DISCLAIMER: Content related to and/or taken from any other works, namely Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games, is by no means claimed by the author to be his own creation.
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Sixty.
I count down the seconds until the show begins. We're all given sixty seconds from the moment we enter the arena to the start of the Games.
Fifty-seven, fifty-six, fifty-five.
As I squint around, my eyes still adjusting to the brightness of the sunlight, I survey the twenty-three tributes around me, all preparing for the bloody, one- to two-week deathmatch that lay ahead of us. At least, for those who last that long.
Forty-two, forty-one, forty, thirty-nine.
I take a long look at the Cornucopia that lay in the center of the circle of tributes, a forty-yard sprint away. Maybe I can make it. Of course I can sprint forty yards; it's the question of being able to sprint out of there that worries me.
Twenty-five, twenty-four, twenty-three.
After I pass twenty-four, I feel as if I'm crossing off the lives of those around me from the list of survivors. I try not to let myself feel as if I'm crossing off my own life.
Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen.
I prepare to sprint, apparently having halfheartedly decided to charge the Cornucopia. The gong can sound any second now; I can't tell how accurately my seconds have been timed.
Ten, nine, eight, seven.
In the final seconds before the gong, I briefly reconsider my choice to attack the weapons stash. How is a knife going to help me? I'm a boy from District 3. My training consists of wiring electronics, not killing people. Even if I make it into the Cornucopia alive, my chances of getting out of there are exponentially smaller.
Four, three.
It suddenly occurs to me that I'd become tunnel-visioned with the Cornucopia; I hadn't thought to take a look at the arena itself. In a very quick glance around me, my eyes capture cliffs, pine trees, and a grassy meadow up to which the contestants were raised from their Launch Rooms just under a minute ago.
Two-GONG!
I'm taken by shock at first. My countdown had been slightly off. In one instant, I feel my muscles freezing up; in the next instant a burst of adrenaline loosens them for action. I push off my pedestal as hard as my legs will let me, sprint as fast as they will carry me.
When I'm three-quarters of the way there, I have a terrifying realization that not only are my efforts fruitless, but it wouldn't matter. The others were much faster than me to race to the center. Coming to a screeching halt, I frantically scan the area around me for anything else I can pick up. Although the best spoils are piled in the middle of the Cornucopia, other, less valuable yet still helpful items are usually scattered around the starting area.
After a moment of searching, I spot a loaf of bread lying in the grass, in the direction away from the Cornucopia, as well as a shiny metal object a few feet from it. Hoping for both a meal and a weapon, I charge for the bread first.
As I'm just reaching down to scoop up the loaf, I'm nailed in the left side by a person. We tumble to the ground, with me landing on the bottom of the two of us. I desperately attempt to hurl the body off of me-with little more success than a roll-and scramble to my feet. In a moment I find myself caught in a decision between assessing my chances of winning this fight, or taking no chances and running for my life, taking the bread and hiding in the woods.
While the flurry of thoughts rush through my head, I automatically survey my opponent anyway. It takes a second for logical thinking to click back into place. I recognize this person, first from the list of opponents I was made to study by my mentor, as well as from seeing her in the Training Center. She's the sandy-haired, fifteen-year-old girl from District 12. Her name is Kira.
In another glance at her, I realize she is armed with a knife. I'm at once both fearful and jealous. At this point I'm greatly leaning toward the option of taking off sprinting, but something catches my eye and causes me to hesitate. I notice that Kira is making no attempt to attack me; she seems to also be recognizing and assessing me, except she's the one with a blade in her hand. Her eyes seem to say that she's not prepared to kill me, yet at the same time she wonders if I'm going to be so merciful.
Merely the thought of my next action crosses my mind. Before I consider it, I gesture between myself and her. "You and me?" I ask her.
Confusion crosses her face for a moment before my point registers to her. She quickly nods.
I nod back. "Let's go."
Kira takes off swiftly, practically leaving me in her dust. I'm very glad to save myself the horror of leaving the bread behind as I remember to retrieve it. I also snatch up the metal object-which, unfortunately, is not a knife-and I glance up to find Kira already a good thirty yards ahead of me. Clutching the bread with a wide, firm grip in one hand, and grasping the piece of metal in a closed fist in the other hand, I set off toward her as fast as I can.
When we both reach the woods that surround the meadow in which we started, I see Kira glance over her shoulder at me. She slows her pace and allows me to meet with her, side by side. I know it's less about fairness and more about making sure I don't stab her in the back. I do the same to her, staying in her sight while keeping her within mine, making sure I can trust her while letting her know she can trust me.
We run for another half hour. I find it fortunate that, presumably, we're both good athletes back home. She's obviously a much faster sprinter than I am, though I can run for longer distances than most of the people I know. When we're at least three and a half miles into the forest, I slow down and tell Kira to stop running, and we begin walking for a while.
When I've caught my breath, I tell her, "My name's Anthony."
"I know," she promptly responds.
"I suppose it wouldn't waste too much breath to talk about how we're going to stay alive together for the next-" I start. I try to think of an optimistic estimate of our lifespan, though she cuts in before I come up with it.
"It doesn't matter," she says.
I give her a quizzical look. "You could at least give me that knife if you're already giving up."
Kira shakes her head. "Sorry, I didn't mean that. I mean it doesn't matter how long we think we'll last. You fight until you're done, when you're either dead or a victor. That's how it works in the Games."
I nod. "Pretty much."
"You were saying?" she offers to let me continue.
"Well, we need water of course."
"Easy. There're at least six waterfalls on the cliffs on the edges of the arena."
"But that's where we'll find everyone, maybe except the Careers. And I doubt the Gamemakers will have given them much water to last without seeking out those falls, if any at all."
She smirks. "I didn't say we have to camp at the base of the falls. Waterfalls have to lead somewhere. All we have to find are the streams farther from the cliffs."
"Right," I say, trying to reestablish my own intelligence. I glance over at her right hand, where she grips the knife.
She follows my gaze and spares me the question. "It was on the edge of the pile. I got in there pretty quick, got out even faster. No time to even think about looking for food," she says, glancing at the bread that I hold.
"If we're sharing, it's only going to last two days, tops," I respond.
"Did you learn any snares in the Training Center?" she asks.
"Only a couple. We need some kind of string or rope for the ones I learned, though."
"I know a few spring traps with saplings. They work much better with this." She waved the blade of her knife in the air.
"So you know how to kill a squirrel with that, but how well can you fight with it?" I ask.
Kira hesitates to answer. "How well can you fight with a knife?" she replies.
I slightly shake my head. "Not well. But I asked you first," I say.
Her face sullens and she doesn't speak for a moment. When she speaks up, she confides, "I don't expect to fight anyone-at least, not to survive a fight. Of course I won't go down willingly, but I'm trying to avoid people as much as possible. And win that way. People have won like that, you know."
"You scored a nine in the ratings," I note.
"Because I showed the Gamemakers I can stay alive when nature is my only opponent. But these are humans, with weapons. Does mashing up an herbal wound treatment save you from that?"
I realize we've stopped walking as our discussion picked up. I'm about to continue along and say something to her when I hear a twig snap on my left side. I whip around ninety degrees and prepare to sprint. When I don't find a person in my direct line of sight, I search the ground around where I thought the twig had snapped. I breathe a sigh of relief when I find a rabbit prancing around, one hop at a time.
"Should we kill it?" I ask Kira.
"No," she responds. "There's no way we can catch it. We'll have to set up a snare later."
I eye the innocent, meaty animal, loathing walking away from it. "Alright," I finally agree.
She begins striding again, and, after tearing my gaze from the rabbit, I follow suit. For the previous time we'd been walking, our steps were mostly synchronized; they now make a pitter-patter on the forest floor as I make an effort to meet up with her. When I catch up, just to prove my seemingly random observation, I make my footsteps match hers. I become curious when I hear that they still don't add up to a steady rhythm.
I look to my left, away from Kira, to think for a moment. Then I hear her scream. Frightened, I jerk my head back around to find a scrawny, dark-haired boy on top of her, struggling against her frantic kicks and shoves-he was winning.
Idiot! I tell myself. I hadn't thought fast enough! It should have been obvious that there was another set of footsteps near us. After the split second it takes to have these thoughts, I come to my senses, drop the items in my hands, and hurl my own body at the boy's. I knock him off of Kira, landing on him when we hit the ground. I bolt up to my hands and knees and try to pin the boy down. I see that he has a knife in his left hand; since he didn't immediately kill Kira, I presume he took it from her.
With a strength greater than what he'd shown thus far, he takes a stab at my face, pushing through my weight on his wrist. He nearly misses my right eye. I retaliate with the only thing I can do: I bite his knife hand, hard. The boy cries out and instinctively drops the knife onto his chest. I momentarily release his right arm to grab the knife, and I toss it toward Kira's direction.
Instantly, I hate myself for not taking the knife for myself and ending him. I attempt to secure his arm once more, but by then he'd already recovered from his brief shock of pain. With his free, good hand, he lands a punch on me, square in the jaw. I'm taken aback for a moment, which is all he needs. He begins flailing his arms, landing blow after blow on my face and rib cage.
I'm consumed with pain, and all of my actions at this point are purely instinctive. I start fighting back, punching him in the face as hard and quickly as I can. Either he takes the pain worse than I do, or I'm punching much harder, because I manage to find time between blows to yell out to Kira.
"Kira! Get the-" I take another hit to the face, spit blood, and continue, "-get the knife! Get the knife!"
In the glances I can steal away from the boy, I see Kira simply watching the fight before her, traumatized by her initial assault, and confused about what to do now.
"The knife!" I shout again. I can only have faith that she understood me now, as I proceed to surrender myself to the boy. I allow him to roll on top of me, and all I can do now is protect my face from his fists.
The boy pins me down, and after a few seconds I'm nearly ready to start fighting back again. Just when I decided that, if I continued with this, my injuries would surely get me killed later in the Games, there's a squealing sound-Kira's voice-accompanied by a splatter of blood on my face. The dark-haired boy suddenly stops resisting, and I shove him off of me.
Adrenaline still rushing, I spring up to a firm position, ready to beat him more. After a moment, I realize that the boy lying unmoving has a knife in his back, and Kira is on both knees on the ground, trembling violently.
I glance back and forth between Kira and the down tribute. It becomes apparent that calming Kira is more important than fetching the knife. I walk to her and get down on one knee, laying a hand on her shoulder.
"It's alright, he's gone now," I tell her, panting. I lower my head a bit to meet her on eye level and speak to her again. "You hear me? It's- it's over now, you can-"
Suddenly, swiftly, she pulls herself into my chest, her arms wrapping around my back. She still shudders, and her skin feels cold compared to mine, which still has blood rushing through it as my heart is slow to quiet. Taken by surprise and not knowing what else to do, I return her embrace, and wait for her trembling to cease.
Eventually Kira is able to unbury her face from my shirt, and her arms' lock on me loosens. She glances up at my face for a moment, her expression more thankful than shy, then she removes herself from me entirely. She waits another moment before standing up again.
When she rises, she gazes down at her hands and body to see the blood that spilled onto her. Her face registers an expression of horror, but she seems to control herself before she slips into another panic attack.
Kira hardly got the worst of it, though. I was below the boy when he was stabbed; his blood spilled over much of my front side. In fact what contaminates Kira's clothes has much to do with our embrace.
"Let's find a stream, drink and wash up," I tell her. I go to the killed boy and retrieve the knife from his body.
"Search him," Kira says as I turn to walk away from him, her voice still unsteady.
"What?" I reply.
"He could have some things on him. See if he does," she explains. Her face is a giveaway of the real reason she wants me to do the searching; stabbing the boy is already too much for her.
So I pat down his clothes, searching for anything at all-even a cracker would do something for our food supply. As I search his pants, I feel a squishy area on his leg. I cut open the pant leg to find, to my gratification, a bag full of water. I take the pack and stand up, showing Kira the loot.
She simply nods approval. She picks up my bread and piece of metal, and we continue walking. "This is a piece of steel," she tells me, her tone showing a bit of gratification.
I shrug. "It was shiny, so I picked it up."
"This makes things so much easier," she goes on. "That knife isn't steel; it's iron. A flint won't make a good spark on that."
"How can you tell?"
"It's heavy. I've held different knives in the Training Center. The iron ones are heavier," she explains.
After that we continue along for another couple of miles, alternating between jogging and walking. I notice it's getting dark and the temperature is going down a bit, so I tell her we should settle down somewhere. She agrees, and we look for a semi-safe place to rest. After all, you're never really safe in the arena.
We find a thick grove of trees after traveling deeper still into the forest. She and I decide that it'll do well enough to reduce our chances of being found in the night. We also conclude that the Career tributes will most likely be out hunting in the day, with full visibility, but even so I volunteer to stay awake for a few hours while she rests.
Kira doesn't argue. As I take a seat with my back against a tree, she gratefully lies down and bundles up next to me. I wonder whether I should take this as an intentional gesture. She seems to trust me already, in these first few hours of the Games. Perhaps she feels a sense of security in knowing the presence of someone beside her, someone whom she doesn't have to worry about being killed by. With the night seeming to only be moderately cool, I doubt it's purely for warmth.
Her body faces away from me, her back against my leg. A strange impulse to stroke her hair crosses my mind. In fact, I almost lift my hand and reach over to her head. I know that the primary reason is that I'm currently in physical contact with a female who trusts me, who is probably too sleepy to mind, anyway, but I realize there's another explanation for it. As much as I want comfort for myself, I want it for her, too. As would I for anyone else who may be with us. We're two very afraid children, in a terrifying place in which we were involuntarily put. Security no longer exists for us.
I look back down at Kira, her features hardly visible in the quickly vanishing sunset light. I find that, during my thoughts, I'd let my arm rest on her side, even after having decided against touching her. I know she can't possibly be asleep yet-it's only been less than a minute-though she doesn't seem to mind. She breathes steadily and peacefully, my arm rising and falling with each breath.
For a second time I wonder if she seeks warmth in sleeping beside me. There's no telling how cold the night will get. Usually temperatures are generally uniform throughout the times of the day, from day to day, in the Games, though the Gamemakers have the power to drastically alter weather conditions at their will. One night may be bearable, while the next may induce frostbite.
I list through the clothing items I was given in my Launch Room hours ago. Underpants and an undershirt; medium-weight pants, suited for both mobility and moderate heat insulation; a long-sleeve, cotton shirt; and a lightweight windbreaker jacket with a hood, the material of which I guess is water resistant. My feet are fitted with shin-height socks and laced hiking boots which perform exceptionally well with running. Kira and the other tributes all wear the same garments.
The Capitol anthem booms through the arena, the national seal projected into the sky. The faces of the day's fallen tributes flash up one by one. The girl from District 1, the boy from District 4, the boy from District 6-the one who Kira killed-both tributes from District 8, and the girl from District 10. A fourth of the original crowd of tributes, down in the first day.
Kira stirs a bit while the loud music plays, then settles down again when it's over. I lean my head back against the tree. I'm tempted to close my eyes, but I know if I do so I'm guaranteed to fall asleep. I steel myself for the longest half of a night of my life. At one point a few hours in, I try to stretch my arms, but I find that Kira has lightly gripped my wrist with one hand. A half-grin crosses my face, and the need to stretch quickly fades away.
The rest of my shift is relatively quiet. Once I hear the boom of the cannon, indicating yet another fallen tribute. Just to be sure, I check on Kira and find that she's still breathing peacefully. After another two hours or so, I'm aware that my eyes feel impossible to keep open, even when I literally pry them open with my fingers. I weigh the options of waking Kira or risking a sudden death while we're both sleeping. The former wins out.
I rouse her and whisper an explanation that it's her turn to guard, then I lay down and almost immediately fall asleep. I wake to the smell of something edible. It takes another moment of waking up to identify the scent as bread. I open my eyes to find a hand holding a ripped-off bit of bread in front of my face.
I sit upright and take the piece of bread. I stretch and yawn before it ends up in my mouth. Taking a look at the surrounding woods and the golden light coming in from the treetops, I determine that it's somewhere near seven o'clock in the morning.
Kira sits cross-legged in front of me, nibbling on a handful of her own share. The rest of the loaf lies in her lap, about of quarter of it is missing. I assume she's eaten that part and is going to give me an equal amount now.
Doing the simple math, I say, "I thought we could make it last more than a couple of days."
She hardly looks up from the contents of her hand. She merely points directly at me. No, at my legs. I look down and find a chunk of bread on my lap. I can only guess that it got there by Kira tossing it onto me while I was still waking up. The portion is almost the entire fourth of the loaf.
"What are you going to eat?" I ask.
"I found some berries to snack on later," she responds.
I raise an eyebrow and look around.
"Don't worry, I didn't go far," she explains. "The bushes can't be more than forty yards away."
"Are they safe to eat?"
"The Gamemakers know I can tell the difference between poisonous and edible berries."
I nod and shrug. "Did you find any streams?"
Kira shakes her head. "We'll have to climb a tree later and find which direction the waterfalls go," she tells me. Then she adds, "You should eat that," pointing again to the bread in my lap.
I take the bread in one hand, use the other to tear off a piece and eat it. After my second bite, I say, "You know, you seem to be a little friendly."
For the first time-in fact, the first time ever-she makes direct eye contact with me. Her head tilts a few degrees to the side. "What's wrong with that?" she asks.
"Do I have to explain?" I ask rhetorically. We both know how the Games go. You can make as many alliances and even friendships as you want, but in the end only one makes it out alive; often times that one is neither you nor your friend.
Kira looks down, her face sinking a little. "I could say the same to you," she responds.
"Go ahead, explain," I say.
She purses her lips, her expression reading that she'd hoped she wouldn't have to elaborate. After a moment, she says back, "I don't think for a second that I'll make it out of here. But that's different than giving up. I haven't given up on life yet. Otherwise I would have jumped off my pedestal and gotten blown sky high the moment I was raised into the arena."
"So, what, you're making a friend or two so you have something to go down with?" Only after the words leave my mouth do I realize how harshly I'd worded my sentence. I regret it immediately.
Kira's face appears deeply hurt, though I know it has less to do with what I said and more to do with the truth I'm forcing her to face, which she's been suppressing ever since her name was picked in the reaping.
"Yes," she breathes.
I glance at her for a second, then look away again. "I'm sorry," I say, trying to show compassion in my expression.
She simply nods, her gaze not moving.
I abandon eating my breakfast and stand up. I take a couple of steps over to her, offer a hand to help her up. She looks up only enough to see my extended hand, hesitates a moment, then accepts it.
When she's on her feet, she stands directly in front of me, our shirts in contact, her face inches from mine. We're almost equal height, though her gaze still looks up to meet my own. As her eyes bore into mine, my heart rate drifts upward, and I grow weary to resisting the desire to lean forward.
I only hesitate when her eyes finally flicker away. I don't know whether I'm slightly disappointed or relieved that I didn't have the chance to embarrass myself. She looks back up at me and places a hand on my shoulder, holding my gaze for another couple seconds. As I begin to wonder if she'd changed her mind, she turns aside and walks away to retrieve our items.
I remain there for a moment, puzzled by the brief, wordless exchange of thoughts. Before it's long enough to appear dumb, I shake my head and follow her. As I come to her side while she's bent over, picking up our water bag with one hand, she rises up and faces me, handing me the knife which is in her other hand.
"You probably fight better with it," she says.
"You need it more," I reply.
"We've already established that I'm useless with it."
"Let's exclude the event of a surprise attack. The results of that are inevitable. If someone comes at me from the front, I can stay alive at least for a few moments-enough time for some teamwork. But if someone goes after you first, you need a way to fight back. Besides, people will think twice about attacking you first if you have a blade in your hand."
Kira pauses for a few seconds, measuring my point against her opinion. Eventually she retracts the knife and hands me the water bag. I take it with my free hand, the other occupied with the piece of bread which I then take a bite out of.
After swallowing, I say, "Left the loaf on the ground."
She turns her head to look for the bread, and her face lights up. Immediately I follow her eyes to see what had interested her. Looking at the bread on the ground, I find a fat squirrel nibbling away at the loaf.
"I got this," I whisper to her, giving her the water bag. She tries to hand me the knife, but I wave it away and began stalking toward the creature. When I'm a few steps from the chubby brown animal, I slowly outstretch the bread in my hand toward it. I'm not sure if it will accept the offer over the much larger prize, but I hope that both curiosity and stupidity will win out.
They do. The squirrel sees my hand offering the gift, and it cautiously approaches. It stops a couple steps short, then closes the gap one step at a time. One bite-sized bit by bit, it began nibbling away at the handful of bread.
I know that blowing this could cost me and Kira a meal. Even if it's just a squirrel, sometimes it's the difference between life and death in the Games. Slowly, gingerly, I raise my other hand, readying to make a strike. At one point, my hand must become imposing upon the squirrel, because it abruptly darts upright, in the kind of rapid motion that small creatures have. It's now or never.
Before the creature has any more chance to react-or so I think-I thrust my hand at its body, attempting to violently seize it. Even so, my fingers are hardly able to close around it as it attempts to dart away before I can catch it. The furry animal scrambles desperately as it tries to escape my grip, but I'm able to secure it firmly enough to ensure that it's not going anywhere. I put one hand behind its head, then quickly twist its neck and break it, doing so as fast as I can to kill it as humanely as possible. There's a quiet crunching sound, then the squirrel ceases moving.
I pick up the loaf and rise up, turning back to face Kira. My raised eyebrows seek her approval. She gives a nod, strides over to me, and plops the water bag into my arms, then turns and makes her way out of the clearing. I smile inwardly and follow her deeper into the woods.
In another couple of hours we come to an area of dense pines, their branches almost entirely overlapping so that I can hardly see the blue of the sky. I say to Kira, "We should stop here and cook the squirrel. No one should be able to see any smoke coming from here. If they do, they've probably climbed one of the mountains and are too far away to reach us, anyway."
"Alright," she agrees.
I gather a few rocks and sticks and set up a decent fire, a skill I learned in my brief time in the Training Center. Kira finds a flint on the ground, then sets to work on lighting some pine needles using the steel. "I'd kill for some matches right now," she mutters after a few minutes of failed attempts.
I look at her and see that she's paused, realizing what she'd just let out of her lips. I know we're having the same thoughts. In any other situation it would be a joke, but here in the arena, it's a statement which you actually have to weigh the truth of.
Kira seems to falter as she continues to think about it. I need to change the subject quickly. Off the top of my head, I say, "How about a gift? You think we're popular enough to the sponsors?"
It seems to work. She shrugs and replies, "I don't know. Haymitch probably doesn't want to waste money unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Haymitch Abernathy, right? He's the one who won the second Quarter Quell?" I ask to divert the conversation even farther.
"Yeah. He's our only victor in Twelve, too. Seventeen Games of being a mentor after that, and he hasn't quite managed to scrape up another victor," she responds.
She still seems to be turning things downward, so I attempt to lift her up a little. "You know, that can always change," I tell her.
Kira looks up at me merely to acknowledge me, though there's a slight hint of a smile on her lips. Then she returns to lighting her fire.
Meanwhile I skin and gut the squirrel as best as I can based on what I picked up in training-I definitely did not excel in this area-and find a good stick to use as a spit and stab it into the carcass.
Well before my work is done, Kira manages to achieve a flame which spreads well through the rest of the pile of sticks and brush. We take a seat right in front of the fire, soaking up its warmth, as well as each other's body heat. Even though it's most of the way through the morning, the air is significantly colder than it was yesterday. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure if the temperature has changed from last night to now.
With our hips and shoulders resting on one another's, we wait for the fire to die down mostly into hot coals, then we take turns roasting the meat over the glowing red remnants of the flames.
The peacefulness of the silence and the comforting warmth of the coals in the cold weather feels too perfect. As if it doesn't have to end. As if we aren't in an arena with people out to kill us, or just as bad, Gamemakers who must please a bloodthirsty audience, especially in times as boring as this.
But at this moment, I cling to the hope that something interesting is happening elsewhere in the arena, that Kira and I can be left in peace for at least this one time in the few days we have left to live. Wait, no-in the few days I have left to live. I may not be getting out of here alive, but Kira still has a chance.
My eyes still fixated on the ever-wavering coals at the base of the fire, my arm almost independently reaches up and rests on Kira's shoulder.
Her lack of initial response in and of itself seems to acknowledge this act. She silently accepts it while she continues slowly rotating the spit, the meat almost done cooking. After a few moments, she says, "Finally giving in?"
I give her a glance, which she briefly returns, then goes back to watching the squirrel. "You have no reason to care about me if you have any thoughts of winning. If you're still holding on to me when I go down, you'll come down with me," she continues, setting the roasted meat aside and folding her arms on her knees.
"That's not going to happen," I say. Almost unintentionally, I give her shoulder a squeeze as I say it.
"You know it is."
"Not while I'm alive."
At this, she looks at me once again. Her expression isn't grateful, though. It's filled with sorrow and disappointment. She shakes her head and says, almost whispers, "Why?"
It's easy to translate several phrases out of one word. Why waste your life on me? Why do you think I have a remote chance of winning? Why do you care about me? I don't have a short answer to this, especially not a single word like the question. From the moment I looked into her eyes when we met yesterday, the fear I saw in them, I knew she didn't belong in this place. The way she crumbled after she killed the boy from District 6 tore something inside of me; I was infuriated that the Capitol had taken an innocent girl and turned her into a killer. Of course, she isn't and will never be a real killer, but she will only be able to think of herself that way for the rest of however long she has left to live. I cannot let this go forgiven, unacted upon. If there's one thing I can do to fix it, it's to do everything in my power to give her the best possible chance of winning.
All I can say out loud, though, is "You're too beautiful for this place." Oh, yeah, that's also half the reason I have a crushing desire to protect her. Call it a result of physical closeness, but in the first day and a half of knowing her I already have feelings for her. If she dies and I live, her death alone will haunt me more than if I killed every other tribute myself.
Kira seems to understand at least half of the thought process behind my words. Her face shifts from sorrow to some kind of a questioning expression, caught in the middle of her previous feelings and what she presently feels.
I'm hardly aware I'm doing it, but my head begins leaning toward hers. I only close less than half of the gap between our faces, giving her the opportunity to decide for herself what to do. I shut my eyes as she tilts forward, leaning her forehead against mine. Our lips are a fraction of an inch apart, and they remain there for a moment. I dare to close the space between them. While our lips are in contact, the cold of the winter-like air dissipates entirely, replaced with the warmth that flows through my body. I find myself slightly surprised when Kira pulls back after a short few seconds.
She stares at the ground between us. "That does it," she quietly says. "Now you're never going to leave me."
I reposition my grip on her shoulder. "It's going to be alright," I tell her. It's true at least for her-physically, that is. Being honest with myself, I've only made it a hundred times more difficult for Kira to forget about me if she goes back home alive. But at least she'll be alive.
And it appears the time to put that to the test comes sooner than expected.
I knew I'd jinxed myself with the foolish hope that nothing would happen to us. Of course something has to happen. This is the Hunger Games!
Off to the side, I hear the noisy sound of many footsteps trampling the forest floor. Whoever is coming obviously does not care about stealth. This normally means they're out to kill, not to hide.
Both my and Kira's heads snap toward the direction of the sound. In the next moment, we're staring helplessly into each other's eyes. There's no doubt that these are Career tributes coming up on us. I bolt up to my feet, tugging Kira up with me. My mind is overtaken with fear and survival instinct. I hurry around and gather up our few possessions-knife, bread, steel, water, and squirrel-and give the knife and water to Kira, then we race off in the opposite direction of the Careers.
Shouts behind us indicate that they've seen us running off and are now in full haste to catch us. I don't look back, though I make absolutely sure that Kira is in front of me the whole time. A knife whizzes by my head and lodges in a tree next to me. I allow myself a single look behind me and find that the nearest Career is about thirty yards back; the knife throw was a longshot, mere luck that it didn't hit me.
Focusing ahead of me again, I push my legs as hard as I can, willing myself to go faster for the sake of my life. Kira, who is already faster than me and probably every other tribute in the arena, shows little signs of ever slowing. For a moment, I have a nearly incoherent thought that I'm glad to see that her will to live still exists.
Suddenly I feel a searing slash across the right side of my back and rib cage. Involuntarily, I cry out in pain and stumble to the ground. For a second Kira turns back, looking on in horror as the Careers close in on me.
"Anthony!" she cries.
I wave her away with quick, harsh motions of my hand. "Go! Keep going!" I scream at her. "Stay alive!"
She hesitates, everything about her body language showing how painful it is for her to leave me behind. Before obeying, Kira takes her left hand, puts three fingers to her lips, then extends them out toward me. After another moment's hesitation, she finally turns and continues sprinting for her life. I know it's unbearable for her, but I also know there's no other way. I have to do everything I can to keep her alive. That means everything.
I see another throwing knife embed itself into the bark of the nearest tree in front of me, which I'd fallen almost at the base of. As I spring up as quickly as I can, I feel an even more excruciating pain than before in my right calf; I know the next projectile to come my way should be lethal.
I rip the knife in front of me out of the tree, then turn around to really see my assailants for the first time. I count five of them, all armed with some kind of weapon, charging toward me. I suppose I would already be dead had the knife thrower truly wanted to kill me. Instead, a boy with a sword runs at me, blade poised to strike.
At the last possible instant, I duck where he'd least expect me to: to the left, which involves the horrible pain of using my injured leg to push off. The sword misses and sticks in the wood behind me. Using my good leg to get back upright, I rise up and stab my knife into his chest. In only a second I hear a cannon fire off. That's one down.
Another Career, a girl, comes at me with a mace. I know there's little escaping this one. I take a heavy blow to my left shoulder, the pain sucking the breath from my lungs, but I'm still able to deal critical wounds to her midsection with the knife in my right hand. In that single slash I know she will either not be able to travel anymore or she'll bleed out before she can try. Little better can be said of myself, however. The bone-breaking power of the metal weapon has either dislocated my shoulder or shattered it entirely-or both.
The third to go down, I know, will not be a Career tribute. The moment after the girl falls to the ground, I'm stunned by a shock to the torso. Adrenaline pumps through me so much that I hardly feel the knife slamming into some vital organ in my chest; my brain is already so overwhelmed with other physical chaos.
Whatever happens to me next is sure to be the end. In the final moments before I either blackout forever or take a knife through the skull, my only coherent thought is the realization that I must not die in vain, I must not be simply another object of the Capitol's entertainment. My death must mean something.
I look to the sky, one hundred percent sure that a camera is watching me. Dropping the knife, with my right hand, since my left arm is incapacitated, I mimic the gesture that Kira gave to me before she ran away, putting three fingers to my lips, then reaching them out to the air above me. I don't truly know what it means, but it's safe to assume it's a symbol of honor. As the Career winds up to hurl a knife into my forehead, I form only one meaningful word.
"Kira-"