Twenty Four Shades of Blood [A Hunger Games Fanfic]

...Or Is It?

The arena.

The final two.

Byron limps through the rubble; limps, because as the city fell in a stray brick struck him and now his ankle doesn't feel right. He doesn't think it's broken, because it's taking his weight, but it hurts. A lot. Though all of him hurts. His stomach growls, empty. His thighs are screaming. There's cuts on his arms that sting and his head is just one big ache and his heart is pounding, pounding, pounding, because this is it. This is the end, one way or another. Everything that has happened in this hot and sticky wreck of a place has brought him to this.

Benji or Carmen. He already knows. Call it instinct, call it dramatic intuition, call it telepathy if it makes any difference. The girl from Five is not dead. Somehow, he thinks he would know.

He hunkers down against a large chunk of fallen masonry and tries to catch his breath. It's like trying to breathe water. The axe in his hand keeps slipping, so he checks around, sees nothing but lumps of building and cracked up trees, and wipes his hand on the tattered remains of his shirt. Not that it makes much of a difference. His palm is damp with sweat before he's even had chance to grab the handle again. It runs along his eyebrows and over his lips and drips from his hair. Even back in Ten he's never known heat like this.

He should stand up, but he can't convince his legs to do it. He's got a good position here; he can see most of the bowl carved out by the earthquake, he's got something that equates to cover and he's armed. He can sit here, wait it out, let her come to him. Let her wear herself down coming up the hill. He knows Carmen well, he thinks, compared to how well he knew the other tributes. Cold and callous, it seems, but that's an act. A show. Look past the overcast eyes and you'll see someone aching inside. He'd seen it in the reaping recaps. He'd made a note of it. Ally. But the time for allies is done. There must be no hesitation, no recognition. It must be like the others, exactly the same if he can manage it. Quick and brutal, it'll have to be, not ideal but it's the only way. And then...goodbye. He presses his back up to the twisted lump of metal and finds no relief there.

Wait. If he can see most of the bowl, Carmen must be in the bit he can't.

Which is behind him.

He almost hits his head in his hurry to escape his hiding place, the axe whipping into a more threatening place by his side. His ankle protests and a groan hisses out between his lips but the less sound he makes the better, so he bites his tongue as his feet fight for balance on the churned-up ground. Nobody ahead of him, but he knew that. So. Slowly, ready, he turns.

She's here. Sitting on top of the metal, her arms clinging around her knees like he remembers from her nights on guard. The sword lies by her side, in easy reach. Strands of hair cling around her ears. She's not moving. Just watching. His heart gives a few great thumps, just in case he'd forgotten what has to come next.

But he needs to talk himself some courage first.

"How long have you been there?"

"Byron." He almost laughs and makes some sort of comment, just in case the sponsors can still help him, but the tone stops that. It's flat. Not flat emotionless, but flat restrained. "I knew it'd come to this."

He shifts a few steps backwards, seeking more solid footing and finding it. "So did I," he admits.

"You're going to kill me."

"I'm going to try."

"Like you tried with the others?"

What? He blinks up at her. This is...unexpected. It isn't half-brained chatter while they try to move into the strongest position - which she has, he realises, up high, looking down at him - but a real, heartfelt question. It's as if she has been watching him this whole time, which she can't have been, because...