𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄 ▸ HUNGER GAMES [ 1 ]

SIXTEEN

SIXTEEN - 

Ten seconds of pure darkness come next, followed by a bright stab of light overhead.

When my plate emerges from the tube, it takes a couple of seconds for my eyes to fully adjust. The wind whips at the fabric of my jacket and I can hear the rustle of leaves from behind me. I don't dare turn my head to look, not until I can see properly again and be absolutely sure of my footing– there are landmines beneath each plate, rigged to blow if a tribute makes a move for the cornucopia before the gong sounds. One false step would splatter my bones on the grass.

As soon as the haze clears from my vision, I take in my surroundings. The other tributes are rising, one by one into the semicircle of podiums equidistant from the giant golden horn, hoarding all kinds of supplies and weapons in its mouth. A large expanse of dense woodland covers the area at my back, stretching all the way around to the edges of a lake on the opposite side of the cornucopia. Beyond that, the terrain veers downwards into an unseen void, bordered by a patchy line of tall trees.

At the far end of the semicircle, the final tribute rises into view, and the voice of Claudius Templesmith booms across the arena. "Ladies and Gentlemen, let the 74th annual Hunger Games begin!"

Attached to the front of the cornucopia, the countdown clock flares to life. Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight, fifty-seven.

This is it. Every second spent training at the Academy, hurling knives across the weapons studio until my arms turned to jelly, comes down to this moment. After eight years of rigorous, brutal instruction in the hands of a District that would otherwise count me as worthless, I am here. To represent 2 in the arena. And to bring home the crown.

This is my year.

The other tributes are steeling themselves to run, arms bent to propel them towards the bounty at the horn. Supplies decrease in value the further from the mouth they are placed, and there are even a couple of items scattered only a few metres from my plate. A pack which looks to be empty, and a burlap sack of apples.

But inside the cornucopia puffy sleeping bags, chests bursting with survival essentials and racks laden with glittering blades aim to lure in hopeful tributes. I predict at least half of these kids will be culled within the hour in their effort to reach them. Up ahead, the clock continues to roll. Thirty-nine, thirty-eight, thirty-seven, thirty-six.

Needle-tipped spears, wicked curved blades and even a gleaming silver bow complete with a full quiver of arrows are stationed near the entrance to the cornucopia, but I cannot see my knives anywhere. My heart is descending into my stomach, and I'm half convinced the Gamemakers have decided to purposefully leave them out of the arena. Perhaps they didn't like me pretending to threaten Caesar Flickerman at the interview last night. Or maybe they noticed what was going on between Cato and I whilst the rest of the crowd was fixed on the star-crossed lovers from 12.

But then the sun hits a small pile of supplies at the perfect angle, and I see them. A burst of silver blades, varying in size and shape, leaning up against a folded square of black material. A belt maybe, like the one I use back home at the Academy.

When I raise my eyes from my weapons to check the numbers on the countdown, they snag on to my District partner instead. If the arena were a clock, Cato would be standing at twelve. There is a dead straight line between him and the rack of weapons, and I can't help but think the Gamemakers may have designated that particular launch room to him on purpose. The Hadleys are well known for their vicious shows at the initial bloodbath, taking out the most tributes during those first couple of hours than most of their allies in every year one of them has competed. I do not doubt that Cato will hold up that reputation.