After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

Poison - 9

"About fucking time something happened!" Mercedes roars at the sky, kicking out at a particularly blameless stalk of grass. Her wrists are covered in grass plaits, winding their way like snakes up her arms. Martin sighs. He's given up on trying to shush her. She's feeling the stress now, he reckons. Only she won't admit it.

Nine tributes left. They are two of them. Who else is there? Already, fifteen of the people he shared a training room with are dead, gone. Two of the people who were alive at the start of the day are dead now. He has a nagging feeling that it might be the boy from Three, or maybe one of the pair from Nine.

He tells himself not to think about it. Think about the fact that it's not him. Did anybody think he'd get this far? He certainly didn't. Both he and Mercedes are still alive.

They can't both win.

Should he leave? He doesn't want to be here when she dies. But he can't leave her to die either; that would feel wrong. And what if it's him who dies first? 

The constant grass is driving him crazy. Six is all cold grey walls. It doesn't move. Here, nothing is ever still. The shadows of the grass flicker over his face. The sun is setting; everything is a pale orange colour. 

Mercedes veers off to one side, shouting "I'm going for a piss; don't follow me!" He smiles weakly to himself and hurls himself onto the floor, wishing more than ever that it was a chair at home. His chair, tucked away in the corner of his room, not the most comfortable but definitely his. He thinks of those kids at the school, the ones who can barely read and write, watching him fight, die, maybe kill. Though he shudders at the idea of taking someone's life from them.

What if they were going to do the same to him?

He shakes his head to himself, still disturbed when his hair doesn't move with him. It feels too short and choppy, and it needs washing. Though physical presentation doesn't matter now. His clothes are too light too; they don't restrict his movement enough. The shirt feels thin enough to be see-through, and if it starts getting colder at night he can see that being a problem. They can't light a fire or the whole place will go up in flames.

The sickle glints, a sickly leer in the fading light. Drops of deep blood are splattered onto the surface. It's not human; still the remains of the rodent creature that frightened Mercedes. And himself, admittedly. He glances around quickly, but as he's started to expect, there's nothing there. Three days. Three days and he's seen nothing but grass, no living creature but Mercedes and the rodents. It's eerie, like something is being planned for them.

A small popping noise above him makes him jump, curling up into a little ball on instinct. The Gamemakers must be fed up of them, they're going to start trying to prod him into action...

Something solid but not sharp taps him on the head, a soft sheet falling over his face.

What?

Slowly, he reaches up a hand, brushing the silky material away. His slender fingers find something rough; a box. He laughs, sitting back up, willing his heart to calm down. Sponsor gifts. He'd forgotten about that. Someone somewhere wants him - them - to win above anybody else. Someone is rooting for him.

A sudden burst of energy seizes him and he tears off the paper, sliding his fingers under the edges of it and ripping neatly. He gets a slice through his finger for his troubles and immediately sticks it in his mouth with a yelp, feeling the drops of blood ooze with his saliva. The box watches the performance, squatting patiently on the grassy floor next to the sickle. Perhaps he can use the parachute, though for what he doesn't know.

He has another go at the box. His mind swirls ahead as he carefully takes strips of the paper; it's just too big for his palms, and rattles ominously. Whatever it is, it has a lot of pieces.