I'm not sure if I like this. It's for the Caesar's palace November prompt, but it turned out a little odd. Honestly, I think there's a part of my brain that just makes me write these things...
At six years old, most would not expect a child to be as cold as she is. But she is not your average child, she is special, different. She's been trained to kill and destroy, trained to be a Career. She's very, very good at what she does, but not very good with people, actually, she hates them. She also hates saying thank you, no matter what.
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The first time she ever thanks anyone is something of a big deal. At just six, standing at barely four foot, she knocks a fully grown man out. Not for fun though, she hurts him because he's hurting a little boy. That boy is eight. He calls her his hero. She thanks him by slapping him across the face. Later, he touches the bruise and decided he wants to fight.
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Seven and nine are not ages that you should be a killer at. But they are, and that just might be the saddest thing you'll ever hear. She can throw knives so fast there's no way you can dodge. He can swing a sword around so fast your head will be on the ground before you can blink. Together they kill his father, and even if it's not right, it's revenge. And justice isn't real, so revenge is the only chance you have.
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The second time she thanks him is when they're standing over a corpse. He gives her back they beautiful knives she used to slice open his skin, and she smiles as she runs the blade up her arm. No tell-tale trails of scarlet show, and he grins back. The next day he turns the smallest of the blades into a necklace. He doesn't notice the writing on his sword until a week later, but when he does read the word, hero, he smiles. She thanks you in the strangest ways.
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Eight and ten isn't a time to be fighting with real blades, but they do. It's a beautiful, heartbreaking dance that ends with crimson tears. She's all cold and ice, deadly and fast. He's fire and brute strength, consuming you mind as you burn. But they balance out, and that's what really makes the difference. Fire and ice create a lovely, bloody show. The specters don't tell the tale.
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The third time she thanks someone is with a scar. They're sparring, the final battle in a Career training contest. She's eight and he's ten. They're deadly by themselves, but unstoppable together. Everyone watches as the duo dances together. She wins, but there's a bloody scar running up her arm. She keeps it. And when he sees the scar he knows its her twisted way of saying thanks.
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Death is far, far way to ten and twelve year olds. But in Panem, death lurks at a young age. The first Reaping is always the hardest, they say. She agrees with this, because he's crying. She is too, but it's raining so no one sees. She has never loved the icy tears more, than she does now. Because no one can see the hot saltwater that falls down their faces.
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He won't admit it, but he's terrified of being Reaped. She doesn't mention that she knows this, doesn't tease him. She doesn't make him hurt more, despite her love of pain. Instead, she wraps him in a hug and tells him to man up. She watches from the crowd as her first true friend isn't reaped. He doesn't say a word when it's over, but she doesn't need it. He doesn't thank her, because the comfort was her way of repaying all of his time. It's an odd thank-you, but its the best for them.
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Her first Reaping falls on a Monday. It's a bright, cheerful day, almost like the world was mocking her. She glared at everyone who passed by, and several of her classmates flinched. They knew how vicious she was. He didn't say a word, at fourteen he remembered the terror clearly. Instead, he walked with her. She wouldn't admit it, but she was glad.
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The fifth time she ever thanks someone is after that first, fateful Reaping. She's walking home with her friend, shivering from the frosty wind. Gone are the blue skies and sunshine, howling wind and rain replaced the perfect day. Without her asking, he takes his jacket off and tosses it over her bare shoulders. The cold is less so, and she thanks him later by laughing when he's soaked from the down pour, and she's perfectly dry.
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Time goes on, and she grows and he grows. With their inevitable aging comes more fights and apologies, but never thank-yous. He grows up to be a tall and strong career, ready to volunteer at eighteen. She grows into a deadly young woman, standing small at barely five feet and sixteen years old. They still take care of each other though, in the strangest of ways.
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On his last reaping, they stand in separate pens but still find each other. She gives him a grin and a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes. She doesn't catch the name of the male tribute, and it doesn't matter because he's already volunteered. When the girl's name is called, she doesn't think. She thanks him for all of his friendship by screaming that she volunteers.
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They play the game as well as any Career does. They're good, very good. But of course, you would have known that. They've already killed once, and that's okay. They don't talk about the inevitable death of one of them. There's just them, the other Careers, and the Fire Girl. They hate this Fire Girl, who stole their life from them.
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They fail, several times, at killing the Fire Girl. Once it ends with her losing a knife. Once it ends with them both being covered in stings. The third time they lose all their supplies. But even so, she doesn't kill the little girl from Eleven, the Fire Girl's ally. She lost her childhood, and she won't end another's. When they learn that two can win, she thanks him for everything by apologizing. He doesn't know how it will end, but he apologizes too. Life's funny like that.
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She thinks she's finally going to kill the Fire Girl. She has Fire Girl at her mercy, but just before she kills the stupid thing, the other tribute comes. She screams for her friend, over and over. He yells back, but it's still too late. The other tribute hits her head with a heavy rock, and she feels her skull dent. She's still screaming, but she's fading, fading away.
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he comes, like he always does, and holds her in his arms. He tells her to come back, but she's already to far gone. He promises her he'll win, and she wants to tell him death isn't so bad. Her finger touches the neat, white scar along her arm, a gift from him, and smiles. She picks up her knife, and draws an identical one down his arm.
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She dies with a smile on her face.
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He kills the other tribute.
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There's three left, and he's going to win for her.
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The mutts rip him apart.
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He's screaming.
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The arrow hits him.
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His cannon fires.
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He remembers how oddly she thanked him.
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He dies with a smile, just like she did.