#location: hell

Then, some shadow made of fire got his attention, clearing his throat in a pitched manner. He loved the little spirit from second one. He could have sworn it was made after his aesthetic. It started speaking, and it wasn’t quite him, but he still watched assertively, occasionally stealing glances at Kahente. The rules were simple, but too complicated for Hunter to weigh over. Instead, he flashed his eyebrows at Kahente, waiting for her first move. “Come on, butterfly. You’re not gonna kill me, are you?” Poor, little, defenseless him, his tone implied. The distance between them made him curious. How was she going to rip that rib off his chest. His chest, which was empty and locked, except for Sunday evenings and wine glasses. 

More than anything, he was curious, so he waited in expectation, watching her through lowered eyelids. Even in that moment, the most pregnant thought in his mind was one: how he could use a cigarette right this second, even surrounded by flames. It was ridiculous.

It was over. He could recognize the anthem, but not much else as his eyelids were closing. He didn’t want to be unconscious for the big moment, but he felt so weakened that he could die by Kahente’s side and it wouldn’t make a difference in the world. Covered in blood - most of which, his - and pale in comparison with the red, Hunter lied on his back next to the newest corpse, trying to feel like at home in hell. After all, he had conquered it. His heart was jumping out of his chest, requesting more, more, more blood that he had none of. Demanding and rushed, his heart insisted, almost panicked. It would have been a funny image, to die from his own wound before wearing his second crown.

After uncovering his face with his hands, he looked into the dark abyss that was above him, trying to focus for just a moment. His blue eyes were red in that light, between fire, a dead girl and the threat of bleeding out before he could see the people waiting for him outside. Pressing against his right shoulder with his fingers, but feeling like it made no difference, Hunter tried to even his breathing instead. In and out, and in, and out. 

With an even, seemingly bored voice (that came from the fact that he was weakened to the extreme and couldn’t find any more strength in him), he spoke as the anthem was still sounding in his ears, announcing his victory. Or was he dead? It didn’t matter. As long as he could speak, he wasn’t dead. Hunter cleared his throat and raised the hand that wasn’t putting pressure on his open wound, as if to silence everybody. “Ladies and gentlemen, I sincerely hope you enjoyed the second edition of the Hunter Games,” he cracked the bad joke, huffing a silent laughter at his own words, as if not really believing in them either. Did he truthfully win?

He only knew that, after this display of weakness, he didn’t want anybody to see him weakened. He did it to himself, mainly. It was likely he could’ve killed Kahente without having to lose this much blood, but, as usual, he was rushing into it, driven by a mindless force that just spoke and acted before asking for permission. He did it to himself, broke himself down on live television, but it was alright, because they’d turn him into steel again, sooner than possible. He just knew that he didn’t want anybody to see him before he got back on his feet. He wanted solitude, and he wanted himself back.

“I need, like, seven days of recreation. In this lovely time period in which I want to see nothing but pretty nurses and somebody who will fix my shoulder, I want to publicly ask everybody who knows and doesn’t know me not to bother me. I mean you too, Surya. I don’t want to see any faces I know until I’ll find you. And I want a pink silk robe, and a big plate of rainbow maki waiting for me, a pack of my cigarettes, matches better than these ones, some orange juice...” he continued, finding it difficult to keep talking already, but doing it automatically, no longer seeming to think it through. He was murmuring requests he had written in his mind long ago. “And frankly, most of all, I just want Jeannie,” he breathed out, not even understanding in depth how heavy his request was.

The hovercraft stopped near him, and he knew that the Games were over. He had won, and it wasn’t even a surprise. They pushed his wound and placed something over it, they turned off the lights (or perhaps his eyes had given up) and they made him move inside. Inside, a hand squeezed his own and he opened his eyes like electrocuted. People were working over his body, which calmed him down to an extent, letting them do their job. “Give me all the drugs,” was all he intervened with, feeling like shutting down without a little something to help him through. Then, looking left, he saw a blonde figure that he didn’t recognize at first, a nurse on the hovercraft.

At first, she was Jeannie, because of the curls pulled together into a tail, but then she spoke. “You’ve done beautifully, Mr. Twill. I was hoping to see you again,” the woman promised, and those exact words - the first ones - rang into his ear. She was the nurse that cleaned his wounds during his first arena. Eight years later, she looked, not much changed, still blonde, with that same terrible accent. Charming even on his deathbed, Hunter laughed silently at her words. 

“Please, kitten, call me Hunter. We’re old friends already.” Then, looking a little scared and half unconscious, he squeezed her hand back. “Am I going to die?” 

The answer echoed, amused and cheerful, in the way some people radiated around Hunter, because he pulled it out of them for some reason. His eyes saw nothing but black, like he was staring at hell’s sky again (perhaps he’d closed them, again). His hand felt a cold relief, imagining the nurse was still by his side even through darkness. And her answer, played again, and again, and again in his mind, like a conclusion to the entirety of his life.

Too early into the day, Hunter was tossing bits of food into the fire, aware of the irony of being in the Hunger Games and mocking starvation. Yet, he couldn’t sleep and he couldn’t eat. Hell was definitely a long time period of nothingness. Hunter could stand most pain, but this state of anticipation, followed by nothing for hour after hour, was single-handedly killing him. The lava poodle seemed like the most attractive part of his day, and it was somewhat pretty to watch. 

From time to time, he would speak, only to hear himself, as if that was refuge - making sure there was still a tongue to make noise, making sure words existed anymore in that endless nothingness. “If I do die, we cremate me. I can’t go out not burning. Bury me and I’ll haunt you with my most vexing. You all know I have potential when it comes to that,” he instructed whoever would listen. “I’m not sure whether to wait or do something, but I’ve done something - that’s, really, nothing - all this time, and it led nowhere. I should wait, look around, get a nice tan, get acquainted with my future kingdom since we’re at it. You know, it was very masterful to take me home one last time. I love it here. A bloody Mary would have completed the scenery. Gamemakers, take care of that presto, please.” Of course, nothing happened. They weren’t anybody’s avoxes, especially his. 

Yet, something else distracted him from a boredom too thick to burn. A parachute landed right by him, narrowly missing a serpent made of fire. Hunter took it - the largest box in a while - and moved further, not to encounter the creature again, though fire didn’t scare him all that much. Curious, he opened the box before opening the note and, for a moment, he imagined it would be an apology for the ungrateful Satine. Matches and a spear.

He looked down to see if his mace was still where it was, by his side on the ground - and it was. What was the point of sending him another weapon, especially a less valuable one? Hunter couldn’t understand the matches either, except for their meaning, but he appreciated the gift, letting it stay by him. Then, his eyes landed on the note. It could have caught fire in all the time he was analyzing his gifts. 

Instead, he picked it up and read the name on its front, afterwards, what was written on the back. One word. Nobody could have guessed what it was answering affirmatively to. Nobody, but he knew instinctively that it referred to a lifetime ago. Without realizing it, the corners of Hunter’s lips rose into a sheepish smile. There it was, something he never knew he wanted, he never guessed he’d need, handed over to him with the seriousness of a period at the end. Too simple to be a joke, too straightforward to mean anything else. He didn’t for one moment suspect that he was reaching, because he understood too well what it meant, what it was answering to, what she was engaging herself to. 

To the new perspective, he didn’t know what to say and what to do. Not wishing to share it with anybody else, though he was sure they could catch it on camera, Hunter simply let go of it inside of the box, after squatting in front of it. Then, looking up, from the same position, he remained, with his lips parted, and in a shrug, for a few more moments. What was there to say? How could he say it? The perfect mix between a serious retort and a joke, a code and a firm reaction seemed out of his reach. 

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” he huffed, still smiling and visibly affected by the meaning of the message itself, rather than the simple word. He found it easy to win, at least in his perception. “If I do this, listen to me,” he spoke very calmly, though tense for once. “There’s no turning back. I do this for you. You’re guilty,” he warned her, because there was such a big price to returning after he had put himself there - again - willingly, throwing himself into fire and then killing those who didn’t jump, but were thrown by others inside. There was something deeply unfair to it. It was frustrating to think, but he didn’t want to die either. He wanted to stop existing, maybe for a little; he wanted change, maybe more, but he didn’t want to die for good. Because he knew that nothing good would be waiting in there for him, and he now knew the hell of infinite darkness, which scared him mindless. 

He kept his chin up, looking at where drones were supposed to catch his gaze. He didn’t know what to say other than the meaningful look on his face, but it was telling, too. He didn’t know if he wanted to marry her back - for real - but the prospect of it was like spring where there was nothing but dry winter. There was potential for something in his life, which was more than he could brag about. Then, he snapped, almost angrily, as he remembered what was missing from every moment of the arena. “And, for the record, I am mad. I said no weapons, just water and cigarettes. I haven’t smoked in weeks. You’re fucking idiots. Do you know withdrawal? No, you don’t, because you’re idiots. You don’t keep somebody off nicotine after a decade of intense smoking. I’ll go win, not because you’re pity-promising to take my name, but because I need a fucking smoke.”

He knew it wasn’t true. He knew it was harder the first days to bear with the need than now, but it was a good way to exit the moment of sensitiveness that he wished to repress at the time being. He knew he had bigger things to discuss with a bigger force than the Gamemakers or anybody else in the arena. So, in the next moments, as the dawns were promising a new day, Hunter knelt before the rock of the volcano, facing its surface, and tried to pray. Hell seemed to be the place for all sinners’ prayers. 

Night in hell didn’t count. There would no Capitol anthem to announce the midnight, because nobody had died in the sixth day, but it was close to that time. Hunter couldn’t have possibly guessed how much time had passed, but he felt it much longer than it was. Because he was hungry again, and hunger didn’t usually strike him so soon, so hard. For a while, he sat by the volcano - almost unafraid - and closed his eyes. He did need a break. This arena has been way longer than it should have been and the game thickened for him. It wasn’t about survival, but it wasn’t about death either. He didn’t know what to say and what to think. He needed more time - but not like this.

He thought he could win - always. Except, sometimes, it felt so pointless to keep breathing. At the same time, he was afraid of darkness to his mind, not knowing what to expect and being selfish enough to classify it as a loss of some sort. He feared that sort of infinite silence. He didn’t know how to react to it and the more he contemplated it, the more he was sure that, after being in hell, there was nothing left. Worse than torture was the oscillation. He didn’t really want to die, he didn’t really want to keep living. It was too difficult, being the center of attention so constantly, with such stamina that it shattered minds and blew away entire Districts. It was difficult for his pride to now see himself dead, though the relief would have helped. There was something rotten, but still beating in his chest. He couldn’t let go of the last shred of self conservation, that appeared out of nowhere long after he’d shut down the lights. 

The beep of a new parachute distracted him from his daydreaming during night time. He watched the box levitate carefully next to him, without having the energy of welcoming it standing. He simply waited until it was by his foot, and then, he stretched out his arm to get it. Opening the note in between two fingers, a smile spread across his lips almost instinctively at a surprise he would have never expected. His lips mouthed Clover’s name as he shook his head, impressed and equally sorry. He remembered Perl. How was Clover feeling? A wave of guilt washed over him immediately, though it was too warm for him to feel his own skin.

Then, he flipped the note, and something else made an impression on him. With cursive writing, there it was, a simple threat. It would echo for long in his mind, even though Clover wouldn’t guess it. He knew what he had to mean to some people. He remembered most of them and their times together. He knew friendship and it was foolish to pretend that meant nothing. They had to be hurting too, because of him in the arena, risking a death they wouldn’t even be able to witness and light a candle at. Or a cigarette. He would’ve liked that better. 

“Update four thousand three hundred ninety-six,” Hunter declared, making up a number for the humor of the situation - he was too bored and he felt as if he had seen every inch of the arena already, but those damned Gamemakers were keeping him away from the other tributes left in the arena. It was getting repetitive and boring, but he refused to ever get boring or bored, so he started talking to the drone, imagining the said drone existed and, almost, almost, hoping to bump into somebody or draw them in with his voice. After all, he had a tongue to use and nothing else to do. There were no alternatives, but noise. 

“I’m bored out of my fucking mind and it’s hot, but I love it. Always knew I’d end up here. And now, if I win, I can say I went to hell and back, but, of course, we established I’m not winning, didn’t we?” Hunter smiled with meaning in the camera. He wasn’t sure what to say and what to believe. He knew he received several presents in the arena, but he didn’t remember which ones were from Jeannie. Something was unclear in his mind, and the pressure of the arena wasn’t helping at all. Could he die and not know for sure if the Capitol was playing one enormous prank on him? Could he die and leave Jeannie, possibly, behind? It broke his heart just to think of that possibility, though, for some reason he no longer understood, he knew he got into the arena with a death wish. Maybe it was all induced. Maybe the other tributes felt the same way too. Maybe the one he had to fight to get out of there alive was himself, more than anyone else. Maybe.

“It’s super hot in here. Though, hands down, the last time I said that sentence, it had a whole different meaning…” he let his thoughts carry him away and, then, it hit him: a worse joke. “No, wait. I take that back. As part of this official update, what I wanted to say is: is it hot in here or is it just me? Now I’m at peace having delivered this high quality joke.” Maybe he was really losing his mind, talking alone and wandering around in hell. Perhaps that was the ultimate point of hell: infinite time and nothingness, both combined. And fire. Oh, how he deserved this fire. Yet, he couldn’t even bring himself to be glad to be surrounded by the one force that had ruined his life, at his command. Maybe he should just throw himself into the flames.

Then, the beeping distracted him again. He had to stop and grab whatever was in the box - though it wasn’t for sure. He loved getting presents, but he wasn’t going to value some socks in hell, like a swimming suit would’ve been useless on an iceberg. The box was significantly larger, and that pleased him right away. Hands down, he couldn’t pretend size didn’t matter one bit. Letting the box fall on his two extended arms, he caught it and looked at the name written on the note. His surprise wasn’t little.

A wide grin extended on his lips. “It was about time,” he mumbled, smiling, as he shook his head. He knew that he specifically told the sponsor not to put his money on him, but everything was changing and he still expected some sort of support. He didn’t doubt that some of his money have been used on gifts sent by the two mentors, but it was better when it was direct. When he felt like he could look the man straight into the eyes. This cured all boredom, even if for a spark of a moment. It didn’t even matter what Hermes had sent him. Not that much, anyway.

He found a place of dry land to sit on without being threatened by fire - not that Hunter did fear fire that much - and he opened the note first, curious more than anything. The message was simple and clear. He closed his eyes, smiling, as he showed that he was receptive to the sentence. “I hope that’s literal and you’ve got me a nice present,” he spoke, folding the note and letting it go by the box. Then, he moved his attention to it. 

It was about noon, and everything was bleak, until his eyes lied on the flare. What a beautiful metaphor, though Hunter felt like he could suffocate just looking at it. “I really don’t think I can get lost in hell - or, rather, that I don’t want to be found - but I promise to play nice with it.” It wasn’t useless. It was cure for his boredom. And if it happened to drag in a few lost tributes, he would be glad to say hello, especially since he had the safety of a machete by his side. Nothing else stuck around, but the mace. Like last time.

After he’d turned down the food Satine sent him, he regretted it only for a moment, driven by intense hunger. Then, his pride contradicted him, and he even took his boots off - not to protest, rather than because the weather no longer asked for leather. He placed them carefully on an empty slot, away from the fire, so that Satine won’t think he is burning down everything that has anything to do with her. It wasn’t like that. He wasn’t upset - just disappointed. It wasn’t like he would’ve been asking for the whole sky. 

Then, a new beeping interrupted his train of thoughts as he started walking down hell barefooted - it didn’t even burn his soles; it was just as if he had returned home. He looked up and saw a new small box. Maybe thinking it was a joke, he waited for it to reach him, and looked at the note, not recognizing the name on it. It didn’t matter. He was more grateful to him than to Satine in those moments. Whoever Cyprian Huntwell was, Hunter loved him a little when he opened that box, tossing the lid on the ground carelessly, and saw a pack of trail mix. For some reason, that cheap food made him happier than all the maki in the world. He eagerly opened the pack and started chewing.