The 41st Hunger Games: Beetee's Story

Victory does not always go the strongest …

[Author's Note: This story deals with the Hunger Games won by Beetee Latier, who later appears in Catching Fire and Mockingjay.]

Part I

The doors of the tube slid apart and a klaxon sounded. Beetee looked around. Fifty metres away was the Cornucopia. Most of the Tributes were running towards it, with Trask, a One, in the lead.

Beetee jumped off the platform and ran. Not for the Cornucopia – he knew he would have no chance of reaching it before the others, most of whom were much faster, fitter and stronger, than he – but in the opposite direction, towards the treeline. He was ten metres away from it when he heard the first cannon shot; someone was dead. He gave a grim smile. So at least he wasn't the first to go. After the Reaping, someone had said to him that if was not one of the first five to die, it would be a victory. Sort of. Better than anyone from District 3 had done before.

He was panting when he reached the trees, but he kept on going, doing his best to get over the fallen tree trunks and boulders. He did not know if any of the others had seen which way he had gone. He assumed that most would have been focused on the desperate sprint for the weapons and supplies of the Cornucopia, but just in case someone had glanced his way, he changed direction. There was a cannon shot, followed by another.

In the distance, kilometres away, he could see the Escarpment, the southern boundary of the Arena. His mentor, Argyle, had told him that no-one ever went there, as there were no water sources and the territory was difficult. Should I head that way, Beetee had asked. Argyle had just shrugged. The other Tributes might take longer to find you there, he had said, but you'll probably die from dehydration and exposure.

To tell the truth, Argyle had not been much of a mentor, and he was the first to admit it. He had never been a participant in any of the Hunger Games; his knowledge, such as it was, was purely theoretical. The bottom line was that District 3 had no past victors. The expertise of the people was technology. They were good at making televisions and electrical equipment, which was then shipped to the Capital. They were not much in the muscle department. And even by the standards of District 3, Beetee was considered on the weak side. So after his name had been announced, people did not look him in the eye. He was already dead.

He slowed his pace to a walk, trying to conserve energy and not waste precious moisture through sweat. The Escarpment seemed a bit closer. He had no idea what he would do when he got there. It was a landmark, something to head towards, so he didn't get lost in the forest and start walking in circles. He had heard of Tributes in past Games that had ended up doing that. The organisers in the Capital didn't like it, apparently: not good television, and when people were lost they were difficult to follow on camera.

There was another two cannon shots. So that made five down. He wondered if Serena was still alive. Probably. Most likely, she had already built an alliance with one or more of the male Tributes from District One or Two, or somewhere else. Well, good luck to her. He kept walking.

The Release had been at noon. He looked up at the sun. Some people could tell the time from the position of it; he was not one of them. Nevertheless, he reckoned that it must be after four o'clock. It would get dark in a few hours. And cold.

He wondered if he should try and find a stick, something that he could use as a spear or a club. Utterly pointless, he thought. He would have no idea how to use it, and the other Tributes would probably have weapons from the Cornucopia. Better not having the extra weight to carry.

It would be getting dark within a few hours. Focus, he told himself. You've made it through the first period. Maybe you can make it through the first day. That would be an achievement.

He sat down on a fallen tree trunk to think. Survival. Break it down. Consider it as if you were building a machine. He had, in fact, built a television once, from the scraps and discards of the factory where he had had his first job, on the assembly line. Put it together, a bit at a time. He had wanted to build it for his family. With a strong enough antenna, he thought, they could receive programs broadcast in the Capital. That was the thing with electronic waves: they went everywhere.

His parents had been amazed. And proud. And then they had told him he had to destroy it. It's illegal for anyone outside the Capital to have a television, they had said. There are only the few big public screens that the Capital controls. So he had dismantled it. But his father must have said something to the factory controller, because soon after Beetee was transferred to Special Equipment Manufacturing. That was where video cameras and things like that were made. It meant a bit more money, and the work was more interesting.

He pushed the thought of home away. He would never see it again. Better to not think about it. Better to concentrate on lasting through the night.

What did he most need? Shelter. And water. Then food.

He looked around. This looked like it was an old part of the forest. There were fallen trees everywhere, many of them a bit off the ground, where they had fallen onto something else. He began to search, and eventually found what he was looking for: a tree trunk with a hollow beneath it. He scraped away the loose earth with a stick until it was big enough for him to lie in. Not much, but it would keep the dew off.

Dew. Now there was a thought. If it was going to be a cold night, that would mean dew. Water.

In the distance, there was the sound of a cannon shot. Huh. So he had lasted longer than anyone else from District 3. So maybe one of the commentators was making a joke about that. And wondering, looking at the signal from the bracelet attached to Beetee's wrist, why he had chosen such an inhospitable part of the Arena.

Hmm. Yes, he might be on a television screen right now.

He knew there were cameras all through the Arena, thousands and thousands of them. There might even be some that he had made himself. He tried to think about the videos of past Games that he had watched in training. Most of the cameras seemed to be high up, in trees. They were mounted on little platforms and could be moved to point in various directions by remote operators, in the studio in the Capital.

He began a search, using his hollow as a starting point and moving outwards in a spiral. For the moment, he was not overly concerned about the other Tributes. Usually, the toughest ones formed into a group and hunted down the second-order players. He was lucky; he would be very low down on their list of competitors. They would consider him an easy-beat, someone to find and pick off at their leisure. That gave him some time.

Eventually, he saw a camera, perched in the crook of a tree. But there was something odd about it. It looked as if it had not moved for a while. Then he realised: it was broken. Well, he mused, that was the nature of machines: eventually, they fail. And no-one had worried about fixing it, since no players ever came to this section of the Arena.

With an effort, he climbed the tree and took a closer look at the camera. Yes, it was inoperative. He found the wires that connected it to the node; they were artfully painted to blend in with the colour of the tree.

He needed something to unscrew the camera and its platform from the tree. He tore a button from his Tribute uniform and started work. It wasn't easy, but after an hour's effort he had managed to dislodge the camera, its platform, and the wires. He pulled the wires off the tree; they went into the ground, and when he pulled he found that they were only a dozen centimetres under the soil.

He continued to follow the wires, pulling them up, and eventually reached the node: the unit that provided power to the camera and received its transmissions, had it been working. It was hidden in a hollowed-out tree stump. Other wires led away from the node, presumably to more cameras.

Carefully, he detached the wires of the broken camera from the node. So now he had about fifty metres of wire. Could be useful.

He returned to his tree and began to dismantle the camera. The external housing, once removed, was about the size of a bowl, although rectangular. There was another strip of metal with a narrow end, which would make a better screwdriver than the button. He began to bend and twist the other end of the strip, until it broke, leaving a jagged edge. It was sharp enough so he could use it to cut and splice the wire.

The sky was beginning to darken. Several kilometres away, a glow suddenly appeared. It was the Cornucopia. It was, he remembered, lit by floodlights at night; there must be some sort of monitor that turned them on when the light faded to a particular level. He took note of the location.

In the dusk, he gathered a dozen of the broadest, smoothest leaves he could find, using some of the wire to shape them into funnels. He attached them in a series to the upper side of the tree that was his shelter, sloping downwards, pointing towards the housing on the ground. Like putting together the switches in a television, one leading to another leading to another leading to a collector unit, he thought.

A cannon shot, and then, a few seconds later, another. He shivered, and it was not due to the gathering cold. He crawled into the hollow. This is probably going to be your last night alive, he told himself. Let's hope the end, when it comes, will be quick. Let's hope it's not Trask.

There was another series of cannon shots. He closed his eyes.

It had been at the television studio where all the Tributes had been interviewed by the star of the moment, Jerome a'la Sinclair. Beetee had been standing on the side of the stage, out of camera range, as Serena was interviewed.

"Well, I must say," a'la Sinclair was saying, "that you are certainly one of the best-looking Tributes I have ever had the pleasure of interviewing. You almost make me want to switch to girls!"

Everybody laughed as a'la Sinclair wiggled his eyebrows at the audience. Serena laughed as well, and said: "It wouldn't be the first time I've had that effect, Jerome!" As she laughed, her ample breasts, hardly covered by her gown, rocked back and forth. A'la Sinclair wiggled his eyebrows again, and made a show of mopping his brow.

"But we are here to talk about the 41st Hunger Games," he said. "Tell me, Serena, as a representative of District 3, what is your strategy?"

"My strategy," said Serena, "is to make the best use of the talents I have."

"Ah," said a'la Sinclair. "And just what talents would those be?"

"Oh, I can't tell you that!" said Serena. "After all, this is a family show!"

More laughs.

"But seriously," said Serena, "surely no-one would want to get rid of – " she gestured to herself – "all this!"

When the interview finished, Serena bounced across the stage, and a'la Sinclair said to the camera, in a mock whisper: "I'm so sorry, Dennis!"

Then it was Beetee's turn. Except that Beetee couldn't remember any of what he was supposed to say, as he bumbled and stuttered through the interview. The only thing he could recall was when a'la Sinclair asked him about his work in District 3, and then Beetee could explain his ideas for super-conductive wire. But he had only just begun to talk about the technical issues involved when a'la Sinclair was hustling him off the stage, and announcing the next Tribute, Trask of District One.

But as Trask was coming on, Beetee walked into him. Not just a casual bump, but a whole-hearted, full-steam-ahead collision. So hard that Trask went down. On his butt. Beetee would have gone down too, except that he grabbed a shiny curtain. Which then came down … and went over Trask. He threw it off and jumped up, shouldering Beetee aside and striding over to a'la Sinclair.

"I can guarantee," Trask boomed, "that I will make a point of killing that guy! Killing him slow!"

"Oh, then we have something special to look forward to," said a'la Sinclair.

Beetee's eyes snapped open. Instinctively, he took his glasses out of his pocket and put them on – probably unnecessary, since it was still dark and he was lying in a hollow under a tree-trunk.

But, he noticed, it was getting lighter. Dawn was breaking. He had slept the entire night.

And there was a sound: drip, drip, drip. He levered himself out of the hollow and picked up the bowl, which was nearly full of water. He drank.

His stomach growled. He needed something to eat, especially as he was going to have to run, or maybe fight, today.

A bird flashed by. It landed on the branch of a tree and began to peck at the berries there.

Beetee had seen the berries before. He knew that there were many types of berries in the Arena, and most – although not all – were poisonous. But if the bird was eating them, then this type must be safe.

He pulled one from a branch and tried it. It did not taste particularly good but it did not seem to have any adverse effect on him. He collected some more and ate them. He put some into a leaf, which he folded into a packet that he could carry.

After that, he sat down to consider his position. He had had water, food, and rest. He had some assets: the camera components, a basic tool, some wire, and … well, that was it.

There was a cannon shot. A minute later, there was another, and then another. That probably meant that the second-tier players were all gone. So the Ones and Twos, and whatever allies they had, would be after him soon, as well as any other also-rans still alive. And when they found him, he would have no chance. They would dispatch him without a second thought. Hardly worth worrying about, just making up the numbers.

He could try to run, try to hide. Eventually, they would find him. He did not know how to cover his tracks, and they could move faster than him. It was just a question of arithmetic, and time. The vast and insistent machinery of the Hunger Games, which designated him to be a victim.

He picked up the camera. It was broken. A machine. That was broken. Because machines break. So maybe the outcome, and his fate, was not inevitable after all. Or maybe the inevitability was not about the machine operating, but about it breaking. Not doing what it was supposed to do. Like a weakling from District 3, who was not following the instructions, the plan, the script. Not dying. Not quickly and quietly, at any rate.

He picked up his meagre collection of supplies and headed towards the Cornucopia.

Part II

Beetee was lying in the undergrowth of the treeline, studying the Cornucopia. There were seven people there that he could see, including Trask and Serena. Yes, as Beetee had expected, they had formed an "alliance". You had to hand it to the girl: when she had said she would use the assets she had, she had not been joking.

He was quite sure that any one of them, including Serena, would beat him in a stand-up fight. So … that was to be avoided.

As he watched, three of the group walked into the treeline and vanished into the forest. About an hour later, there was a cannon shot. In another hour, the trio came back, looking pleased with themselves. The group sat down to cook themselves a nice lunch.

Beetee ate some of his berries. They were juicy enough to prevent dehydration, after the dew-water he had had earlier. Staying in the undergrowth, he began to circle the Cornucopia clearing, aiming for the area where the three hunters had entered. Eventually, he found the spot, and then began to look around.

After an hour, he found the body, in a little clearing. It was a young Tribute from, he thought, District 12. He did not even know the girl's name. She had been speared, repeatedly. A colourful performance from the hunters. Good for the ratings.

"I don't think you had much of a chance when you were alive," he said the corpse. "But maybe you can get some payback now."

He propped the body against a tree. In front of it, he gathered as many dry leaves and twigs as he could find, and did what he had planned to do.

As he headed back to the other side of the clearing, to where he had been before, there were more cannon shots. Not long now.

He estimated that it would take them an hour to get to the site where the 12's body was, and an hour to get back, considerably less at a run. He waited, and watched the Tributes in the Cornucopia.

The sun was beginning to get low. Then it happened. A whisper of smoke curled into the sky, from the far side of the clearing. Like a campfire.

The Tributes saw it too. They knew that it was from the area where they had killed the 12 earlier in the day – so how could there be a campfire there? As Beetee watched, they talked and argued. Then six of them gathered up weapons and headed in the direction of the smoke.

Damn, thought Beetee. He had counted on all of them going. But one had stayed behind, presumably to guard the supplies.

Nevertheless, he began to creep towards the Cornucopia. As he drew closer, he realised he had been mistaken about its construction. He had thought that it was all metal, but in fact only the circular base and the main walls in the centre were metal. The roof was made of a flexible canvas-type fabric, stretched between wooden poles.

He finally reached the Cornucopia. The sole guard, holding a machete, was on the far side, looking towards the plume of smoke.

Beetee wondered what would happen when the other six reached it – any time now. They would probably study the site for a while, maybe circle it. Eventually, they would probably spear the person 'sitting' against the tree, and then enter the little clearing. They would look at the campfire, and they would see a piece of glass – the lens of a camera – held up by a piece of stiff wire. When the sun had reached a particular spot in the sky, the lens had focused the rays onto the dry leaves, and created a fire. Hopefully, they would wonder what it meant, and would waste more time trying to work out which of them was to blame. Then they would realise that the point had been to draw them away from the Cornucopia.

As Beetee crept across the floor of the Cornucopia, he came across a mace-like club. He picked it up, wondering if he would be strong enough to use it. He stood up behind the guard, and raised the mace –

And the Tribute turned. It was a young boy, younger even than Beetee. For a moment, Beetee stood paralysed.

Then the boy slashed out with the machete. The blade caught Beetee on the side, and as he cried out in pain and surprise the mace came down. It whacked into the boy on the side of the head. He fell, unconscious, rolling off the platform of the Cornucopia and onto the ground.

Beetee looked towards the plume of smoke. It was gone. So they had snuffed it out, and now they would be on their way back, probably at speed.

He tried to ignore the pain in his side and the blood staining his uniform. He searched for the node unit that would control the Cornucopia's floodlights. He found it, and pulled his stock of wire and his screwdriver/blade from his pocket. He looked up. The sun was setting.

Hurry, he told himself.

It was thirty minutes later when Trask and the others burst from the treeline, running for the Cornucopia.

Another few minutes, said Beetee to himself, as he worked desperately. He glanced towards the treeline, to where he had hidden before. He had vaguely planned to make a run for it in that direction, but he realised now that they would be on him before he could reach cover. So if that had been his escape plan … well, no good now.

He could hear them shouting, and they could see him as well as the unconscious guard – who was now beginning to stir. One of them had a bow, and fired, but it was a long shot, and the light was failing. The arrow went zipping past Beetee's head, hitting one of the wooden poles and lodging there. It cut one of the ropes, which suddenly flew free in the wind, the canvas roof flapping like a loose sail.

And then Trask and his allies were there, in front of Beetee. Two of them helped the guard to his feet, and the seven of them stood there, looking at him. Serena smiled a just-so smile.

"No-one kills him but me," said Trask. He drew a battle-axe from a holster at his waist.

Beetee searched for something to say, some witty or noble, but nothing came.

"Hey, what's all this stuff?" said one of them, pointing at the coil of wire which snaked from the floodlights node to the metal floor of the Cornucopia, running right around it.

Beetee saw Serena stare at it. Then she looked up at him. Then she looked around. It was nearly dark.

"Damn," she said.

Beetee heard a click from the node unit: the switch for the floodlights. Desperately, he grabbed for the flicking rope. And then he was off his feet, clutching at the wooden pole.

The lights came on. Suddenly, the metal floor was alive with current. For the Tributes standing on it, their thin shoes offered no protection. There was a crack and a flash as the power node overloaded, and a single scream, and the smell of frying flesh. The lights blinked out.

Got 'em, said Beetee to himself as he lowered himself back to the floor. All seven of them.

He counted the bodies. Six. He counted again. Where was Serena?

She came up behind him, her arm going around his neck and tightening in a grip of iron. She must have leaped off the platform as soon as she realised what was going to happen, he thought. Smart.

"I guess I should thank you," she said into his ear. "For getting rid of them. But somehow I just can't bring myself to say it."

He could feel consciousness slipping away from him. His arms flailed around. One hand hit something.

The arrow, still sticking in the pole.

He grasped it, wrenching it from the wood. He rammed it into Serena's thigh.

She cried out in pain and let him go, jumping back.

He turned to face her, gasping for breath. She was wounded now, blood streaming from her leg. She needed a weapon. Her eyes flicked towards the machete. She made a leap for it, sliding across the metal floor. She reached it.

But then a wire snaked around her neck – not thick but strong. It cut into her flesh.

"Don't," she managed to gasp. "If you don't, I'll … do anything you want … anything … "

"The thing is," said Beetee, as he pulled the wire tighter, "that I don't want anything from you. Except for you to die."

She gave a last gasp, as blood flowed from her throat. Beetee let go of the wire, and Serena fell to the ground. She was dead.

In the darkness, he slumped to his knees, exhausted. There was a sound – was it thunder? No, it was a series of cannon shots. Seven.

After a while – he didn't know how long – there was a light shining down on him, and on the Cornucopia. It was a helicopter. It landed, and Jerome a'la Sinclair, with a television crew in tow, came running up to him.

"Beetee Latier, you have won the 41st Hunger Games!" he said. "And in spectacular fashion! What do you have to say, right at this moment? It is traditional, as you know, for the victor to be granted a request in his moment of glory. So what do you have to say, to the President and the Capital?"

Beetee looked at the star. Then he said: "I ask only that the workers of District 3 be allowed to keep some of what they make."

And so it was.

Coda

Beetee was standing in his office, looking down at the city and wondering, not for the first time, how much of the light and colour was due to his inventions.

His phone rang. He flicked it open and checked the number. It was one that was used only very seldom. He pushed the button to receive the call.

"It's time," said Haymitch. "She doesn't know."

Beetee considered it for a long moment. Then he said: "Good."

END