers waited until nightfall to announce the number of deaths that occurred that day. As Charles slowly pushed himself to his feet to make a camp for the night, he counted eleven shots.
Eleven dead.
Not as many as some years, where all but six Tributes had died right off, but still, a highly impressive amount. Charles felt a pang in his chest, knowing that Katherine had been one of them and he had been powerless to stop it.
Charles glanced around his surroundings, which were now glowing in light of the arena. The highlight of dead tributes was beginning, starting with the anthem of Panem and a short introduction.
There wasn't much in the way of shelter-the only trees were palm trees, and they looked rather difficult to climb.
However, there were large bushes surrounding the pool-plenty big enough to hide in. Charles wasn't concerned about others finding him while he slept; his telepathy would alert him to anyone else in the area long before they spotted him.
Charles gathered up his supplies and set about carefully repacking his bag, making sure to leave the sleeping bag out. The first of the dead tributes appeared in the sky-the girl from District 3. Charles felt a pang, knowing that he was more than likely the reason why she had been killed.
He shoved the thought out of his head as the images continued with the boy from District 5. It would be no good to dwell on those things here. He would get himself killed otherwise.
Both of District 6's tributes were killed as were the ones from District 7. Only the boy from 8 had died, but both from 9 and the girl from 10.
Even though he knew it was coming, it still hurt to see Katherine's face flash up among the stars.
Charles closed his eyes, inhaling deeply against the overpowering sense of guilt. He knew there was nothing he could have done, but it still seemed so unfair that she had to die, and so soon into the Games as well.
"Goodbye, Katherine," he whispered to the night.
There was another round of the anthem, followed by an automated voice saying, "May the odds be ever in your favor" before the arena went silent.
It relieved Charles more than he could say that both Erik and little Jean had survived the bloodbath of the first day. He knew he shouldn't feel that way, given that it only meant he might have to kill them later on, but he was glad all the same.
Charles zipped the bag shut and deftly put his boots back on. It would be no good if he had to make an escape in the middle of the night and didn't have his boots on.
He picked out one of the larger bushes nearby and crawled underneath it. He placed the bag on the ground, intending to use it as a pillow, and wrapped himself in his sleeping bag.
The young telepath shifted around, trying to find some form of comfort on the sandy ground. He rolled over on to his back and sighed heavily, staring up at the stars.
He wondered how Hank and Alex were, what they were doing. He hoped that they didn't miss him too much, that Alex was taking care of Hank, and that Hank wasn't dwelling on Charles' decision.
Charles was on the verge of sleep, when his mind turned to Erik. He hoped that wherever the District 4 boy had ended up in the arena, that he was all right.
With that final thought, Charles drifted off into an uneasy sleep.