FAILURE TO COMPLY ┃ f. odair

1.9 concrete jungle

Opening her eyes fully seemed like an impossible task with the sun trying its best to burn off her skin before she'd even fully risen. Calypso heard all the podiums click into place, and then the real countdown began. 60... 59... 58...

As her eyes adjusted, the world around her finally came into view. It was as colourless as her outfit, all shades of grey and dull brown. Dust blew through the air, creating the illusion of thin mist of the ground. But it wasn't a desert. Huge buildings, some appearing to be seven or eight stories high, surrounded them in every direction, worn and crumbling and, in some cases, nothing more than the foundations they used to stand on. Walls had fallen, windows had smashed, entire buildings had tilted as if ready to topple.

44... 43... 42...

In the centre of their circle of podiums stood the cornucopia, a large metal construct supported on all sides with large blocks of lazily stacked concrete. It was on here that weapons were stacked: knives, swords, axes, clubs, bows and arrows. They were spoiled really, but there was a distinct lack of anything else. There were no bags for survival supplies, no containers of food and water.

These games were intended to be short.

17... 16... 15... Calypso managed to capture Maisie's eye across the way, only an impossible distance and soon-to-be bloodbath between them. To her very left stood Payton, dangerously close, and he'd also spotted his district counterpart. The look he gave her screamed that Maisie's life was already on the line. 3... 2... 1...

She shot off the podium within a millisecond of the final counter, half-fearing she'd been too early and would be blown to smithereens. But that quickness had allowed her the smallest head start as she ran for the centre, eyes now locked on a belt of knives placed conveniently at her front. She ran, collided with the concrete, grabbed the knives and then launched herself back into movement, not daring to take a moment to breathe.

"Caly-" a voice called out, familiar and panicked. Her gaze turned to the right, almost tempted to leave them behind. Poet hadn't made it to his chosen weapon. With a slice in his arm, he stumbled towards her with Harrison Garrick in tow. "Calypso!"

Harrison swung his axe wildly, barely missing Poet's head, Another swing, the Eleven boy cried out and stumbled again. Calypso searched for Maisie but she'd already gotten lost in the fray. There was only what was in front of her in that moment, and so she flung a knife towards the career tribute, missing but giving Poet just enough time to scamper her way.

With an arm around his waist, the pair ran for their lives with no direction except away from the cornucopia. Poet groaned and heaved as they moved. The blood from whatever wound he'd sustained was slowly coating her supportive hand. But they moved until the sounds of gutting and bludgeoning were left far behind them.

It was five minutes until the cannons came. One. Two. Three... Counting them up, Calypso and Poet both grimaced as they ended on nine. They'd ducked into a building, climbing two flights of stairs despite the obvious trail of blood they left behind. The cityscape was expansive, from what little they'd seen of it, obscured by a fog-like dust that threatened to steal their breath with each one they took.

"Nine," Poet exhaled, breath heavy and shuddering. A thin layer of sweat coated them both from the sun's unrelenting heat, but it was the rising greyness of his skin and shuddering of his body that was most cause for concern. He readjusted himself against the wall, gazing out the opposite open wall torn down by the elements. It was nothing but grey on grey concrete with an ugly yellow wash from the natural light above. "I didn't think it would be so many."

"They call it a bloodbath for a reason," Calypso replied gently. Her fingers pried the material of his jacket away from where it was wrapped around his waist to examine the wound once more. The slice was deep and oozed blood, clotting enough at the surface to slow it down but not to stop it. If he didn't bleed out, he'd probably die of an eventual infection. If not that, he'd still be dead weight.