Of gory showers and wimpy Careers

A/N: My entry to the HG Bloodbath, for the prompt: "Write a short story about what you would grab from the cornucopia and why." This ended up being longer than I intended, but eh. Feel free to be as mean as you want.

Warning: Contains language, blood and wiggly blue Afros.

~*~

You have sixty seconds to die.

The cornucopia gleams before me, like the horn of a unicorn--skewered off the poor animal's head before it could flee, I think. Its tail curves upwards, in a scorpion-like fashion and I find myself marveling at how ... apt that sounds, considering the circumstances. The cornucopia is life; the cornucopia is death.

Take your pick, I think sardonically. One of the last choices you'll make, probably.

Forty-five seconds.

I scan the horizon keenly in an attempt to drink in as much of my surroundings as I can--as quickly as I can. All the tributes around me are doing the same; some are already taking stance, ready for the moment our time is up. My legs are shaking and the perspiration drips like heavy summer showers down my forehead, but I ignore it. I stare at the cloudless sky; it stretches out above our heads like a silk tapestry; but dragging my eyes downwards, my pulse skitters, and I feel like I'm drowning.

Mountains. The one word fills me with dread. I've never seen the like of them, carving through the sky like gargoyles, their jagged teeth threatening to rip us apart. Pine trees are perched like toothpicks and there is no sign of water.

Thirty-five seconds.

I try to ignore the heavy feeling of despair that envelops my lungs in a chrysalis and eye the contents scattered on the slightly flatter ground, surrounding the cornucopia. Nothing much of importance, I think, as my eyes dart from object to object. I swear half of those objects were the ones my district supplied to the Capitol, even the neon orange sleeping bag that lies a few meters from where I'm standing now. Utterly useless, I can't help thinking. I'd be spotted and killed in less than a day with that thing. My eyes land on a spear; a dark-ish cloak; a green-and-brown, canvas knapsack; a piece of useless foot-long rope; a dog that bounds along, yelping and barking. Nothing that will really keep me alive, but I know I won't dare to try and run for the horn itself. I might be a Career, but I am not ready for this. I can't fight like the others, with their feral attitude and drive to win. I'm a wimp. A wimp. A--

Zero seconds. The gong resonates through the arena.

Run.

I trip over my feet, the blood rushing through my veins and hammering at my skull like brass cymbals. The other tributes are knocking each other aside; a girl with long braids and a face like a pug is lashing out at everyone in reach, and scarlet rivers splatter the green. I stagger slightly, slipping over the dewy grass, utterly confused. I have no strategy, no tactics, nothing whatsoever. I grab the knapsack I saw earlier--it's strangely heavy for some reason--and run, as fast as I can, away from the cornucopia: towards the sparse pine-woods, a cave, or maybe up a mountain. Anywhere, I think desperately. Anywhere but here. I sprint, the distance between me and the other tributes increasing, but suddenly, a hand comes out of nowhere and all I can see is a glint of silver before I yelp and fling the bag at the tribute's face.

Riiip. The tribute drives the knife straight through the bag and I stand, terrified, my feet frozen in place. It's Pugface, the very same girl I saw before, and she steps towards me, a cruel smile unfolding over her flabby features. She takes one look at me and whistles through her teeth.

'Well, what'd you know? A wimpy Career!' Her eyes flash and she raises the knife once more. 'Guess I'll just have to dispose of you,' she says, cackling.

What happens next is a combination of both miracle and just plain scary. I swear my heart has never thudded so fast, and nothing makes sense except for the ringing in my ears. Out of sheer impulse, I duck; flattening my body against the grass I kick out at Pugface, who staggers and falls, taken by surprise. Her knife falls to the ground. My hand reaches out for the torn canvas bag before I take hold of the knife's carved handle. I straighten up quickly along with Pugface, who is swearing profusely.

'Bitch,' she hisses, and then roars, charging towards me like a bull. I dodge, stepping to the side deftly, but a split second too late; Pugface's boulder-like fist comes into contact with my chin. I gasp. My vision is blurry and I can feel the blood flood my mouth; it tastes like bitter metal. A strange sort of anger rises within me and I strike out with the knife like a mad-man; satisfaction fills my soul as I hear Pugface cry out in pain. I want to hurt her--so very, very badly. I want to rip apart her skin and cause her pain.

Pain. Pain. Pain.

I strike, I swipe, I jab and I scream. My chest is heaving and I have no clue what is happening around me or how much blood has been shed. Pug-face clutches at her stomach, the blood pooling around her. Her face is drawn and paler than the moon. But I don't care. Hell, I don't care.

I raise the knife for the final blow, but someone stronger than me has seized me by the wrist. I struggle against their grip, but this tribute whoever-he-is is just so damn strong.

'Enough,' he says quietly, dark eyes peering into mine. 'She's dead already.'

'Who the hell do you think you are?' I spit at him vehemently. 'These are the Games and I can kill who the bloody heck I want! You might be my district partner but--'

'But what?' he says calmly.

I don't respond but glare at him instead. Out of all the Careers, my district partner--DM his name is--is the only one who's tried to help me in any way. I suppose I should ally myself with him and that includes agreeing to at least part of what he says. I sigh resignedly before saying, 'Alright. I won't kill her.'

A brief smile of approval flashes across DM's face. 'Good,' he says. 'Now let's get out of here before the Capitol picks that up.' He jerks a thumb towards Pugface's now still body, and I nod at him, wondering just when we decided that we'd be sticking together. Probably one of those mindless times he droned on about tactics and survival skills, while I was too busy pondering over the thought of dying. It's only then that I realize how dark it's gotten, and that it's quiet--almost eerily so. I'm still clutching the canvas bag in my left hand and I wonder how it'll even help me survive. What could it possibly contain? Supplies? Medicine? I frown slightly before hoisting the bag onto my shoulder. I look at DM, alias my new "partner," and ask: "Where to?"

"Mountains," he says shortly before grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me, not so gently, into the forest of thrashing pine-needles. As we disappear into the darkness, I glance back at Pugface's corpse and a sickening pang of realization hurtles through me.

My first kill.

*

It feels like it's been days since the bloodbath, but in reality it has been a little more than five hours. DM and I trekked through the forest before giving ourselves up to a torturous climb; despite being sheltered by pine trees the entire way, I begin sweating before we arrive at our destination: a rocky ledge. And it is here that we're hiding now, in a small cave with a narrow opening, half-hidden by foliage. I plop down on the floor with a clang, and the sudden sound of metal striking rock rouses me from my exhaustion.

Wait ... metal?

My eyes widen as I remember the one thing I managed to scavenge during the blood-bath. The canvas bag. I pull it into my lap and run my finger down the torn fabric. DM lazily opens an eye from where he sits on my opposite side, legs splayed out. 'You gonna open that?' he says.

I merely grunt in response before opening the knapsack rather unceremoniously. We sit there in silence, staring at the contents of the bag. My mouth falls open with disappointment.

It's a lamp. An old, metallic, Aunt Georgia's mantelpiece lamp. A useless piece of trash, I think. A stream of curses fly through my brain. I risked my life for this? A stupid lump of metal? I can feel the anger and frustration well up inside me again and my eyes are burning.

'Stupid,' I whisper. 'Stupid, stupid, stupid.'

A single tear trickles down my cheek but that itself makes my skin feel like it's on fire. It splashes down against the rusty metal and I sob, more openly this time. My body is jerking like a heaving engine, and I toss the lamp aside so it hits the wall of the cave. I curl up into a ball, not caring that the Capitol could be watching this, not caring that people could be laughing and jeering at my display of weakness right now. I wonder how many people are betting on me to die by now ...

'Yo, you have reached the magical, cough, mechanical food-genie. What is it that you wish to order or whatever?'

I raise my head in surprise at the high-pitched voice. A faint cloud of smoke is issuing from the lamp and DM is on all-fours, kneeling down and staring at it excitedly.

'Look at this!' he says, and I swear his eyes are as large as saucers. I can't help but feel a bit annoyed, though I don't really know why. I crawl over to him and we stare at the tiny hologram figure. It huffs and crosses its arms, blue Afro jerking as it regards us carefully.

'What are you, vapid or something?' it demands impatiently. 'Gosh, just give me your order! Or if you need some time to think I'll just come back later.'

'Wait,' I say quickly, before the genie-thingy has time to disappear. 'Is this a three wishes kind of deal?'

Food Genie laughs. 'Hardly, darling,' it says. 'I'm here twenty-four seven; thy wish is my command-eth and all that flab.' It waves a manicured hand at us carelessly.

DM looks askance at me. 'It's a Food Genie,' he says. 'All it'll give us is food.'

I tap my chin, trying to think. This thing could actually keep us alive, but how on earth are we supposed to use it to fight? I realize that we have no weapons and a genie with a blue Afro certainly cannot be counted upon as an aid in battle. It can give us food, yeah, I argue with myself, but how can we use it against the other tributes? How can we use it to--dare I actually say it--win these games?

Then--a sudden spark. Blinking flood-lights. A smile hitches itself on my face at my sudden revelation.

'Poison,' I say.

'Pardon?' DM is staring at me quizically. Ah, yes. He wasn't following my internal narration.

'We ask the genie for poisoned food,' I explain, 'and we lay out a trap. Didn't you notice: this year, there was no food in the cornucopia. The tributes are expected to hunt for themselves, but I guess we got lucky.' My smile broadens and I can't help but laugh. 'Sooner or later, feeding on squirrel and tree-bark won't be enough and that's when the tributes will get desperate.'

'Desperate enough to eat the first bit of decent food they catch sight of?' DM sounds unconvinced. 'Won't they get suspicious, think something's up for food like that to appear out of thin air?'

I shake my head fervently. 'No, they won't.'

'And how can you be so cock-sure 'bout that?'

'Because there's no such thing as magic and if the food arrives, it'll arrive from the Capitol --'

'Via parachute. They'll never guess!' DM looks at me with something akin to admiration. 'We might be going somewhere with this,' he says.

I smile, and for just one moment, I'm glad I have him as a partner. I try to not think about the fact that I might have to kill him sooner or later, although that reality is tugging at the back of my mind.

Focus on the present, I tell myself. You can worry about that later.

The sound of coughing breaks through my thoughts as a blue Afro wiggles and a voice pops up, 'What'll it be then?'

'Poisoned turkey,' DM and I say in unison, grimly. The genie nods once, claps its hands twice and disappears.

Four hours later, I find myself flattened against the trunk of a tree, listening to the sound of fire crackling and voices that travel clearly through the frigid air. A silver parachute is nestled within the hollow of a tree, a few meters across from me, where DM placed it carefully, a short while ago. It's in plain sight; the other Careers--whom I'd stubbornly refused to ally myself with--couldn't possibly miss it. I hear laughter, a whoop, and a cry of, 'Man, the crowds must love us!' followed by the sound of scraping. I smile slightly, before slipping away cautiously; the darkness swallows me up like a shroud.

Let the games begin.