A/N: This is my first Hunger Games fanfiction and it's not from the point of view of a main character, so you know, be a bit forgiving. I tried, really. Anyways, anything recognisable belongs to Suzanne Collins. Obviously I'm not Collins or Finnick Odair wouldn't have died. Enjoy! (maybe)
Set during the 74th Hunger Games, from the POV of the female tribute from District Eight. More contemplation than action. Her memories of District Eight and her reasons for starting a fire.
Fire
It's cold. I'm cold.
I thought I'd be scared when I came into the arena. I thought I'd be homesick, or worried, or terrified. But really, I'm just cold.
Well, that's not entirely truthful.
It's not that I'm not homesick. I never imagined that I'd one day long for the familiar and nauseating fumes of industry. The kinds that linger in the air as suffocating smog. The kinds that seep into your room through the cracks in the walls until everything stinks of factories. But I miss it, and I know I'll never smell it again.
It's not that I'm not worried. I have no weapon; I'm so hopelessly unprepared. My fate was sealed the moment my name was pulled from the Reaping Ball. But I'm not one for denial, and I've accepted my impending doom. What I'm truly worried about is my family. How my parents will handle this, if they'll even be able to.
And it's not that I'm not terrified. There are Careers prowling the forest floor, keeping their eyes wide open for people like me. The unarmed, untrained easy targets. The arena's design does nothing to help me. I don't know the ways of nature; I've never seen so many trees before. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing a single tree in my life. District Eight isn't exactly nature-friendly.
I did the only thing I could think of: I hid. I crouched by some trees and covered myself with the dark green leaves of nearby bushes. I've been waiting for a while now. Afraid to move, to breathe, to blink. No one's come by.
But it's cold. I'm cold. My flimsy jacket offers little protection from the bite of the frigid air. My skin cries out in protest. I'm unaccustomed to cold weather.
I spot a bundle of fallen branches and twigs. I could start a fire. But the light and the smoke could lead them to me. If I start a fire, I'm as good as dead.
But I'm as good as dead anyways. Why stick around, hiding and starving and watching the others get killed off? The odds are not in my favour; they never were. I might as well get myself knocked out of the running, spare myself the hunger and the suspense. It's going to happen eventually, and there's no point putting off the inevitable. I'm as good as dead.
I pick up the branches, striking them together and willing my frozen fingers to work.
A spark, a flame, a puff of grey smoke. I hold my hands over the warm glow of the small fire, gladly heating my skin and trying to keep the teeth-chattering to a minimum.
Footsteps. Leaves crunching. I hear two voices I can recognise: the small girl, the one with dark brown hair and throwing knives. The large, muscular blonde boy who always refused to part with his precious sword.
The dark grey smoke reminds me of the factories of District Eight, where we all worked, slaved over countless fabrics for endless hours. District Eight, where the grind of machinery was ubiquitous and perpetual. Where the noxious fumes of the textile factories billowed in the air, constantly threatening to smother us.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a glint of metal. The soft shine of a blade. The footsteps come closer.
Let them come. I'm as good as dead anyways.