After The Storm (A Hunger Games Fanfic)

True Colours - 7

Boo feels nothing when he opens his eyes and sees that the sky is bright again. Well, nothing apart from a mild confusion. The rain appears to have been pointless. He thinks it through briefly; there must have been no need for it. They must all be quite close together.

Also, he's alive. That's good. He hadn't realised until now that he'd almost expected someone to stumble across him in the night. But he must have done, if the rush of relief is anything to go by.

He sits, cross-legged and straight-backed and instantly awake. His trail through the trampled stalks looks too easy to follow, but first he'll eat. There are, he estimates, about three day's worth of rations. Maybe more. He unwraps one of the packets of fruit with unshaking hands. It tastes like nothing but taste doesn't matter, and nor doesn't the fact that his stomach moans angrily as he wraps up half of the packet, for later.

After he's finished chewing the fruit - which tastes of nothing - he kneels and gets to work on the stalks, covering his tracks. A few refuse to stand straight, so he snaps them out of the ground and props them up, tuning out everything but this task, the steady and calming rhythm of setting the stalks right. 

When he steps back to admire his handiwork, he realises that he is coated in mud all down his right hand side; some sticks to his face. Struck by a thought, he crouches and rubs both his hands into the mud and smears it over his face, clumps sticking in his eyelashes. He never bothered with camouflage in training. Who wants to paint themselves when people are out to kill you? And besides, he was with the Careers who didn't bother with that sort of thing. And now only Savannah is alive. If it was Jewel he might be worried, but he's watched Savannah and he's certain that, before she strikes, there will be that little hesitation he has seen her do, and that will be all he needs.

He reminds himself that he's not being attacked right now and goes back to slicking mud all over him; arms, shirt, hands. It feels cold and damp on his pale and watery skin right now but mud has insulating properties too, in case the Gamemakers want to get things cold for them later. 

In seconds his straw hair is almost indistinguishable from his face. As an afterthought, he adds stalks of grass, grabbing clumps and slamming them into him with enough force to make them stick to the mud. Beneath the mud his hands are fading in purple with the cold, numb, but it's not that bad. The sun will dry him out, on its weak voyage across the sky. He swears the light is getting less bright by the day. Day seven. A whole week.

Another package taps Martin on the hand. He focuses on it, everything blurring into life. So tired that it's almost hard to sleep, his eyes were open but he wasn't seeing anything, thinking only about staying awake. The package is small, palm sized, and he instantly runs through anything it could be, trying to push his hair behind his ears. Too short for that, it falls forwards instead, and clings to tear tracks in his cheeks.

"Mercedes," he hisses. She opens one eye, sees the package and uncurls herself, stretching indulgently and moaning, as normal, about her fucking back. The sickle is curled up next to her, the blow gun by Martin, unwieldy. They should leave it, he thinks absently. In practical terms, both of them have a weapon, and carrying another is pointless.

On the other hand, he'd rather kill someone with a dart than with an axe. He's seen that - his stomach lurches to remind him, bile biting at his throat - and he doesn't want it to be his fault. Mercedes seems to have almost recovered, but she's Mercedes. She's tough and impossible to get down for too long.

He smiles wryly to himself at the idea of her and Ford Denting. They'd cause havoc all over the district. Havoc that he would have to clear up, obviously.

No, he wouldn't, because if Mercedes is alive then he isn't.

"Oi. Dozy. What's in the parcel?" Mercedes snaps, "I hope it's some food. I'm fucking starving."