futile || cato's story ✔️

bloodbath

Sixty seconds.

My feet are sturdy on the metal plate. Eyes planted on the heart of the Cornucopia. All that matters is being the first to arrive, the first armed, the first to kill. We'd made boasts and bets on who would get first kill. Of course, all of us think it will be us. I'm sure it will be Clove or I. Our fellow allies are strong enough, but nobody has better resolve than Two.

Forty-five.

There are supplies scattered all around, but I want what's at the center. And it's mine for the taking. I'm externally aware that we're in a generic field surrounded by forest. My mind lingers only briefly on what this means.

Thirty-five.

Trees will provide cover for hiding tributes. The forest will probably be riddled with food and water too if they know how to find it. Unfortunate that this will likely help the lower-level districts survive longer underneath our radar. But it just makes the game more interesting.

Twenty.

A quick glance around to see where allies and enemies will approach from. A smirk and nod from an, as anticipated, distracted Glimmer. The slightest glance at my district partner, but she's locked in. I return my focus to the mouth of weapons. Numerous swords and spears. A feast designed just for me.

Without even thinking about it, the ring of the gong sends me flying to them. I do reach the horn first, and begin to gather my weapons, choosing a long, sturdy blade as my primary and hanging a spare sword and bar mace from my belt. In these few seconds others are already on the ground, my fellow allies having opted first for weapons throughout the field. With how many bodies are already on the ground, I can't help but laugh at our earlier thought of possibly knowing who was first.

All that matters now is my first, stupidly approaching now, naïve to think that she could make off with those supplies alive. I swing my sword and bring her down in one before moving further out into the field, locking on my next target. He's distracted by another brawl near him. I approach from behind with an amused smile at his obliviousness, switching to the jagged serrated sword from my waist. I'm ready to give the viewers quite a show when he turns suddenly, another tribute having also found an interest. He beats me to it, stabbing the boy, who gasps and squeaks, a docile animal caught unawares, one blade thrusted through his back and another so shockingly staring him down. I make short work of gutting him with my sword. Before his other assailant can turn to run I'm on him, dropping the serrated sword-- not quite my taste-- and slitting his neck with the smoother, sturdy blade.

At this point the fighting has died down. My adrenaline is still soaring as I observe the final few tributes falling to their deathbeds or disappearing into the trees. I begin to tally my kills in my head as I return to the cornucopia, where there's one more victim in hiding.

Max, one of my allies from Four. Weaker than the rest of us from the start. He's small, sniveling, weak, and without the excuse of so many others of being young and reaped. He's the same as us, eighteen and a volunteer, but clearly a last resort one. His weakness is dangerous. But mainly it's seeing him here quivering in the horn rather than fighting and bearing the consequences like the rest of us that fills me with rage. No one deserves not to play at this point, especially someone from his district. I make quick work of ending him with the mace, and as the others approach they voice no objection.

Panting slightly from frustration more than exertion and with a permanent scowl, I follow them to the lake so the bodies can be collected.

"What's with you?" Clove mutters, wiping somebody's blood from her face.

I shake my head and shrug, nothing. Just a few minutes in the arena and I'm already boiling with an antsy rage. So many more I could've taken out today. So many skipping through those trees. So many days between me and home and victory.