Day One - Photographs
Tracey Smith - District Six
As a young child, did you ever drift off to sleep while lounging on the living room couch, only to find yourself waking in your bed the following morning? The mystery of the situation probably felt quite magical back then; to fall asleep in one place and to wake in another with little to no explanation. But as an adult, especially for one who lives alone, this experience is far more terrifying than wondrous. Especially if the room you wake up in is not one you recognize.
Waking up in unfamiliar places was not uncommon for Tracey Smith, whether it be in the gutter of an unknown street or the bed of a man she couldn't remember. The occurrence was a frequency in the eighteen year olds life, for most nights she blacked out with a bottle in hand in a grungy bar unbeknown to most in her district, and despite how common the situation was, it never failed to scare her.
Bright and burning lights shone from every which direction as the brunette cracked open an eye, half-expecting to find herself lounging on the wooden bench in a cell of her district prison. While she hadn't awoken to that situation in months, it was still a possibility she anticipated each morning.
Forcing herself into a sitting position with the hope of finding a way, or somebody else to, shut off the blistering white light that antagonizes her daily hangover, she found that the boxy room she had awoken in was quite unlike any she had seen before.
Through both a raging headache and mind numbing grogginess, the teenager made a feeble attempt to stand and inspect her surroundings, only succeeding in a one-legged kneel. The small, cube-like room lacked any trace of furniture. A vaguely familiar pedestal supported her weight in the centre of the room, which also happened to be the only occupant on the pristine white tiles.
Weariness begins to fade as perplexity and fear fight for control. Rubbing at her drooping eyes, Tracey is able to make out the shape of a hideous looking and wildly out of place hatch jutting from the white wall that looms over both she and the plate. A horror-movie like rust taints the steel, only supporting her unease.
Now aided by a rush of adrenaline, Tracey is able to shakily climb to her feet, wincing at the pain pounding inside of her skull. Reaching for her pocket, she swore upon finding her bottle of pills were not with her. The tablets really were a life-saver; curing her hangover in a matter of seconds and allowing her to proceed with her day of misery and loneliness. Twisting on the spot, Tracey found three identical hatches planted on the remaining walls. No doors or windows, just ugly, little hatches.
"Maybe I should lighten up on the grog." The teenager giggled nervously at her lame attempt at humour, a weak stab at lightening the mood. A heavy fog lingered over her mind, preventing her from recalling how she had ended up in the unfamiliar room. The last thing she could remember was sitting at her dining room table, holding a smoke in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. She recalled a woman sitting on the opposite side, dressed in neat clothing that stood out in her dirty home. She couldn't remember the woman's face.
Her eyes suddenly lock onto what appears to be a photograph taped to the left wall; an addition she swore had not been there a moment ago. Stepping from the plate, Tracey stumbled across the impossibly clean floor towards the photograph, tearing the picture from the wall in a manner that was anything but elegant.
Squinting slightly, a few moments passed before her vision cleared enough for the teenager to make out the figure captured. The photograph was of a slender looking girl, age and size not-unlike Tracey. She had a head of gleaming white hair, and was dressed in a boxing outfit save for a right glove. Instead, her right hand clasped a glass of water that was pressed to her lips, and her forehead glistened with sweat. The girl stood at a distance from the photographer, and the lower half of the picture was obscured by a dark object. It was almost as if the girl had no idea she was being photographed.
Tracey pressed a hand to her forehead and closed her eyes as another rolling wave of pain crashed over her. She allows the picture to fall from her hand as she stumbled back towards the plate, sucking in slow and deep breaths and willing the pain away.
As the pain began to subside, Tracey opened her eyes to a sight that almost drew a scream. The four barren walls that encased her room were now completely covered in photographs. Hundreds and hundreds of photographs. Each one depicted a young man or woman, and in most cases, it appeared the subject was unaware of the photographer and stood at a sizeable distance. Her eyes are drawn to one in particular, a picture of a boy with shaggy black hair sprawled across a messy bed, fast asleep with his cheek smooshed against a pillow that lacked a casing. The picture was slightly blurred, and it took Tracey a fleeting moment to realize that was because it had been taken through a window.
Who took these photos? Where had they come from? Why was she here?
But the terror eighteen-year old Tracey Smith felt at that moment was nothing compared to the next, as her eyes drift to the picture taped beside it. This photo was of a girl, one laying in the middle of a sidewalk with an empty bottle in hand and drool seeping from her mouth. The photo was of her.
"What the fuck is this?" she screamed. With the pain of her headache now irrelevant, she peered up at the ceiling as if expecting to find a camera staring back at her. Instead, she finds another rusted hatch jutting from the roof, "Fuck!"
Tracey moved towards the nearest hatch on quivering legs, hands gripping the rusted metal wheel and twisting with all her strength in the hope of finding freedom and familiarity on the other side. But the wheel refuses to budge, and after two minutes of frantic tugging and incoherent screaming, she finally backed off.
"What the fuck do you want from me!" She screamed, hoping that whoever was watching couldn't see the tears snaking down her face. She twisted around on the spot with her arms outspread, as if inviting her captor to attack, "Huh? If you're going to do something, then do it!"
Whether it was by coincidence, or if somebody was actually paying attention, the hatch wheel on the other side of the room began to spin on it's own, eventually stopping with a click and swinging backwards. Tracey's face grew hard as a debate raged behind her eyes. Should she venture forth and investigate the room beyond, or stay put and wait for rescue? Moving forwards meant following her captors wishes, which may in turn lead to her doom. On the other hand, staying put may anger whoever it was who placed her in the room, and that could lead to punishment. And what help would come? There was nobody outside to miss Tracey if she disappeared. Nobody would even notice, save for the bartender at The Carlton who always greeted her with a smile.
She took a tentative step forwards, followed by another and another, each one steadier than the last as she moved towards the open hatch. Taking in a deep breath and wincing as another blow of pain stabbed at her brain, Tracey peered through the hole. What she saw made her heart thunder even faster, if that were possible. Her knees almost buckled, her arm scraping against the rusted metal as she grabbed onto the framework to steady herself. The room beyond was gigantic, like the room she stood in now on a much larger scale. In the centre sat an enormous metal horn, with various weapons, backpacks, and other survival equipment spilling from the mouth. Now she realized why the plate had appeared so familiar. Tracey Smith was in the Hunger Games.
Kelani Richards - District Ten
Kelani's feet remained rooted to the plate as the collage of creepy photographs that coated the walls began to fall. It was slow at first, with one picture drifting gently to the floor after another, floating back and forth on a non-existent breeze. But that calm and almost hypnotic movement of three or four photographs fluttering to the floor soon turned to a tsunami of paper rolling in from all directions, hundreds of pictures crashing to the floor and rolling in waves around the platform she stood upon. She waited for the room to fall still once again before moving, taking a tentative step from her plate and into the sea of paper below. Her foot sunk to the ankle, and she fought the urge to retract it right away.
Her eyes flickered from photo to photo, until they were captured by one lingering on the surface of the thick pile, a picture that clearly depicted Kelani herself. The picture was taken from below; Kelani stood on a high branch with an arm wrapped around the trunk of a tree, her wind blowing wildly in the breeze as she watched the sun set over the horizon. The tree was a fixture on the edge of the Graves property, sprouting in a field that had gone unused for years. She had thought she was alone at the time. She could hear nothing from beyond the hatch that sits open before her, and could see nothing but a gleaming white light seeping in from the other side.
The seventeen-year old could not recall how she had ended up in that room; the last thing she could remember was shoving through the school doors on the last day of term. The memory was vivid, she could even remember the rush of excitement that coursed through her veins as she proudly strode down the stairs. She cared not if any teacher caught her leaving early, it was the last day of school, after all. What could they do?
Her current stature was vastly different to what it had been upon leaving school that day. With her arms folded across her chest and her entire body quivering, she pushed forwards towards the hatch and peered through it. What she saw on the other side flushed the fear from her system.
Sitting before her very eyes was the cornucopia, an iconic fixture that she never thought she would sight in person. Kelani Richards had always been an adrenaline junkie, always searching for more excitement and dangerous acts to partake in. The Hunger Games had always been a dream of hers: The Ultimate Rush. But her father had always forbidden her from volunteering, and she never dared cross her father.
"No way," She breathed as she stuck her head through the hole, expecting to see a vicious brawl already underway as tributes began to slaughter each other and splatter the pristine white tiles with dark blood.
But, to her surprise, the room was completely deserted. Instead, numerous faces peered from identical hatches implanted across the four walls, each looking more confused by the last. Did none of them know they were entering the arena?
Time began to slow as she eyed the various teenagers. A terrified boy with a misshapen nose. A girl dressed in an elegant white dress who appeared nonplussed by the current situation. Only when a girl with gleaming white hair stepped through her own hatch and into the larger room, standing proud and tall, did time return to normal.
She brushed a strand of white hair from her face, and began her walk towards the cornucopia. The movement was awkward and almost comical, her shuffle increased and decreased in speed as if she were not sure if she should run or not. It suddenly dawned on Kelani that there may not be much time before somebody with a larger thirst for blood joined her. Her mouth stretched into an abnormal and frankly disturbing grin, as she pushed herself through the hatch. The moment her feet hit the floor on the other side, Kelani Richards ran.
Ethan Marks - District Eleven
The third person to emerge from his claustrophobic box was a young man with dirty blonde hair and a solemn face, a boy who showed no outward fear towards the situation he had been thrown into. Like Kelani, Ethan Marks was running the moment his feet touched the ground. While graceful, the movement was also desperate, quite unlike the ecstatic and wild Kelani.
The girl with staggeringly bright, white hair followed his lead, breaking out into a desperate run of her own that only increased in ferocity as she was overtaken by the girl dressed in blue, her berserk grin almost throwing Ethan for a moment. Determined to uphold his selfmade reputation by not being outdone by twogirls, Ethan's long legs began to pump even faster.
Instinct launches control as the boy surpasses the grinning girl and leaps into the horn. The interior walls were lined with large, metal crates that supported deadly looking objects or have sharp weapons extending from within. Ethan moved towards a dark blue pillar that stretched from floor to ceiling, supporting a ladder that reached an opening in the roof, allowing for a smooth exit.
Even if he were to die in this game he had not signed up for, it would be absolutely mortifying to be the first to lose their life in the arena. His entire district would be utterly crushed, and Ethan Marks did not intend to disappoint all those who admired him, and also knew that the possibility of him being taken down so soon was slimmer than the blade of a knife.
In a single movement, one of his hands snagged the strap of a large, blue pack that sat atop a low box, the other wrapping around the handle of a hunting knife. The weapon felt foreign and awkward in his hand; he almost could not picture himself jamming it into the body of another person. Almost. While the concept of breaking the current kill record, a record of fifteen set by Pelia Marsh nine years prior, was appealing, he decided he would rather not be branded an insane psychopath by all who knew him. No, of all the things Ethan Marks excelled at, killing would not be one of them. Surviving on the other hand. . .
Hauling the bag over his shoulders, Ethan lunged for the cold metal rungs of the ladder and pulls himself towards the ceiling, his muscular legs a blur as he clambered from rung to rung, free hand extending towards and grabbing ahold of the edge of the opening above him.
Placing the handle of the knife between his teeth, Ethan grasped the edge with both hands and carefully pulling himself upwards, legs kicking away from the ladder in an arrogant display of strength. Too arrogant.
He does not even lift himself halfway before a firm hand wraps itself around his left ankle. Panic flooded his chest, and in an erratic attempt of freeing himself, he kicked his free foot backwards. It collided with his attacker, whose grip on his ankle failed to falter. With a single tug, Ethan lost his grip on the opening and plummeted back to Earth.
He hit the ground hard, elbow cracking against the metal floor painfully and shoulder blades digging into something sharp. Standing over him, with a hand pressed against her right eye, was the girl with white hair. She was grimacing in pain, Ethan supposed he had kicked her in the face. The girl held no weapon, and with an uncomfortable start, Ethan realized that he had lost his own item of defense in the fall. Growling with pain, the teenager climbed to his feet while holding the ladder to steady himself, unable to locate the hunting knife which had vanished into thin air. His attacker let out a growl of her own, hand dropping from her face and forming a fist at her side as she bared a set of pearly white teeth at her opponent.
Ethan made the first move, closing the small distance between the two in an attempt to surprise her with an uppercut to the jaw. Apparently, his first ever fight was doomed to be a failure, as the girl pulled her arm backwards and threw it into his oncoming face with alarming precision.
Up until this very moment, Ethan had never been punched. Why would he wish to tarnish his perfect body with scars and bruises? The fear of being trapped in an arena fall of murderers alongside the confusion of his placement alongside them crashed into the boy alongside the girls fist, as if the punch was what made Ethan realize he was not as invincible as he liked to believe. The sudden realization that death lay at an arm's length allowed his previous calm and cool expression to crack, giving way to a demeanor of panic and dread.
Ethan stumbled away from the girl with his hand pressed to his upper lip, already throbbing elbow bumping the unstable ladder, which fell from the blue beam and crashed into the side of the cornucopia. The back of his foot stubbed an unseen object, sending him crashing into the now ladder-less pillar.
The boy steadied himself with a grunt of pain as the girl smoothly pulled a gleaming silver sword, one Ethan had only ever seen on a television screen, from a rack that was nailed to the wall. His eyes flicked past the girl, momentarily greeting the chocolate irises of the girl with the psychotic grin from outside. She now stood at the mouth of the cornucopia with a rucksack slung over her shoulder and a curved sword held in her left hand. Her grin fell to a pitying frown, but made no move to help the struggling Ethan. Instead, she turned and made her escape from the deadly horn. The girl with white hair appeared mesmerized by the sword, running the gleaming metal across her hand with her mouth agape. Ethan attempted to use the momentary distraction to find a weapon of his own, only coming up with a single throwing star.
Without a second thought, Ethan pulled back his arm and flung the deadly star, face falling as it veered to the side and embedded itself in the fabric of an untouched bag. He had been so sure it would work; things such as that usually came naturally to Ethan. The feeling of failure was almost as crushing as the realization that he may die at the hands of a girl with stark white hair. Her trance was broken by his reckless action, and with a smile she took a step in his direction, only realizing at the last second that she was now too close to effectively use the weapon.
Leaning backwards so that his butt was sitting atop a black box as she faltered, Ethan kicked his leg upwards. This time, it connected with her flimsy looking wrist with a sickening crack. The girl roared in pain and dropped the weapon, the sword clattering loudly against the metal floor. Knowing this may be his only chance, Ethan pushed himself away from both the box and the pillar and charged forwards. Bending down, he scooped up the sword and shouldered the girl in the chest on his way back up, the pain in both his elbow and lip numbed by copious amounts of adrenaline. The girl crashed into an unstable pile of little black boxes that toppled upon impact, allowing Ethan to make a daring escape.
He passed two or three of the more determined tributes searching for supplies as he sprinted from the mouth, tearing across the floor towards the hatch he had entered through. He managed to make it halfway before something shot past his head. The poorly thrown knife bounced off the floor to his left, Ethan only caught a glimpse of the weapon before he was already passed it.
Risking a look backwards, he could see the girl with hair whiter than snow pull back her arm with another sharp object in hand. The previous atrocious throw granted Ethan a needed boost of confidence, one so strong that the boy found himself flashing a grin and winking at the fuming girl before setting his sight back on the hatch ahead.
If he had thought being on the receiving end of a punch was painful, he was not at all prepared for the explosion of pain as the tip of a lethal knife tore through the fabric of his cargo shorts and burrowed into the flesh of his left thigh. A mixture of a scream and a roar erupted from the boy's mouth as the leg gives away, blood squirting around the girth of the knife. His chest heaved and his eyes watered as he fought the urge to vomit. Looking back over his shoulder with strangled gasps, the girls malicious grin only added to the already unbearable pain of the blade that had carved its way into his body.
Fortunately for Ethan, and unfortunately for the girl who had crippled him, her inhumane joy of taking down her opponent was short lived. The form of a tiny, malnourished boy with a tangled mop of hair atop his head edged his way along the very edge of the top of the cornacopia, ever so slightly licking his lips at the girl below. Dropping to his hands, the boy pushed from the roof in a powerful bound and landed right on the back of his prey. Using a set of sharp and jagged teeth, Ethan quickly turned away as it tore into the flesh of her shoulder, although her agonized scream was enough to make Ethan vomit. A pool of translucent and watery liquid poured from Ethan's mouth and onto the floor before him.
Gagging, and making garbled sounds, Ethan began crawling away from the screaming girl and the animalistic boy. With a heavy backpack on his shoulders and sword clacking against the tile with each movement forwards, Ethan knew that dragging his injured body away would be a slow and agonizing task. He can only hope that the other tributes would be too preoccupied to notice him, as he smeared crimson blood across the white tiles. He could give up here, and await a death that would be far quicker than any later in the game. However, he was not a quitter. Ethan Marks was a winner, and win is what he would do.
Willow Drake - District One
The pain was horrendous. The usually strong, ferocious, and composed Willow Drake let out what she liked to think was a mighty roar as teeth sharper than needles tore into the flesh of her exposed shoulder. The boy that clung to her back snarled in a fashion similar to that of a rabid dog. Turning her head ever so slightly, Willow gagged at the sight of the blood dribbling down the boy's chin as he gnawed on the flesh that had been attached to her body only a second before. Her uninjured arm reaches back, hand threading through and tugging at the wild mop of hair atop the boys head. The pain only appeared to egg the boy on as he proceeded to rake his sharp nails across the skin of her hip.
Unable to shake him, Willow throws herself backwards as a last resort. Running a few steps backwards, the girl slammed the boy of her back against the side of the metallic cornucopia with all her might, a sudden spike of excitement rushing around her body as the smaller teenager was crushed between she and the horn.
The boy let out a gargle, and slumped to the tiled floor when Willow stepped away. The bloody, pussy chunk of flesh he had been chewing on fell from his mouth, slapping into the floor sloppily and oozing crimson onto the white tile. Willow shuddered, and managed to avert her gaze from the grotesque chunk. Without a weapon to aid her, she feared that her lack of experience would hinder her ability to fight against the savage. So instead, she took off in the direction of the boy she had wounded, who was now moaning in pain and dragging his injured body in the direction of one of the open hatches.
The searing pain of her torn flesh slowed her from a sprint, and the persistent throbbing of her dominant wrist only worsened matters. The sound of ragged and strangled breaths burst to life from somewhere behind, growing both louder and closer with each passing second. For a passing moment, Willow felt a waft of hot air blasting across the nape of her neck, the breath of a rabid child closing in on his prey. But something must have felled the boy, for his head spontaneously slammed between her shoulder blades. Willow screamed, a feminine noise she prayed nobody else heard, and scrunched her stormy-grey eyes closed as the floor rushed up to meet her. But the impact never came.
A free feeling, much unlike anything she had ever felt before, unfurled from within her body as Willow's eyes shot open to find the ground inches below her. Her entire body tilted forwards at a slow rate as she floated mid air. With body spinning her upside down, she could see the form of the boy who had torn at her skin spinning out of control off to her left. His rabid and mangled snarls had turned to panicked whimpers, not unlike a recently kicked puppy. Where did they find this kid?
Unable to cease the spinning, Willow could do nothing but watch as the cornucopia fell into her line of sight. The metallic boxes inside remained rooted to the floor, whereas weapons, backpacks, and various other supplies drift as aimlessly as she through the air, some occasionally bumping gently against the walls, others rising through the hole in the roof of the horn. She had been so focused on killing the boy with blonde hair, and trying to avoid being killed by the boy with a tangled mop, that she had not noticed the lack of other tributes around the cornucopia. Other than herself and the rabid boy, a girl dressed in flowing white fought to keep the hem of her dress from floating above her head, Willow noted how she had maintained an angelic appearance despite the chaotic circumstance. Another boy wearing a pair of thick-rimmed glasses was frantically clawing at the open air. Beneath him was a boy wielding a spear, the weapon-head poised directly at the teenager above him. Rounding up the group was a girl with beautiful blonde hair and porcelain skin, who had managed to find a method of maneuvering efficiently across the room despite the lack of gravity. She pushed herself forwards with powerful breast strokes, swimming through the air as if it were no different from water. She appeared the type that Willow detested. Perfect, pretty, and pompous.
Willow was yet to come close to a large body of water in her life; the closest was the bathtub back home. Her father always forbade her from visiting the local swimming pool, a luxury she had longed to experience for many years. Her attempt to pull the same tactic as the beautiful blonde was far less elegant, only succeeding in spinning herself out of control. Bile rose in her throat, and thankfully gravity returned before she could eject what little food sat in her stomach. When was the last time she had eaten? Her body fell like an anchor, plummeting downwards and creating a dropping feeling in her chest. Thankfully, she landed on her feet in a crouch rather than head first. She was grateful that she had not been higher. The girl dressed in white appeared to have landed gracefully, already on her feet with her arms outstretched as if she had floated down instead of falling. The rabid boy was also on the move, scampering to and disappearing through the mouth of the cornucopia. The beautiful blonde had presumably landed safely as well, though she was obscured from Willow by the enormous horn. Unfortunately, not everybody was as lucky as they, and Willow felt that bile returning as she watched the boy with glasses plummet.
The boy with the spear had landed on his back, with the deadly weapon raised just above his stomach, tip angled at the ceiling. The most grotesque squelching sound to ever reach Willow's ears spilled from the body of the falling boy, the sound reverberating around the room as he landed directly on the spearhead. The weapon burrowed through his back as if it were softer than tissue, and moments later erupted through the other side in a shower of crimson, insignificant droplets of blood raining down upon both his attacker and the floor around them. The boy underneath appeared oblivious to what he had done; his face twisted and contorted in pain. When the boy had fallen, the handle had jabbed him in the stomach. Hard. His grip on the handle loosened, and under the weight of the limp body impaled upon it, the weapon toppled to the side. The boys head smashed into the tile with a sickening crunch, and the sight of a pink, quivering chunk of organ on the very tip of the spearhead caused Willow to spew a fountain of translucent liquid across the floor. The brief excitement Willow had experienced upon inflicting pain upon the boy with sandy blonde hair had evaporated, now replaced with a burning pain in her shoulder, a stabbing sensation in her stomach, and an overwhelming feeling of terror. Falling to her hands and knees, Willow released another pool of liquid over both herself and the floor. Once recovered, Willow began to crawl away from the boy with glasses, with no weapon or supplies on hand. She crawled away from danger. Away from the bloodshed. Away from the gaunt, dead face that would haunt Willow Drake for the remainder of her days.
Aldon Crowell - District Five
The sudden and gory death of Varick Lamarre had widespread effects throughout the entire nation. Many viewers, particularly those of wealthier descent, cheered as that spear tore through Varick's small body. Others turned away with either disgust or horror, with a small number emptying their stomachs much like Willow had over their carpets. District One was in an uproar, with several riots breaking out in the hours following Varick's gruesome demise. While some were devastated by the boy's life being snatched so soon, others were furious that young Varick had taken the position of a worthier candidate, and as night fell across the district, Petunia Lamarre was found dead in her home, brains splattered across the wall and a note detailing the woman's grief and guilt over what had happened to her son in her hand.
In the arena, time appeared to slow in the moments following Varick's death. The few who had witnessed the gore appeared to deflate, overcome with both horror and fear that sent them fleeing back towards the hatches. Even the young boy known only as Wolf could sense the dark undertones that had encompassed the arena as Varick Lamarre's life slipped away. Only the girl dressed in an elegant white dress remained unphased, simply proceeding with her collection of supplies as if nothing had happened.
All of this was unknown to Aldon Crowell, who spent a few short minutes following the death of Varick curled up in a ball with his eyes clamped shut. The pain in his stomach was excruciating, it felt as if he had been impaled by the spear-butt that had rammed his stomach. Only when his heaves began to lessen, and the few tears leaking from his eyes began to slow, did Aldon open his eyes and discover what he had done.
Varick's body lay close to Aldon, so near that he could have reached out and brushed the boys cheek. His lifeless eyes stared back at Aldon through the shattered lens of his glasses, mouth twisted open in a silent scream. Aldon wanted to scream himself, but instead sat up and scrambled away for he could not find his voice. Spots of blood peppered both Aldon and the foor surrounding him, coating and creating patterns on the surfaces on objects that had fallen nearby the moment gravity had shifted. Across the room was a much thicker smear of blood, and a number of pools of vomit were scattered here and there. But none of it compared to the grotesque sight of the boy Aldon had murdered; the tip of his spear had skewered chunks of organ, and the expanding puddle of blood extending from the boy's corpse showed no signs of slowing.
Aldon couldn't shift his gaze. He felt paralysed by the boy's lifeless gaze. He could picture his father's face, how it would have brightened the moment the boy fell onto Aldon's spear. How he would jump to his feet and shout 'That's my boy!' to his small crowd of drinking buddies who gathered each year to watch the games. He could imagine the man's reaction upon Aldon's return home, how he would pull his son into an uncharacteristic hug and clap him on the back, congratulating his little killer and informing anybody who would listen of how proud he was. Aldon had wanted his vile father to be proud of his son for his entire life; his entire personality was manufactured around the man who showed nothing but disappointment in his child. But this. . .this would make Diego Crowell proud, and suddenly his pride was no longer important. Insignificant in comparison to what Aldon had done.Murderer.
He would be too excited to notice Aldon cowering away from what he had done. A small part of Aldon wished he could stand and sneer down at the body with the disgust that was expected of him. He wished he could be one of those killers who felt nothing. It would make the games that much easier.
But Aldon was not that person. He was sensitive. His father may have beaten and broken every kind bone in his child's body, but he could never diminish Aldon's softer side. The softer side that kept his father's pride at bay. Until now.
Instead of doing what his father would have wanted, Aldon climbed to his feet with a prominent tremble, groaning and gasping at the sharp pain in his stomach. Nothing he wasn't used to. Just another bruise to add to the collection.
Aldon looked down at Varick Lamarre with sorrow and guilt. He had always thought he would relish in chaos and violence of the games, as his father had when he was younger. One of the most dangerous and cold victors in history, The Shark, they had called him, for he had never stopped moving upon setting foot in the arena. He never slowed until all of his opponents lay bleeding on the floor. Aldon did not feel the euphoria his father had exuded upon taking a life. Aldon did not want to bask in the glory of shedding blood. All he wanted to do was run away and hide.
Aldon turned from the body and moved towards the cornucopia in an almost robotic fashion, eyes unblinking as he stopped to pick up two heavy backpacks in one hand and an unused spear in the other. A spear that had not taken the life of another.
As Aldon moved away from the horn with a bag slung over each shoulder and a deadly spear in hand, he knew that there was no going back. No matter how hard he could try to change. Now that he was a killer, he would never be anything else.
Authors Note
There are a couple of things to note about this story before proceeding any further.
First of all, this world is slightly AU. The situation in the districts is a little different, with conditions and rules being slightly more lenient and true to poorer classes of the modern day. The capitol is as futuristic as it has always been, but this technology doesn't extend far out into the districts. They still use many modern day utilities, and while uncommon, cars still exist in this universe.
Secondly is the pacing. Due to the lack of reapings, chariot rides, training sessions and interviews, the games themselves will take quite a bit longer as characters, relationships, and arcs are established. I hope that this doesn't leave things feeling overwhelming.
Finally, is the characters themselves. I find that many characters in these stories are quite unrealistic. And while I do need to have a small number of psychotic characters to keep things interesting, I hope that many of these people feel far more grounded and realistic than in other stories.
Feedback is greatly appreciated. Reviews, feedback, and theories on what you believe will take place next keeps me interested in the story itself. I hope you enjoy the ride that is Bound Together.