Author Games Compilation [Cycle 1]

Task 6 (First Version)

SHAY FROM THE FUTURE: So I saw this in my drafts, because I've been trying to post all those that are in here and I've been kinda hiding this forever, so I thought - why not? Mostly just posting this so I can stop avoiding it and saying "oh, this never happened."

I won't be rereading this at all before posting it, so if it's horrible, OOPSIES.

(The reason I didn't go with this version was because I was told by several people that it was very difficult to follow. However, they did say the beginning pulled them in, and I wish I would've found a way to incorporate it into the final product.)

***

Percy woke to a world drenched in darkness. His eyes snapped open, and he heard his own desperate wheeze before falling into a fit of violent coughing. Tight shackles chafed against his wrists, and he thrashed against the bed he lay in. Panic swelled within him. "Help!" he screamed. "Someone, help!"

Footsteps barreled down the hall and his door flew open. Nigel dashed to his side. Concern filled the stress-induced creases in his face. "What's wrong?"

Trapped, trapped, trapped. Percy's words crashed into each other like tidal waves, and anything that managed to escape his lips came out as an incoherent jumble.  They're controlling me. Terror rippled through him. He kicked violently, nearly striking Nigel. The brother seized Percy's arms in attempts to restrain him.

"Let me go!" he screeched. His voice came out hoarse and squeaky. Pathetic. Nigel ignored his pleas. Finally, a clarity fell across Percy's eyes and his struggles ceased. He wasn't trapped. What he thought had been shackles were only sheets entangling his arms. Gasping, he wrapped his fingers tightly around his beloved brother's wrist. "It happened again?"

Nigel gave him a sad smile, and helped him into a sitting position. "Like usual."He turned to the bedside table and began shuffling around the drawer, until he held a small, plastic bottle. He shook it, the little white objects inside rattling against each other. "Take these. They'll calm you down."

As Percy tossed the pills on his dry tongue, Nigel scurried about the room routinely. However, today was different. Today was the Reaping. Percy grimaced as he swallowed his daily dosage, the bitter taste overwhelming his taste-buds and reminding himself he wasn't normal, not since he'd been lifted out of that arena. Constant anxiety was normal for him, and fits weren't uncommon. Every night he'd wake with a start, always at its worst on the day of the Reaping. Each year, he'd discover who he'd mentor before they were sent to die.

There hadn't been a victor from Four since Percy. At first he bonded with tributes, only to have his heart ripped to shreds within mere seconds of the Games. Whether he would submit himself to the same painful experience this year, he hadn't decided. Whatever happened, he wasn't looking forward to it. What was there to look forward to?

Standing took a great effort. Tremors of pain spread through him as he slowly lifted himself from the bed he'd had so many nightmares in. He hated that bed with a passion. I hope someone accidentally catches it on fire.... The mention of fire sent a barrage of images flashing across his vision and he stumbled. Distract, and they'll leave.

However, they didn't leave. They were there as he dressed, as he trudged down the stairs, waiting for him to enter the sweltering heat of the district. They weaved around his brain, travelled through his veins, consumed him. The images came to life before him as he and Nigel traversed the beach. Sunlight gave the impression of flame, building an inferno out of waves. They licked and leapt at him, catching his jacket, journeying along his arms in a fiery trail that had materialized from his imagination, only stopping their trek when they reached his stomach.

Percy clawed at his shirt, yanking it up in trepidation. A large scar sat in the center of his otherwise unblemished skin. In seconds he was devoured by a vicious world, one much more palpable than his current reality.

Under and over, vines were weaved into a sturdy rope. From there, it became a simple knot well known, but rarely used. Percy added to it as he walked, more as a stress-reliever than anything. Maybe it could be a trap. Unlikely. Two of them were left. Akari had died sometime the night before. It was early morning now, and the only place left to go was the Cornucopia. The fact that he'd made it as far as he did still hadn't processed; it'd be easier to understand he was dead.

He arrived at the center faster than predicted. All there was left to do was wait. He tied one end of the rope he fashioned around a cylindrical container rooted in the ground. It had probably held weapons at one point, but those were gone, along with any supplies that had been there before. "That would make it too easy, wouldn't it?" Percy scoffed, standing back to examine his handiwork. No, the Capitol wanted a dramatic end to things. A slow end.

"Got that right," a disembodied voice said.

Percy sprung for his trident but was knocked down before he had the chance to get close. A body sat atop him, knife at his throat. Cold, grey eyes stared down. The last tribute: Ian Nighy. And as things were now, the odds were definitely in his favor. Percy was reduced to nothing but an obstacle in the way of this tribute's survival. He frowned.

"Just get it over with. Don't prolong this. I don't want Nigel to see something too terrible." Percy's voice trembled. "Please."

Ian looked taken aback. It showed with the considerable distance the knife was held now, a few extra inches away. "No fighting back?"

Percy felt around in his pocket as best he could given the circumstance while shaking his head. He latched onto what he was looking for. "No fighting back," he confirmed.

Ian leaned closer, the knife held at his side, scrutinizing Percy's face. "You've gotten this far, and you're not gonna try?"

He slowly removed his hand from his pocket. "Well, now that you say it like that..."

A clear liquid spurted around Percy's token--which was dug within Ian's eyeball. His screams of agony heightened when he removed the sharp shell and reversed the roles, this time Percy atop him. In and out the seashell went, sending liquids ranging from blood to eye-stuffs everywhere. The feeling he'd had when stabbing the mutt slammed into him like a tsunami, and he found himself unable to stop.

Until an excruciating pain shot through his abdomen.

He looked down. A knife was buried deep within his stomach, vermilion trailing down the handle and staining Ian's uniform. Unable to hold himself up from the sheer extent of the pain, he rolled on his back, and Ian scrambled away, a hand cupping his destroyed eye. Breathing came quick and ragged.

**This is where I gave up and started rewriting it.**