Chapter 13
DAY ONE
The first thing Peter noticed was that it was cold.
Cerulean had dressed him in the same clothes that he now saw all the other tributes wore – thick but supple black athletic pants, a flexible, fur-lined brown jacket that sat atop a cotton-like material long-sleeve shirt, and thick, fleece-lined boots. He didn’t have a hat, and he didn’t have gloves. The wind buffeted his curls as his platform rose above the snowy ground.
The second thing Peter noticed was how bright it was. He could hardly see in normal light, let alone when he was in a vast expanse of pearly white snow that reflected the artificial sunlight beaming down onto it. Peter winced and lifted his hand, narrowing his eyes as much as he could while still being able to see clearly.
The third – and final – thing Peter noticed was the silence.
He was used to constant noise. He was used to being agitated by voices, by the sounds of cars, by the ceaseless thrum of civilization. However, as he took in his surroundings, he noticed the deafening silence. Despite the chaotic energy of the Games and the previous three hours, there seemed to be a peculiar absence of sound within the arena itself. The snow swallowed any kind of noise. The silence seemed unnaturally heavy, amplifying his own breathing and heartbeat, creating an eerie atmosphere that sent a shiver down his spine. It was as if the arena was holding its breath, waiting for the tributes to make their move.
“Attention, esteemed tributes,” a voice boomed overhead. Like many of the other tributes, Peter swung his head about in the air to instinctively look for the source of a voice that would never be seen. “Sixty seconds until the annual Champion Games commence. Ready yourselves, for the arena awaits your arrival.”
And with that, the announcer began to count down.
Peter’s arm still throbbed from where a tracker had been stabbed into his arm. He absentmindedly scratched at it over his jacket – the tracker was huge, and the needle to put it in was even bigger. Taking the fifty-some seconds he had to prepare, Peter began to turn about on his platform to inspect the arena. He noticed some tributes were doing the same, while others were nervous, while others were facing inwards and scouting everything the Cornucopia had to offer. Peter noted a vast, icy forest to his left – that would be a great place to find hiding spots. Behind him was a vast plain of ice and snow; towards the end, Peter could see tall walls of ice, but he couldn’t tell if that was a boundary, or if there was anything past that. To the right of him, he could see a large assortment of large ice spires and pillars reaching into the air – it reminded him of rocky waters in pirate movies, the ice sticking out of the snow, waiting to trap tributes just like stone formations caused pirate ships to crash. Directly on the other side of the Cornucopia seemed to be a very mountainous region – he could even see smoke far, far off in the distance coming from the top of one of the largest hills. A potential source of heat, Peter thought to himself. He did not do well in the cold, even before the whole spider-thing. And the spider-thing certainly didn’t help. The entire boundary of the arena seemed to be a ring of icy, snow-capped mountains – there was no way Peter could get past those. He would be surprised if they were even real. It was probably a giant greenscreen similar to the one that had been in his room.
“Thirty-four.”
Peter, having looked at everything that he could possibly see, looked inwards towards the Cornucopia. Lyv had told him that the most valuable stuff was deep inside the Cornucopia, and the further away, the less good the loot was. Ingrid advised them to stay away from the Cornucopia, as it was typically an absolute bloodbath. After watching recaps of the games during training, Peter determined that she was right. He didn’t want to go that far. Still, something itched under his skin.
He knew he’d have a hard time during the games. The cycle of danger-run-fight-hide kept cycling through his head as his senses went haywire. How was he supposed to know something bad was coming when all his senses could tell him was that the very obviously bad situation was bad?
“Twenty-two.”
Focus, Peter.
About twenty feet away from him was a black backpack. It was perfectly in the middle between him and the tribute to his right – Peter glanced over. He didn’t recognize the kid standing there. He looked normal, but obviously he wasn’t. Peter wanted to turn and run away from the Cornucopia right away, but something whined in his brain. This landscape was freezing and unforgiving – one mistake and Peter would be dead. Hell, he could do everything right and still die from a plethora of reasons anyways. He needed supplies. Whatever was in that backpack would give him a head start.
“Ten.”
Peter shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to loosen them up, shifting his weight from side to side.
“Nine.”
Peter was fast. Like, really fast. Like, probably faster than anyone he knew.
“Eight.”
He shouldn’t count Wanda’s brother, right? Cuz he was dead and Peter didn’t really actually know him.
“Seven.”
Whatever. Shit, there was another speedster here – tribute Sixteen. Peter remembered that.
“Six.”
What if the speedster just ran around and got everything and stabbed Peter or something?
“Five.”
No, that wouldn’t happen. Peter got a good score but he wasn’t a threat.
“Four.”
The backpack was so close. Peter needed to wait until Mr. Stark got here to rescue him.
“Three.”
The guy beside him didn’t look fast. All Peter had to do was be faster than him.
“Two.”
Then, Peter was going to make a break for the forest. He could probably climb better than anyone else here, right?
“One.”
He needed to make Mr. Stark proud.
With a loud boom, a ringing hit Peter’s ears, and he launched off of the platform.
Out of his peripheral vision, Peter could see the tribute to the right of him heading for the same exact backpack Peter was. Only, Peter was faster. Way faster. It was hard to run in the snow, but Peter’s advantage over the guy to his right was that Peter was at least a hundred pounds lighter. He flew over the snow in the boots, while the other guy trudged through and seemed to have a much harder time.
Peter heard a scream on the other side of the Cornucopia. His senses were honed in on the backpack, while his weird danger-sense protected him from anything else that might come his way.
He was so close –
He reached his fingers out and grasped one of the straps of the backpack. Slinging it onto his shoulder, Peter turned towards the first when he felt something hard grip his shoulder. Peter was jerked backwards, and he turned around just in time to see a steel hand grip his shoulder.
Fuck, Peter thought to himself. He’d seen this guy turn himself into metal at-will during training. The brute of a kid smiled devilishly, and brought his hand back, bringing it forward to punch Peter. Instinctively, Peter threw his hand forward and caught the kid’s fist. It hurt, but the kid wasn’t that strong. His hand just hit hard. Peter threw the kid backwards a few feet, and just before he could turn for the forest, a spear reached through the kid’s chest. Blood spurted from the edges of the hole, and the kid, blood seeping from his mouth, fell to the ground.
Peter’s vision ran white and he could feel his heart beating into his mouth, he was horrified and terrified and he couldn’t help but feel responsible.
Danger-run-fight-hide-danger-run-fight-hide
Without taking the time to see who had seen Peter and the other kid’s squabble, Peter turned tail and ran towards the forest. He could see a few other people doing the same, but the treeline was so huge that it didn’t matter, they were still so far apart. Peter breached the treeline, backpack still slung around one shoulder, and he ran. He ran faster than he possibly ever had before. Tree branches whipped his face, he stumbled a few times when his toes hit a chunk of ice, but he couldn’t even feel anything – his biggest concern was getting away from everyone else so he didn’t have to hurt them or watch them die too. The snow was ankle deep, but Peter was flying through it. The boots seemed to have some sort of grip on the bottom to give him better traction in the frigid arena. Peter could feel his cheeks grow raw from the cold air hitting his face as he ran as fast he could, but he didn’t care. He just needed to get far enough away before he could slow down and collect himself.
As he breached the trees, the light around him immediately dimmed. The ground of the forest was dampened by a dark haze almost similar to twilight, and Peter immediately grew grateful that the light reflecting off the snow was no longer burning his overly-sensitive eyes. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take it much longer. As Peter’s eyes rapidly adjusted from the blinding glare from the open space to the dim haze of the forest, he glanced around as he ran through the whipping tree branches. He couldn’t see anyone else nearby, or hear anyone – that was good. He didn’t do well in the cold, and the light from the snow obviously bothered his eyes, but the silence from the snow-covered ground would be an advantage he had over… well, at least some of the others, he hoped.
Peter ran for – he didn’t know how long. By his estimates, he was sprinting through the trees for about thirty minutes before he slowed down. Surprisingly, he knew he could keep going, even trudging through the deep snow of the forest floor. Still, he figured nobody else had come this direction and if they had, nobody aside from the speedster would probably be able to keep up. Coming to a stop, Peter’s chest steadily rose and fell as he caught his breath. He leaned against a nearby tree and took the backpack off of his shoulder. Peter crouched down on the snow and unzipped the backpack, beginning to go through everything within.
The first thing Peter pulled out was a small, collapsible water canteen. He turned it around in his hand. It wasn’t huge, but it was something. If he could start a fire, he could pack the canteen with snow and drink the water. That was providing that the snow wasn’t poisoned or something. He set it down in the snow, and continued to dig through the bag. He pulled out a small pack of dehydrated, compact meals. There were only four, Peter noted, so he’d have to ration these. He figured he could spread them out just far enough to keep surviving, but he was already concerned about the lack of food his metabolism was going to face.
The next thing Peter found was a modest knife. Peter glanced at it and frowned. It would certainly be useful for survival skills, but the curve and sharpness of the blood told him that it was probably intended for… other uses. The last thing Peter pulled from the bag was a spool of wire. Peter frowned. He knew he should’ve paid more attention to the hunting station, but he figured he could figure out a basic trap to try to catch any wildlife in the arena. Of course, the next problem came with trying to find a way to build a fire, if that was even a good idea… so many thoughts ran through Peter’s head.
A cannon boomed overhead, echoing throughout the arena. It was a stark reminder to Peter that people were actively hunting others, and he was probably one of the ones being hunted. Peter’s stomach twisted as he thought about Lyv. He desperately hoped that that cannon didn’t mark her death; he hadn’t even had a chance to… to say goodbye, to find her again. He crashed back to reality, shoving his goods back into his backpack. Peter glanced behind him and listened. He didn’t see or hear anything moving, but the forest ground was mostly covered from fresh snowfall. His footsteps would be there for a while. He’d be easy to track. Shit, Peter, you have to be smarter than that. The last thing he wanted was to get hunted down by the Career pack.
Glancing up, Peter took in the sight thick canopies of trees and dense foliage that formed a labyrinth of trees. The initial rush of adrenaline from the start of the games was fading, allowing him to gather his senses and assess his situation. He could almost hear Cap’s voice in his ear, telling him to make mental notes and bullet points. He needed to move through the trees to not leave anything traceable. Adjusting the straps of his backpack, Peter quickly scaled the nearest tree. When he was starting to reach a point where the branches were questionable on whether or not they’d actually hold his weight, Peter started to hop from tree branch to tree branch to the left.With calculated precision, he leaped from one branch to another, veering off to the left. He zigzagged through the treetops, gradually shifting his trajectory rightward and towards the forward’s edge furthest from the Cornucopia. If anyone followed his footprints, he hoped they would assume he continued straight ahead.
Now would be a great time for my webshooters, Peter thought to himself. He wished there was some way that his body could just produce the webbing – after all, that was pretty on-brand for a spider, no? He wondered if there’d be any potential for him to gather stuff he needed to make webs, or at least any sort of semblance of them. He was sure he could use a combination of metal, his knife, and pure strength to bend heated metal into crude webshooters. If there was any kind of combination of any sort of chemicals – medicines, wound-cleaning sprays, food, anything – there was a tiny possibility he could pull it off.
But it didn’t seem like the Gamemakers wanted to make things that easy, did they?
As Peter continued leaping through the trees, he estimated that about five hours had passed since he entered the forest. The vastness of the arena surprised him; it was larger than he initially thought. Despite his meandering path, he hadn’t encountered any other tributes so far. Of course, Peter had been looping around, zig-zagging, and stopping every once in a while to look and listen for movement. He supposed that when you put twenty-four superpowered teens together, it probably wouldn’t be all that difficult to find one another. The sun was in the middle of the sky when they’d entered the arena, and now it was about two hours away from setting. He hadn’t come across anyone else so far, and Peter concluded that he should probably figure out a plan for settling down and staying warm while he slept.
After searching for a suitable tree to sleep in, Peter came across a hulking oak tree. Three large limbs intersected to create a nice little crevice that Peter would be able to wedge himself into. He figured if he spread his backpack out on top of him, he may even be able to trap some body heat. As he came to a stop and hopped down to make himself comfortable in the crevice, he shivered. It was absolutely freezing here, but Peter thought the forest had to have been better than most other places in the arena. At least the wind couldn’t really slip through the trees.
Peter backed himself into the crevice and sighed, leaning his head back against the rough bark. He stared up at the canopy of the forest. Just above him, there was a small gap where he could see the sky. There were no colors of a vivid sunset, simply the light blue of the sky giving way to the darker and darker hues of the evening. He wondered if the opening was on purpose. Opening his backpack, Peter took a glance inside.
He wanted to eat one of the rations, but he would also need water to hydrate it. Peter frowned. He could just go to sleep for dinner, but from all the running and jumping today, his stomach was already growling. These games wouldn’t bode well for the teen who needed an excess amount of food every day just to keep his body from metabolizing itself.
Wait.
He was on an oak tree. This was an Earth tree, and he vividly remembered learning about it in the same station as the rest of the planets during one of the training days. He could easily boil the bark. The training hologram warned of its incredibly bitter taste, and how some people’s stomachs were sensitive to the bark. It had to be heated in order to break down some of the more toxic, but not lethal, bacteria in the crevices of the bark’s exterior. He could prepare a large batch of it, but that would require a fire. Peter glanced at the sky. The sky wouldn’t be light for much longer; if Peter waited too long, he could make himself visible to anyone nearby.
Peter grabbed his new knife and spent a few minutes carving away at the bark near the top of the tree. By doing it this high, he ensured that nobody would see the scraped-off tree bark from the forest floor. After he’d gathered a suitable amount of bark and stuffed it into his bag, he slung his backpack around his shoulders, and hopped for about five minutes to a different clearing a little further away from where he was sleeping. He knew it would be irresponsible and dangerous to make a fire directly under the tree he was going to sleep in. Every once in a while, Peter would leave tiny nicks in the treetops so that he could find his way back to what he called his “sleepin’-tree” in his head..
Eventually, Peter became aware of the orange glow spreading across the sky as the sun began its descent below the horizon. He didn’t have much longer if he wanted to eat tonight. He hopped down from a tree into a small clearing. Glancing around and pausing to listen for any newcomers, he figured he was alone, and got to work. Peter carefully gathered leaves from the treetops and snapped small, dead twigs and limbs off of nearby tree branches. He scooped snow out from the base of a tree with the sleeve of his jacket to create a small crevice to start the fire. Peter’s hand screamed every time he touched the snow with no protection, growing colder and colder and more and more painful. His hand he used to scoop the snow with was a blistering red from the frigid snow, and when he was done, Peter tucked his hand in his armpit to try to warm it up. Using his boot, he scraped away the top layer of frozen soil, creating a shallow depression in dryer soil.
Once he had enough dry fuel, Peter set to work creating the fire. He tried to minimize his noise to avoid drawing any attention to him in case anyone was nearby. He strategically placed the smaller twigs and branches in a teepee shape over the depression, leaving a small opening on one side for ventilation. It was crucial to maintain a controlled flame, one that would provide enough heat to boil the bark but not draw any notice.
With a determined focus, Peter took a smaller branch and began to whittle it into a sharp stick. After a few minutes, Peter had gotten it to a point where he deemed it sharp enough to start the fire. Using the knife to carve some of the skin off one of the larger branches he’d gathered, Peter then took the whittled wood and began to rub it back and forth against the larger piece with all of his might. Due to Peter’s strength, the wood started smoking only seconds later, graying and turning black as the friction built up more and more heat.
When the smoke began to really intensify, Peter leaned down and gently blew on the first light of a spark he saw. Gradually, the spark took hold in the wood and a flame was born, dancing and flickering on the wood. Peter gingerly lowered it into the center of the teepee. There was a decent amount of smoke, and Peter took his jacket off, flapping it above the teepee to try to dissipate it before it went above the treetops for anyone in the arena to see.
Carefully, Peter added dry leaves and smaller twigs into the teepee bit by bit to give the fire a steady supply of fuel to catch the rest of the teepee on fire. He tried to maintain the delicate balance between a controlled flame and a discreet presence. The fire crackled softly, sending gentle waves of heat into the chilly air.
Once the fire burned steadily, Peter reached into his backpack for his metal canteen. The first thing he did was pack the canteen tightly full of snow. Carefully positioning the metal directly above the flames he sat patiently and awaited the transformation of snow to boiling water. Much to Peter’s surprise, the metal remained unscathed by the dancing flames, its surface untarnished by blackened marks.
After he saw the first of the bubbles pop up from the mouth of the canteen, Peter quickly fetched the bark from his backpack. He used his knife to cut it into even thinner strips that would fit in the canteen, and he stuffed as much bark as he could into the canteen without spilling all of the boiling water out. As the bark began to simmer in the water, a faint aroma filled the air.
With a quiet satisfaction, Peter realized that his fire was successfully providing him with a means to nourish himself. The flame danced silently, emitting only the faintest of smoke. It was a small victory, a moment of respite amidst the harsh reality of the games.
Peter wondered who was watching. He wondered if Ingrid was proud of him.
He wondered if Mr. Stark would ever see this.
Whether Peter got saved or not, that is. Would Mr. Stark be proud of Peter for being so resourceful? He might’ve grown up in the heart of New York City, but the kid had still managed to figure out a pretty reliable food source and nifty survival skill that wouldn’t be too handy in the middle of Queens. Or was this going to be a scene that Mr. Stark watched in tears, wishing that the kid was still alive?
Peter shook his head. That wasn’t his responsibility to think about right now. If he wanted to know what Mr. Stark’s reaction would be, he had to survive. As he sat by the fire, watching the steam rise from the canteen as the bark quietly cooked, Peter couldn’t help but feel the first glimmer of hope he had in a while. In this unforgiving landscape, he’d found a way to win. To fight back, to adapt to the challenges he faced.
When the bark had been boiling for a while and the sun went dangerously low, casting a deep, rich orange glow over the sky, Peter figured that was enough. He twisted the cap onto the canteen and, using the outside of his jacket as a barrier between his skin and the heated metal, tossed it into his backpack to cool off. He quickly kicked the fire down into the hole and used his boot to cover the fire with snow. It wasn’t his best work, it was definitely messy and if someone was intending to look for signs of life they’d definitely notice this, but Peter figured it would suffice to keep the remnants of the fire hidden from mere passerbys.
Scaling the tree once more, Peter quickly hopped back to his “sleep-tree”. Sinking into the crevice, Peter laid his backpack on top of him. The heat from the canteen gave the entire backpack a warm, pleasant glow; Peter hoped he’d be able to fall asleep while it was still acting as a heat pack, before the cold, biting air sunk into his bones. He took the canteen out and began to fish strips of bark out with his finger. Taking a bite, Peter noticed the bark was more tender than he was expecting it to be, though there was still a distinguishable crunch to it. It was so bitter that Peter almost immediately spit it out. It kind of tasted like some alcohol Nat forced him to sip on when Tony wasn’t looking. Peter knew he had no choice, though, so he simply grimaced and continued to chew on the nasty wood.
The sky above Peter faded to dark, and he folded into himself to stay warm. Suddenly, just after the sky grew dark, Peter heard a tune play throughout the arena, covering every corner of the icy landscape. The tune was familiar; it was one that was played during the tribute parade and over the recaps of past games. It must’ve been some theme song for the games or something, like this was some kind of funny sitcom.
Through the gaps in the leaves, Peter could make out a projection in the sky. At first, he squinted, trying to see what it said.
His stomach dropped when he realized the Gamemakers were playing the faces of the dead tributes in the sky.
The first face to pop up was Tribute Six, one of the Careers. Peter vaguely recognized her, but he couldn’t remember what her powers were. Her being the first one to show up meant that all but one of the Careers had survived the first day.
Great. Just great.
Tribute Nine and Ten. Peter winced as he realized that Ten was the kid he had watched die earlier. Peter couldn’t help but think that he partially caused his death. If the kid wasn’t distracted, he would’ve been able to turn his chest into metal and not get hit, or, at the very least, if he wasn’t caught so off-guard he could’ve turned his chest into metal while the spear was in it, and it wouldn’t have damaged him. But he was too distracted by Peter to think of any of that, and he was dead. And that, Peter determined, was Peter’s fault.
The next face to show was Tribute Thirteen. He did, however, remember her. She could create an infinite amount of clones of herself and control them; it was pretty off-putting to Peter. She must’ve died at the Cornucopia, too. Maybe someone figured out the trick to realizing which one was actually her and not a copy. Peter thought she’d make it further than the first day.
With that, the projection faded from the sky. Peter frowned as he chewed on his bark. Only four dead the first day? That didn’t bode well for Peter. Some games, over half the tributes died at the Cornucopia. Other games, the ones that lasted weeks upon weeks, were just like this and only a few died on the first day.
Peter’s stomach churned. Of course his games were going to be long and difficult.
He felt a little relieved that he hadn’t seen Lyv’s face up there. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to handle that.
There was a part of Peter that wanted her to win more than him.
Peter finished up his last piece of bark he was allowing himself to eat for the night, and he packed his canteen back into his backpack after taking a few tree-tasting sips of the warm water. The warm water fell through his throat and into his stomach with a warm glow, reminding Peter of the wine he’d drank with Ingrid and Lyv.
Curling into a ball in the crevice of the tree under his backpack, Peter closed his eyes, so oblivious to the horrors to come.