Disclaimer: I do not own The Hunger Games, they belong to Suzanne Collins.
Thresh
His heart thudded in his chest as the seconds counted down. Everything seemed too clear to him. Every sound was heard, every movement seen. He could hear the light blowing of the wind, the heavy breathing of those around him, and of course, his own blood thudding through his veins. He would not let his mind wander, he refused to be afraid. He focused.
Forty seconds.
His eyes scanned through the options. The best materials were strategically placed further away from the tributes. Large knives and swords, as well as survival kits. The kits included matches, food and various other supplies. He placed all his attention on them, planning his actions. Not too close to the Cornucopia, but close enough to be of decent value he spotted his material targets. A large black bag that appeared promising, and near it a machete roped together with a few other blades. Already he considered it his.
Thirty seconds.
A small knife, no bigger than his hand, sat on top of a small bag closer to him. He couldn't leave here with just that, though. But the knife could be of use to him. He would pick it up on his way to the other supplies, to use against the others.
Twenty seconds.
The others. He resisted the urge to look around himself. They would all be dead soon. The people he may have to kill, the people he would kill, to win. Except her. He wasn't sure if he could kill her. She was too innocent, too sweet. To take her life was unimaginable to him. Yet he might have to.
Ten seconds.
He couldn't help glancing up at her, just once. Her tiny figure crouched and ready on her platform. He expected her to look terrified, or at least unnerved. But she wasn't, and made him all the more uneasy at her presence there. She looked confident and ready, as if it were only a race she were about to run, not a fight to the death. Even if she wasn't scared, he was scared for her. She's too young to be here, it's not fair.
Five seconds.
He knew he had to stop worrying. She would be dead soon, there was not much he could do about it. But he could save himself. He could live and go back to their district to comfort her family. He could help take care of them for her.
The gong rang, and the games began. He had snatched the knife off the small bag quickly and already begun heading deeper into the chaos. Just as he approached his bag, one of the others jumped at him.
The boy from district four. One of the Careers. He's got a larger blade, and is better trained. But the boy is nowhere near his size. Never-the-less the boy shows no intimidation. Before either could blink four was waving his knife at him. He avoided it and countered with a swing of his own. The boy ducked under it and danced to the side, slicing at the larger man's arm. He managed to get him, but the cut was not deep and damage minimal. Thresh grew frustrated, to some extent, at trying to use the tiny blade in his hand, and instead took a swing at the boy with his fist. He made hard contact with his jaw and sent the boy to the ground.
At that moment he looked up, realizing nearly everyone else was in a similar situation.
He turned his attention back to the bag, grabbing it and throwing it over his shoulder. Just as he laid his hands on the weapons he heard the haggard breathing of the boy behind him, regaining his feet. Before he could take the time to regret it, he had grabbed hold of the weapons and spun. The end of the machete stabbed through the boy's gut, the other blades around it leaving smaller holes in his abdomen. He tugged the weapons back out and turned away, not watching the boy hit the ground, never to rise again.
He charged his way through to crowd, most the others engaged in their own battle. He could see the clearing he was headed to and was almost out of reach of the others when a girl blocked his path. She was practically snarling at him, her blue eyes dancing with the sort of animosity he could only imagine was insanity. How come he hadn't noticed her before? The boy had at least shown some control with his actions, some strategy. But she just ran at him, blade pointed and ready to stab him. Again, he didn't hesitate to plunge the machete into her before she did the same to him.
He couldn't turn away this time, though. And he had to watch her fall to the ground in the most ungraceful manner. He had to see the dark red puddle that started to form underneath her. Then he was running again. He ran even faster than he was before. He had to get away.
His feet carried him down the large hill, into the tall grass below. He could see over it, but it was large enough to slow him some. Yet he didn't stop, not until the last of the shrieks could barely be heard. The grass continued to get thicker, until he was chopping at it with his machete to get through.
When he finally felt he had gone far enough, he plopped himself down. He looked back the way he came and frowned at the clear path he had left. Anyone could find him. So he knew he couldn't rest there, not for long. He took the time to compose himself, catch his breath, and wipe off his blades. Then he tucked the blades into the backpack as well as he could, some still stood out the top, but kept one fair sized one in his belt.
He was on his feet again, and could see far to the right where the grass turned to forest. He knew he was much too large to hide in a tree, the way he hoped she would be. But he also knew if he had to run he wouldn't get far in the grass.
He picked his way through the grass, doing his best to leave as little a trail as possible. It was difficult, considering his size, but he did a decent job of it.
After what seemed like hours of cautiously making his way towards the forest, he could see he was close enough to set up camp. He patted out the grass near him so he could set out his things. The high grass really did offer good cover, and most the others were not nearly as tall as him, so they could not even see over it. He pulled the blades out of his bag then opened it up to go through the other things.
A tarp-large and water resistant. The inside material the same of that of his jacket. A generous amount of matches, a first aid kit-complete with an assortment of different ointments and medicines, and a white rope. Underneath those was a large bag of dried beef, a smaller bag of nuts and a bunch of cookies. Finally, a filled large water canteen with iodine to clean it.
He was pleased with what he got. He unravelled the weapons after packing the items back in, other than the tarp and water. There were many small throwing knives, of which he was grateful since he had decent aim. An assortment of medium sized weapons, some clearly made for sawing, one for skinning animals and a few others to use on the other tributes. Then there was the large machete. The other blades fit neatly into the bag if he organized them well, but he would have to keep the machete on hand.
Before settling in to sleep, he traced back his path, careful not to make it more recognizable. He was reassured that he found it difficult to follow his own path, but a little uneasy that he managed to at all. Once he had gone approximately fifteen feet from his resting place, he set up a small trap. It wasn't much. He stuck two knives in the ground, a good distance away from each other, and then tied the white rope to them. I wasn't an elaborate plan, but the trap was secure and the rope close to the ground so one would not notice it through the grass. The purpose was to trip anyone who came by so they would make enough noise to wake and prepare him. It wasn't much, but it was something.
He got back to his little circle of patted grass and took a drink of the water. Then he placed it in his bag and curled up, pulling the tarp over him. It wasn't dark yet, and it wasn't cold, but he was tired.
He closed his eyes and expected sleep to hit him immediately, considering the extreme fatigue he felt through his body. It didn't though, and behind his eyelids flashed images he didn't want to see. An image of the boy, the blade through his stomach, his eyes wide with pain and his mouth open. The crazed girl, face-down on the ground in a pool of her own blood. It made him want to be sick.
Canons began to shoot off. Eleven of them. Eleven were dead. For some reason, he knew one of them was Rue. The horrific scene from earlier played in his mind, and he knew there was no way she would have escaped it. His hands clutched angrily at the grass below him when he thought of it. Was it one of the older ones? Was it one of the males? Was it one of the Careers? For some reason, that made it worse. It could almost be justified if one of the small girls did it, because then she had a chance. But if someone close to his size took her life from her…
He couldn't think about it. He shook the images from his head. Instead he thought of home, and of getting back. It wasn't the best district, obviously, but it was better than this. Anything was better than this.
He thought of his mother, always looking over him and his younger sister, always watching over them. His old mother never complained a day in her life, never showed a hint of worry about anything and was always telling him to 'Be strong, be courageous, it's the only thing people can never take from you.'. His mother is a wise woman, and many of the things she said surprisingly make more sense now than ever.
Then to his displeasure, he thought of Rue's family, his neighbours. Their mother, a distant woman with hollow cheeks and an even hollower look in her eyes. She works hard everyday to keep her children eating, to keep them healthy. But she has no energy left to love them; she's too busy keeping them alive. Their father's the same, but with a little more life left in him. But their father works just as hard, struggling to support such a large family. Thresh pictures the littler ones, giggling when there is nothing to giggle about because they are too young to know. They are too young to realize how bad they have it. He envies them, the young children who know nothing of the true horrors of their world.
And finally he thinks of Rue. Little Rue, tiny and hard working and never stopping but always smiling. Always energetic, no matter how long she's worked. Rue, who always offers kind words, who always greets him and his family a good morning. Rue, whose songs the people of district eleven wait for to end their day of hard work. Always singing. He could swear when that little girl sings even her mother looks almost happy. Rue is the rock of her family, the one thing holding them down, keeping them together. He doesn't want to imagine what their life would be like without her. Surly all of district eleven will feel her loss.
He hears the anthem begin to play and looks up at the sky. It's almost peaceful, the vast darkness-almost. Pictures of the dead begin to show, and he almost doesn't watch. He doesn't want to see her up there, dead in the sky. But he knows he has to, he has to know it happened. They show the picture of the boy he killed, the Career. It's nice to see the boy's face without the shocked look he had before he died. He recognizes the girl, she's from district six, and in her picture looks calm and relaxed. She looks human. He wished she'd look crazy again, so that he wouldn't feel so guilty for killing her.
The picture of the boy from seven appears, and he just barely hears the rustling of the grass behind him. He's on his feet in an instant, crouching to stay below the top of the grass. He holds his breath and can hear the softest footsteps moving towards him. He takes a step back to prepare himself, machete in hand.
She stumbles into the opening suddenly and he nearly chops her to pieces right there. When he realizes it's Rue he freezes. So does she, but for an entirely different reason. She stands looking up at him standing, machete raised, not blinking, not moving. Surely he won't kill her, will he? She isn't too sure. So she remains still and silent.
When the blue screen in the sky turns off and the glint of blue is removed from the area, he breaks out of his shock. Overwhelmed with relief at her living and glad she's not someone coming to kill him. He bands down and engulfs her in a warm hug, the kind his mother always used to give him when he was little and scared.
She tenses at first, startled by the sudden contact. But when she realizes he has no intention of hurting her, she relaxes.
"Thresh." She breaths, clearly relived to have a sort of friend around.
"Rue." He sets her down, but doesn't take his eyes off her. "You're alive." Then, he did something he rarely does, particularly as of late. He smiled.
Author's Note:
So this is my first Hunger Games story, actually it's the first story I've written outside of my Outsider's fandom. I hope I did an alright job, please review and let me know! It's not going to be long, only a few more chapters, it's just a short story. But I'll be updating soon! Thank you to marianasgirl for betaing for me, it's much appreciated!