Tribute ✔

8- The Oasis

"How long until it's ready to move?"

"Little less than a fortnight. It should be over by then."

"This year... I've never hoped for it to end as quickly."

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He'd been travelling for two days and he needed some fucking water. The faint clink of the cantine in his backpack was almost mocking him with every step he took, and if it wasn't for Shoto's voice ringing in his head to stay focused and trust him, he would have wandered off and searched wherever he felt like. But, Shoto wouldn't have led him on a false trail, not after everything, and the arena would have to end eventually... Right?

The sun was out for most of the day, so he stuck to shadows to find some reprieve from it. He wasn't a stranger to heat, his small experience in the mines had left him with his shirt sticking to him every day, grime and soot never fully leaving his skin even after scrubbing for hours. He was grateful for the clothes he had on, they were fitting but light enough that he didn't overheat. But he was hungry, the few crackers only putting off his hunger yet never fully satiating it, and the lack of water would soon get to his head, making him vulnerable to nearby Tributes. 

He'd only seen three in the past few days, when he was looking out from his hideout that night. Just as he'd pulled out his sleeping bag, faint voices gradually coming closer made him sit upright, hand clenched with white knuckles around his small blade as he crawled over to the window. From his third-story view he spied both District 6 tributes and one from 9, most likely a pack of allies planning to hunt down Tributes until they fought each other to the death. The idea made him sick, made him think of Shitty Hair and his dumb smile.

He would only stick with Kirishima if it kept them both alive; if it came to the Final Four they would part ways, not lay a hand on each other. He hoped his ally shared this same thought. 

The Tributes each had medium-sized backpacks, munching on a packet of crackers just like his own and something that looked like dried beef. It was similar to the jerky and bones they gave to stray dogs in the Seam back in 12, the thought making his gut churn. Thankfully he remained unnoticed, and the three Tributes soon disappeared. 

It frustrated him, the way his body froze and breath halted at the sight of the other Tributes, those traces of confidence completely disappearing. His measly knife his only defence besides his own fists; he desperately wanted to find something bigger. An axe, preferably...

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He was fucking close, he could feel it. Well, it was either that or the beginning of dehydration. What he was getting close to he had no fucking idea, but he hoped it was something worthwhile. The Cornucopia and its plentiful supply of resources was far behind him, and with Day 4 of the games coming to an end he was one of 12 tributes left. There had only been another death, a single canon going off and he was sprinting it between two large crumbling skyscrapers. It scared the life out of him, and he spent what felt like an hour hiding and waiting for the sound of fighting nearby.

He knew that one death would not be enough entertainment for the Gamesmakers and the Capitol, the bastards who were betting on how kids would die and how. He was waiting for something unnatural to happen, like a hoard of mutant apes or burning blood rain reigning down hell on them. That was just the start of the twisted fun of the Gamesmakers, the deaths always slow and painful. 

So far he'd managed to survive just fine, and he wondered if Shoto had anything to do with it. The silence was unnerving, but the emptiness kept him safe. 

It was nearing sunset and he needed a place to sleep for the night. But the farther he travelled the less hiding spots there were, the buildings smaller and lower. This meant he was sleeping less, spending more time barricading himself in and never lowering his guard. His night-vision glasses did provide a little more security. He really fucking wanted to find whatever Shoto had guided him towards.

The sky was reaching a warm amber glow when he saw it, a distinct glisten to the ground that was a stark contrast to the dry and dusty rock he'd been walking on all day. It reflected the sunrays and almost made his eyes sting but he pushed through and broke into a run, his heart rate rising. The closer he became, the more he realised he really wasn't imagining this shit. 

It was water. A fucking ton of it. 

He must have been at the edge of the arena by now, if the scarce branches of forestry that began to span on forever was any indicator. Small rivers of water came together into a small lake, probably going up to his waist in the deepest part. As he came to a stop his throat felt drier than ever, and he cast a quick glance around before dropping to his knees, pulling off his backpack and filling his cantine with water. It looked clean and clear, but he put in a purifying tablet just in case. Shoto would probably frown at him if he got too carried away.

Shoto. What kind of contacts did he have to get this kind of information? To know the exact location of what was possibly one of few or even the only water source in the whole fucking arena? It wasn't an impossible thought, but Bakugou guessed he was likely a son of some rich elite who hadn't fallen into the Capitol's fantasy. Was it just him? The way he spoke sometimes made it seem like there was more like him, more who saw a different future to the games and were working to make that happen. 

"A whole new world" is what Pretty Boy told him before he entered the box, as if that didn't leave him with more fucking questions. He really needed to win and get out of this place as soon as possible. It was a dark thought but he hoped the other Tributes picked each other off or died of natural causes by the end of the week. The damned nerd once said the shortest games lasted 4 days, a frozen wasteland where most of the kids died from hypothermia. An arena like that hadn't been repeated, apparently not enough entertainment for the rich bastards watching down on them like fucking freaks, test subjects to press and prod for their own sick amusement.

Fuck, this water was really clearing his head huh?

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"You found it." a relieved voice echoed in the quiet room, cold and empty despite the ornate desk, floor to ceiling windows and soft silk bedding.