I put on the last training outfit in the wardrobe, and it isn't long before a hovercraft appears to take me to the Launch Room. I step onto the ladder that is dropped down, forcing myself not to look back as I do. This is no time to dwell on the past.
As soon as I place my foot onto a rung, an air current freezes me to it, preventing me from falling or jumping or getting off. Another way to ensure that no tribute escapes – whether it secures our life or ends it.
I'm shivering in these thin clothes by the time I reach the top, but I remind myself it'll be worse in the arena, when we are either dying of thirst from the heat, or frigid cold, and I try to make myself deal with it..
A woman dressed in medical clothing approaches me. No, no, no, no, no. I've seen enough Games to understand what's coming next.
It's confirmed when she pulls out the large needle. "This is your tracker," she tells me, a lot more calmly than she should, considering what she's holding. I'm paralyzed with terror as she inserts it deep into my forearm. I grit my teeth to stop myself from screeching in front of everyone. There's a beep and a flash of light as she inserts the tracker deep under my skin, then she pulls the needle out.
I release the tense breath I've been holding, but even as she moves onto the other tributes, I can't help rubbing my fingers obsessively over the spot where she set it in. The pain has long since subsided, but I feel an odd urge to do it. The repetitive motions keep me from thinking too much about my death.
I'm the first tribute in, so I take a seat as the vehicle collects the rest. I sit in silence, the only noise being that of the rapidly spinning propeller until the rest arrive.
We're all soon collected in the hovercraft, and it heads out in the direction opposite the Tribute Center. I peek out through the glass pane embedded in the side, watching the building slowly shrink away until it is nothing but a small dot in the distance. I can't believe that the tiny speck had seemed so big just a few days earlier.
No one speaks throughout the entire journey, except for a few hushed words exchanged between the attendants. I keep my eyes cast down, contemplating my final plans for the Games. I've only got a couple of hours left. My time is running out faster than ever, a cascade of water steadily flowing straight into a drain.
The windows darken, and it doesn't take long to put it together that we're almost at the arena. Only a few minutes until they set us out far beneath the grounds in the catacombs to get ready for the launch. I find myself counting the passing seconds in an attempt to stop myself from overthinking it.
The doors are opened, and the ladder dropped down once again into a tube that leads underground to the Launch Room. I descend slowly and shakily. If it weren't for the current, I doubt I could have held on.
In my area, where the tube led to, there is a change of clothes my size and a zippered coat that's practically paper-thin already set out. It's not much, but it'll have to do. It'll become precious in the arena, no doubt. Probably the clothes I will wear to my death.
"One minute," a smooth electronic voice says. That's how much longer I have left until I have my first glimpse of the arena. One more minute until I am shooting up into the Games, fighting for survival. One more minute left of freedom – if you call this freedom, anyway. And then that's it. Because I know that even if I somehow manage to escape this nightmarish horror of the Games, I'll always be a slave of the new government. Just like the Victors had been slaves of the Capitol before the war.
"Thirty seconds," comes the voice again. It's like a bomb, the time ticking away until it explodes, bringing destruction to everything in its path. Like the one that killed my sister. And the metaphorical one that will be my end.
"Ten seconds."
I swallow back my fear and step into the tube that will bring me to the arena. I count off the rest of the seconds in my head, and the final three are simultaneous with the ones from the computer voice.
There were some rides like this at amusement parks – a concept designed by our ancestors where one would risk their lives for thrill and fun. I've never been a fan of those things. What's to like, rapidly rising into the sky, feeling like your stomach has been left behind on the ground? But this time, I can hardly even think about the sensation that it gives me, too busy thinking about the Games.
It's getting lighter outside of the glass, and the warmth is noticeable in the hovercraft. We must be nearing ground level. I get a glimpse of grass as the platform comes to a halt at the post where I will start. It's time.
—
The arena is breathtaking. Luscious plants growing everywhere, perfectly ripe fruit sprouting from the trees, a Cornucopia fully stocked with all the weapons you could imagine, crystal-clear streams scattered throughout the area of the clearing, birds twittering and singing, a meadow of flowers in front of me.
Focus. I can't get distracted right now. I can't trust them. I have no clue what they've done to the arena to make it dangerous for us. They're unpredictable, and I can't assume that everything is going to be easy. They've probably changed the arena just enough from the original version so that we won't be able to guess what's real and what's not. Nothing is what it is at first glance. Especially not this.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-sixth Hunger Games begin!"
60. 59. 58.
The numbers flash on the screen above the golden Cornucopia set in the middle of the clearing in the forest, a distance equal from each tribute's starting point. I want to run, to get in there and collect my supplies before anyone can get their hands on them.
36. 35. 34.
Every atom in my body is screaming at me to go, itching to move, to hide from the presences of the rest of the tributes standing on their posts who are almost all much older and surely more domineering than I am.
13. 12. 11.
Ten seconds until the Games officially start. The instant I've been dreading is almost here. Not much longer left.
3. 2. 1.
The gong rings loudly. In an instant, I've sprung from my platform, stepping onto the floor of the arena for the first time.
Yes, I think. Let the Games begin.
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The Sound of Falling Snow | A Hunger Games Fanfiction
Fanfiction[Rated mature due to violence, death, and blood.] This is a "what if" take on the ending of Mockingjay, written as a fanfiction, if something else had happened at the end. Please note that this is in no way officially connected to the original trilo...
