Ianthe Berengy (D6) cried all night. After Tiberius Bournes (D10, deceased) had taken his last breath, Ianthe made sure to close his eyes and ensure that he was comfortable, even going as far as to prop him up against the wall and cover him with a small sheet of dropcloth. After planting a final kiss on the small boy’s forehead she very quickly gathered up her things and took a handful of small sticks and tools off of a nearby bench, using them to check for traps ahead of her, similar to how Tesla Watt (D5, deceased) had done. She exited the storage room and followed a few winding hallways until stumbling across a small room tucked in the back of the Workshop. The room, which had a large fire blazing in a stone fireplace and a row of comfy looking cots, was warm and inviting and so, after a draining couple of hours, Ianthe allowed herself to lie down and close her eyes.

​

Tiberius being skewered by blades and signing his thanks with shaking hands. Siren Acquafredda (D4, deceased) aiming her trident at Ianthe’s stomach. Ivy Hunter’s (D7, deceased) blood mixed with ice cold water coating Posi Rio (D5, deceased) as Tesla dragged him across the snow. A spear lodged in Leah Delaware’s (D3, deceased) small frame, her eyes lifeless. Images flashed behind Ianthe’s eyelids as she tried to force herself to sleep. Maxwell Jason (D6, deceased) and Flora Harper (D10, deceased), laughing at a joke she told during training followed by their faces projected in the sky. Her own body, bloody and sore after being attacked by an arctic hare. She opened her eyes again to find that they were wet. In fact, her entire face was wet - tears streamed down her face. She sat up and pulled her knees to her chest, her body wracked by heaving sobs. She cried for herself, for her fallen allies, and for her future - no matter what happened next, her life would never be the same. There would be no coming back from the horrors of what she’d seen and done in the arena.

​

After hours of tears, Ianthe has cried herself dry and is finally able to get in a few hours of sleep.

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​

Rhys Bullock (D11) sits in his sleeping bag, tucked behind a rather dense cluster of snow drifts. After a close shave with Cal Dynam (D2) the previous night, he’s hesitant to move back toward the Cornucopia. He keeps his headlamp and talons close by his side in case he needs them at a moment’s notice. He’s not sure whether it’s day or night but it doesn’t matter, there’s no way he’ll be able to sleep now, knowing how close he is to becoming a victor. How close he is to going home.

​

“Dal, Eden, Abe, Raia, Luca,” Rhys counts off his siblings on his hands. He hesitates before putting up a sixth finger. “Rooni.”

​

He stares down at his six fingers. Six reasons to keep fighting, to live. He thinks a bit longer and then puts up three more fingers, one for each of his dead allies. “Posi, Tesla, and Aisly [-Parca Sullivan (D11, deceased)].”

​

It’s very cold and getting colder. Rhys buries himself further into his sleeping bag, tucking his arms by his sides to try and keep them from freezing. It would be so easy to give up now, easier than the hell that was sure to be coming. But Rhys will not go quietly because he cannot afford to. He is determined to get home and see his siblings grow up.

​

A parachute lands right next to his sleeping bag. Inside Rhys finds binoculars - These will come in handy, he thinks - knives, and lots of hand warmers. He splits the knives between his pack and his pockets and sets the binoculars with his headlamp and talons. The hand warmers are the most exciting part of the package, Rhys unwraps one and shakes it, the instant warmth calming his nerves and reminding him of Tesla. Unpleasant thoughts of Tesla’s face projected into the sky follow, squandering the warmth.

​

“I’ll kill him,” Rhys mutters to himself, picturing the stern face of Cal. Cal, who had murdered Tesla and Chivonne Ashford (D8, deceased) and undoubtedly many others. Yes, Rhys makes a vow, I will kill him.

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​

Cal is comfortable, all things considered. It’s warm in the Cornucopia and he’s managed to lure his reindeer companion inside to sit with him. His mentor has sent him some bread and water, as well as a shovel. He breaks off bite-size chunks of bread and plops them into his mouth, offering occasional bites to the reindeer. After taking a light nap, Cal forces himself to stand up, putting on his headlamp, and picking up the shovel to head back out into the snow. The reindeer is hesitant to follow him out, but Cal manages to lure him out with promises of more bread.

​

A few hours later, a wall of snow has been erected in front of the opening of the Cornucopia, several feet tall and spanning the entire mouth. Outside, several small igloos have been constructed, more as a distraction than anything else. Cal hopes that anyone who comes near the Cornucopia will attack the igloos first, making noise and alerting him to their presence.

​

“We have to part ways now, bud,” Cal pets the reindeer’s head sadly, giving him the last of the hay from his pack. The reindeer grunts in an almost morose tone but gladly accepts the hay and walks off toward where the Stables used to be. Cal can’t stand to watch his last friend depart so he climbs on top of the Cornucopia, struggling a little to pull himself up all the way. The temperature has dropped significantly over the past couple of hours and the metal horn has acquired a protective layer of ice, making the entire surface slippery.

​

Cal knows that the Gamemakers will not let the three remaining tributes sit around until two of them die of exposure or starvation; there is something big coming, of that he is sure. Whether it’s mutts or some natural disaster, Cal feels prepared. The Cornucopia is nearly always safe and he’s armed to the teeth with his swords and knives. In an attempt to make his igloos more convincing, he also emptied his pack and left it sticking out of one of them, scattering the less useful items around the other igloos and the wall in front of the Cornucopia. The only things he kept from the pack were shoved into the pockets of his snow pants: hand warmers, rope, matches, and food.

​

“And now we wait,” Cal says to the sky. By the end of the day he will either be a victor or dead, and frankly, he’s fine with either. Although the former would be much preferred, he thinks.

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Ianthe wakes up, her eyes puffy from crying. She sits up and rummages through her pack to find the last of her meat jerky, taking a huge bite when she finally finds it. A large parachute sits on the cot next to hers and she opens it eagerly, unsure what could be inside. She pulls out water, knives, daggers, healing balm, and something unidentifiable. She inspects the final item; it’s rather large but still portable and shaped like a drill of some sort. It sounds like there could be liquid inside of it, so Ianthe tentatively presses down on the trigger switch near the bottom of the device. A sizable flame leaps out of the top and Ianthe smiles wickedly. She’s sure neither of her competitors will have such a useful tool at their disposal.

​

A sudden wave of excitement overtakes her. She’s so close to going home, to seeing her father and Henry again. Home was never perfect - far from it - but if she can just pull through and survive the next day she’ll be able to give her father a proper house in the Victor’s Village. She’ll never be hungry again, with all the time in the world to tinker and invent. Ianthe closes her eyes, indulging in the fantasy for a few moments.

Her blissful trance is broken by the sound of nails scratching on the wooden door of her small room.

Knowing that this is surely bad news, Ianthe packs her things quickly, hiding a few daggers in her coat pockets and arming herself with her yo-yos. Creeping slowly toward the door, she’s startled when it bangs open, revealing a horde of elves in fun colored uniforms and hats. But they’re far angrier than when Team TRAP encountered them, their nails are now the length of small knives and just as sharp, their teeth are bared menacingly, and their eyes are set on Ianthe.

​

Ianthe looks around frantically for an alternate escape route. There’s no way she’ll be able to get through that massive group of elves without being seriously injured (at the very least), and the last thing she needs is to show up to fight Cal and Rhys already hurt. There’s a small window above the fireplace and she’s not sure she’ll even fit through it, but she has to try. Flipping over cots to block the elves’ path to her, Inathe runs across the room and quickly stomps out the fire in case she falls from the mantle. Using one of the cots as a step stool she is able to get herself up onto the mantle and is struggling to open the small window when the first of the elves catch up to her.

​

A particularly nasty elf launches itself onto the mantle after her and sinks its teeth into her leg. Her snow pants keep them from breaking skin, but the extra weight makes it more difficult for her to keep balance on the thin ledge and if she falls off, she’ll be in a pit of elves and that is decidedly not a good thing. Ianthe pulls a dagger out of her pocket and jabs it into the elf’s head, it lets go and falls backward. At the sight of their peer’s dead body, the other elves become even angrier, going as far as to throw one another up onto the mantle.

​

“Stupid… little… rats!” Ianthe screams, exasperated as she kicks more and more elves from around her feet. Finally, she decides to just suck it up and break the glass covering the window. She takes the dagger and turns it around, gripping it by the blade and smashing the thick metal handle against the glass. It shatters, shards going everywhere, but Ianthe has had the good sense to cover her face with her arms. A cold breeze rushes in and Ianthe reaches up, grabbing either side of the window frame for support, and jumping.

​

It’s a good damn thing I’m small, she thinks as she shimmies her body out the window. As it would happen, her little cot room was located in a basement or the Workshop is otherwise built next to a hill, because as Ianthe pushes herself fully out the window, she is not dangling in mid-air as she had expected but rather face down in the snow. Looking back, the District Six girl is glad to see that the elves have not followed her outside. She looks down at her hand, which is bleeding from where she’d clutched the dagger, and pulls out the new healing balm from her bag. After looking around for signs of other tributes, or possibly muttations, she treats her hand and stands up.

​

A lone reindeer stands nearby in the trees.

​

“What are you looking at?” Ianthe says to the deer, half joking, but he is clearly not a fan of jokes and walks away, deeper into the cover of the trees. “What a spoilsport.” She rolls her eyes and begins walking in the direction of the Cornucopia.

​

She’s passing the ruins of the Stables when a low growl from somewhere close puts her on edge. Ianthe turns slowly, expecting to see a wolf or perhaps another anglerfish muttation but no, of course they would have some new fresh hell for the finale.

​

What stands behind her is some horrible combination of an ox and a walrus and a bear. Much larger than any human, perhaps ten feet tall and eight feet across, with razor sharp tusks and horns, and a shaggy coat of white covering its big body the mutation growls again. Its face is that of a polar bear but the nose is distinctly flat and ox-like.

​

“Better run now,” Ianthe mumbles to herself, turning on her heel and grabbing the straps of her pack. She runs as fast as she can, not wanting to look back for fear that the muttation will be hot on her tail. She can tell that the mutt is not nearly as fast as it is menacing but she doesn’t want to take any chances or underestimate it.

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​

A small green moth flies past Rhys for the third time. He sits as still as he can, hoping that the moth will land on him. It does, and Rhys smiles, thinking fondly of the small boy from District Five who would talk to his pet beetle.

​

Stop that, Rhys thinks to himself. You can’t get emotional now. You’ll just end up dead.

​

To distract himself, Rhys pulls out his binoculars and uses them to look around. He’s too far from the Cornucopia to see exactly what Cal is up to, but he can see the small figure of what must be Ianthe. She’s sprinting and being chased by something large and white, and heading right toward him. Not wanting to find out what the white thing chasing her is, he quickly shoves his things into his pack and pulls on his talons before running as well, but back toward the Cornucopia.

​

Unfortunately, Ianthe and the mutt turn out to be faster than Rhys and as he runs he checks his binoculars again. The mutt is rounding on Ianthe, forcing her to run toward the Cornucopia as well. The grand finale I guess, Rhys thinks, still running. As he gets closer to the horn Rhys does something unexpected and also, admittedly, a little stupid. He turns around.

​

The way I figure, my odds of killing Cal are better if I’m not alone. And I’m definitely stronger than Ianthe. So if I help her kill that thing chasing her, maybe she’ll help me kill Cal, Rhys reasons. When he’s close enough to see the mutt chasing Ianthe, Rhys feels a bit regretful. It’s much worse than he’d anticipated. Too late to back out now.

​

“What are you doing?” Ianthe shouts as Rhys runs up next to her.

​

“I’m going to help you,” Rhys says, turning to face the mutt. “Just trust me okay? You keep running, try to keep the mutt distracted. Maybe use those fancy yo-yos you have. I’ll go behind and try to kill this thing.”

Ianthe looks conflicted. Why would anyone be helping anyone this late in the games. But she knows she can’t run forever so she nods in agreement.

​

Rhys runs off to the side and circles back around behind the mutt. It’s very set on getting Ianthe and pays him no mind as he trails behind it, trying to figure out how to kill it. My best bet would be to target a major organ. Heart or brain. But how? Rhys thinks hard and long, too long, apparently.

​

“Any day now would be nice!” Ianthe shouts over her shoulder, panting. She’s running out of stamina to keep running but if she slows down even a little bit, she’ll become a meal.

​

Without a second thought, Rhys jumps as high as he can and propels himself forward. His talons make it a bit difficult to get a good grip in the mutt’s fur, but he hands on as tight as he can, flapping from its back like a flag. Still fixated on Ianthe, the mutt barely notices as Rhys claws his way up its back and it’s not until he’s wrapped his arms around neck, as if giving it a hug, that the ox-bear-walrus abomination takes any notice of its assailant. It stands on its hind legs, bellowing and shaking, but Rhys is strong and holds onto its neck for dear life. With all his strength, he reaches forward and sinks one of his talons into the front of the mutts neck.

​

Bingo! Rhys thinks as the mutt wobbles. Blood pours out, landing on Ianthe, and the mutt falls backwards. Rhys releases his grip on the animal’s neck just in time to roll out of the way of its massive body before being crushed.

​

Ianthe, wiping blood from her face and eyes and taking huge breaths, looks at Rhys incredulously.

​

“Why’d you do that?” she asks.

​

“A little tit for tat, if you will,” Rhys says, extending his hand to her. “I want to kill Cal and I don’t think I can do it alone. We need to kill him.”

​

“And who is we?” Ianthe says, cocking an eyebrow.

​

“You and I, of course. I know it sounds ridiculous considering there are only three of us left and all. You could just kill me right now, but you and I are weaker than him. And we both want the same thing. I refuse to let a career with nothing to lose take any more from us.” She’s not sure if it’s the determined look in Rhys’ eye or the absolute truth of his words that convinces Ianthe, but she reaches her hand out to grasp his and they shake.

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​

From his spot on top of the Cornucopia, Cal can see Rhys and Ianthe approaching much sooner than they can see him. He can also see that Rhys has a pair of binoculars so, just to be safe, Cal flattens himself against the cool surface in the very center of the horn. Because the top is a bit concave, he hopes that Rhys will not be able to see him hiding with the binoculars. Evidently he can’t because as they get closer, Cal can hear a bit of the pair’s conversation.

​

“Well, he’s here somewhere,” Ianthe says, taking notice of the multiple igloos set up around the area.

​

“He could be in any of these. Or in the cornucopia itself,” Rhys points at the wall he built and Ianthe looks concerned.

​

“Wait, look at this,” Ianthe pulls out her blowtorch and flicks it on. She walks up to one of the igloos and holds the flame up to it. In no time, the structure begins to melt and cave in on itself. She moves from igloo to igloo, melting them one at a time, until none remain.

​

“So he must be inside the horn then,” Ianthe sighs. “He probably set all those up to distract us. And he’s probably ready to pounce out as soon as we get close.”

​

Rhys nods and then takes out one of his knives. “Listen, you go stand on the side and I’ll throw this in, when he comes out, do a cool yo-yo trick and try to get him around the throat or something,” he whispers. Ianthe pulls out her yo-yos and nods, walking over to the right side of the horn.

​

Cal watches, amused. He’s never been too good at throwing - he hadn’t even been able to kill Chivonne on Day 4. He doesn't want to risk a bad throw, that would just alert both of his enemies to his location. Instead, he waits, watching as Ianthe positions herself right on the side of where he’s hidden and Rhys creeps up to the wall of snow. Rhys puts up three fingers, counting down for Ianthe.

​

3… 2… 1. Rhys throws his knife into the snow and the wall begins to crumble. The sound of metal hitting metal reverberates through the Cornucopia as the knife clangs around. Just as Rhys realizes that he and Ianthe have been tricked, Cal drops down from the top of the horn holding his swords. He lands right behind Ianthe and when she turns to look at him, shock written all over her face, he brings back his arm and thrusts his sword into her stomach three times. She’s barely able to scream when she collapses onto the ground and her cannon sounds.

​

Rhys jumps, startled by the sudden noise. He runs across the opening of the Cornucopia to where Ianthe was and sees her body limp at Cal’s feet, the snow around her stained red. Fresh, raw anger pulses through his veins, compounded by Cal’s smug look.

​

Cal looks at Rhys, giving him time to take in the horrible sight of his quasi-ally. Here one second and gone the next. To provoke the other boy further, Cal prods Ianthe’s body with his foot, turning her over onto her front. He looks up again and this brash move has had the intended effect, Rhys looks absolutely livid. Cal can only hope that he’s so livid that he loses focus.

​

Rhys rushes toward Cal, his talons still freshly coated in blood from the mutt. He feels as if he’s lost control, completely overwhelmed by his emotions. Rhys slashes at Cal’s chest but the career easily sidesteps his attack, using one of his swords to knock Rhys’ hand away. Cal strikes back in no time, his sword making a wide arc before clashing with Rhys’ talons again. Back and forth, the boys seem as if they’re taking turns attacking. When Rhys readjusts his stance, hoping to get a better aim at Cal’s heart, Cal takes the opportunity to swipe at him. His sword cuts upward and meets Rhys’s right wrist. The sound of bone breaking and muscle tearing is followed by a plop! Rhys looks down in disbelief at where his hand used to be. At his feet, in the snow, the talons are still attached to the appendage.

​

Cal looks intensely pleased with himself and smirks. Rhys, blind with pain and rage, lashes out and with his left hand and his talons make deep cuts in Cal’s left leg. He grunts, his legs buckling, and he falls to the ground. Rhys knocks one of his swords away and advances, but Cal is out for blood. He thrusts his sword toward Rhys with all his might just as Rhys swings his taloned arm back. The force of the two weapons hitting one another causes them both to go flying - Cal’s second sword is knocked from his hands and the talons gripped in Rhys’s remaining hand break free, fracturing all five of his fingers in the process.

Both boys, now weaponless and maimed, stare at one another. Ianthe’s body lays in the snow a few feet behind Cal. Cal drags himself forward and Rhys, now weak from the blood loss of his severed hand, falls to the ground.

​

So this is it, he thinks to himself. Cal is fast approaching. He overtakes Rhys, using his good leg to pin the other boy down by the chest.  

​

“I’ll make this quick for you,” Cal says, wrapping his hands around Rhys’s neck and pressing down. Rhys struggles beneath him, trying to break free, but with his right hand gone and all of his left hand fingers broken, it’s no use.

​

I’m sorry, Rhys’ thoughts become fuzzy. He’s thrashing now, turning his head every which way looking for a means of escape. I wanted to win for you all. He thinks of Tesla, and Posi, and of Aisly.

​

A small black beetle scurries through the snow, catching Rhys’ eye. He thinks he must be dead because it looks a whole lot like Posi’s pet Bess. The beetle walks around his head then toward his hand with the talons still attached. It’s so close, he could probably reach it. Rhys knows what’s happening. The beetle disappears.

​

He reaches frantically with his left hand, wincing in pain from using the broken appendages, and nearly cries when he makes contact with the cool metal. Cal is still on top of him, pressing down on his windpipe and he can hardly breathe, but he forces himself to grip the metal and pull it toward his body.

Cal is exhausted. He thinks he has finally finished off the District Eleven boy, he’s gone still beneath him, but no cannon has sounded.

​

“Wha-” Cal jumps back and looks down. Rhys has sunk his taloned hand into Cal’s stomach. He sits up and coughs, using his broken hand to remove the blades from Cal’s stomach. Before plunging them back in again.

​

“That was for Tesla. And Ianthe,” Rhys rasps, his voice hoarse.

​

“And this is for me,” he removes the talons and stabs Cal a third time, this time aiming for the heart.

​

Cal opens his mouth to respond but only blood comes out. A cannon sounds and Rhys immediately drops into the snow, curling in on himself in a fetal position. It’s still dark and he looks up at the stars, counting them and giving them names. The smallest star he names Tiberius. The three all in a row he names Harvey, Chivonne, and Matilda. The big blue star he names Posi and the smaller one next to it is called Tesla. The biggest, brightest star is the one he names Aisly. A hovercraft materializes above him, blocking his view of the sky before he can give names to all the other stars. A voice rings out, echoing through the deserted arena.

​

“Presenting the victor of the fifty-first annual Hunger Games, Rhys Bullock!”

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END OF DAY 6 STANDINGS

Cal Dynam (D2): deceased, 2nd place (stabbed through the chest with talons)

Ianthe Berengy (D6): deceased, 3rd place (sword to the stomach)

Rhys Bullock (D11): alive, VICTOR