She never misses || XVII

1.2K 28 0
                                        

"They'll put everything you could want right in the mouth of the Cornucopia," Brutus said as we walked, his voice firm, almost casual. "Go for it. You're trained for this. Your allies will do the same."

I nodded, barely. My fingers twitched by my side. I'd practiced this scenario a hundred times—maybe more—but now it didn't feel like strategy anymore. It felt like blood waiting to happen.

"They'll even have bows and arrows there," he added. "If your first grab's not clean, don't panic. Adapt. The weaker tributes will bolt. Let 'em. You hold your ground."

I pressed my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Run. Don't run. Stay tight with the pack. Clove. Cato. Chris. I repeated their names in my mind like a mantra, clinging to the plan—but under that surface calm, my thoughts scattered like shrapnel.

Brutus hit the elevator button. "Water's your new best friend," he muttered.

Water. Right. Find it fast. It could kill just as easily as a blade. But I already knew that. We'd all seen tributes who didn't.

Then, casually—too casually—he said, "And don't step off the pedestal early, or they'll blow you sky-high."

"I wasn't planning on it," I said with a sharp smile, trying to make it look effortless. It didn't reach my eyes. The elevator pinged open, revealing a sleek transport docked inside, humming with cold metal and worse possibilities.

Brutus turned to me. For the first time, his eyes softened—just a little. "You've got this."

I looked past him toward the ship. My heart was thudding, but my face stayed still. "Thanks. For everything." I stepped in and gave him a quick, tight hug. He didn't hug back, but he didn't need to.

Then I pulled away and walked toward the ship, each footstep louder in my head than in the hallway.

"Good luck," he called.

I didn't turn around.

Because I'd need more than luck now.

I ascended the metal ramp, each footstep echoing across the loading bay like a countdown I couldn't stop. The hovercraft loomed ahead, sleek and silent—a vessel designed to carry us straight into the jaws of fate.

Inside, the air was sterile and cold. Clove was already seated, legs crossed, smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She looked smug, proud—even thrilled. Like this wasn't a death sentence. Like the Games were just another arena to conquer.

I loved her. But in that moment, I couldn't bear her excitement. Not when my own stomach was twisting into knots I couldn't untangle.

I slid into the empty seat beside her, the upholstery smooth and stiff beneath me. Above the chair, my name was plastered in sharp Capitol font—IRIS FOSTER, DISTRICT 2—as if it were my throne. As if they believed in me. As if I was already wearing the crown they couldn't wait to see stained with someone else's blood.

Clove bumped my shoulder lightly, her grin sharp enough to cut glass. I didn't smile back.

Let them think we were the Capitol's golden tributes. Let them bet on our strength.

But inside, my mind was already racing—because I knew what came next.

And I wasn't ready. Not really.

"Give me your arm," A technician instructed, her voice clipped and void of softness.

I watched as Rue flinched. The needle pierced her skin with practiced precision, and the tiny girl's shoulders tensed. Her eyes never met mine, but something in her expression lingered—quiet fear swallowed down with pride.

𝑆ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑚𝑖𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑠 ✔︎ || clove KentwellWhere stories live. Discover now