Commonwealth Games: A tribute to England
(Hunger Games: A tribute to Panem)

Good morning, good afternoon or whatever time you will read this.
My native language is not English, so please excuse my poor grammar or use of words.

Pairing: Scotland x France

Rating: M (because of violence)

Genre: Adventure, Sci Fi?

Disclaimer: France and Scotland belong to Europe, Francis Bonnefoy belongs to Himaruya and Alasdair Iain Kirkland (Scotland, and I gave him this name) belongs to a user in pixiv.
Liam and Owain Kirkland belong to Aaid, I just lend them for I wanted to write a fanfiction with at least one time those two (instead of my own OC's)
- This fanfiction is inspired by 'Hunger Games – A tribute to Panem'. This piece belongs to the respective owners. Both book and film.

_

It was raining.
With leather hood drawn deep down his face, just enough so he could see, the hunter had spotted a doe standing in a glade. His breath was only faint. He knew he was standing against the wind. It was impossible that the doe could smell him from this distance.
The forest green eyes narrowed, the arrow was slowly set into aim with the bow. Raindrops dripped from the metallic tip of the arrow. Still, the direction of the wind had not changed, the doe still drank from the fountain in the glade…

With the release of the bowstring, the arrow flew and dug the tip into the target's tender flesh. The doe yelled her last breath and fell over into the small pond she had drunk from just moments ago.

The hunter took a deep breath of relieve. Okay, dinner would be secured for the next week. He walked forward to pluck out the arrow and put it back into the Quiver after cleaning the tip roughly from the animal's blood. Then he tied the legs together, just to he could pick up the corpse to bring it home. Good meat needed at least a few days to hang and dry.

It was still raining when the hunter reached his home village. The village was just made from a few poor houses, one of which was the church that had a tall tower. The tower looked like it was going to crumble anytime, but the villagers said that it was standing this way for at least 500 years. In the village was everything that they ever needed: A butcher, a baker, a tailor and of course the local administration that received direct orders from the capital far away. No one of these villagers here had ever been to the capital. There were many rumours around it, for example that there were fountains with milk and honey.

Alasdair walked back home with the prey on his back, walking up to the butcher who would take on the bloody work and sorting out the good meat of the doe. There was trust between the villagers. Whenever something happened, they could count on each other.
"Ye think it's gonna rain?"
"Most likely, but it always looks like it's about ta rain. No can help tha'."
"Aye, ye can. By traveling to another district o' th' crown."
"Hah, as if. A like it here."

Alasdair got a little package with meat and bacon from the butcher. He didn't need to pay as he regularly went hunting for the family of the butcher.
"It's about time ye look fer a wife. Ye sure ye are na interested in me daughter?", the butcher had a daughter in about Alasdair's age. …but she wasn't really after Alasdair's taste. As the butcher had asked him, the 'lass' was standing in the background and gave a smile which showed the gaps between her teeth. Also, she was rather obese. She took well after her father.
"Mmh… Aye. A'm na… lookin' fer family yet. Whot if A get picked in th' next round? Nae need ta make widows."
"Now that seems pessimistic. How many times have ye been there when they picked the district's tribute? Yer 27, Aye? Tha' makes 17 times in yer case."
"More so a chance tha' A'll be picked. …Efter all, A'm young an' healthy.", the redhead rolled his eyes.

Then the redhaired Alasdair went home. He lived alone somewhere on the edge of the village. The district, that was the 'Secound district'. The remains of a glorious Kingdom once in the Northern part of Great Britain. But about 300 years ago, that changed. Poverty decorated the land while the 'capital' realm kept on feeding from its 18 districts.

His home was just a shabby little cottage, inside there was no one waiting for him. He had a pet some years ago, but now it was like he was waiting for the roof to fall down. He hated the system of the districts and everything. He even considered not going to the election of the tribute at all.

In the next morning the whole village – those that were nominated for to be tribute went to the election on the town square.
A large board was set up and a film was shown, giving a little history of how the England had overthrown the other realms and was the centre of the 'Commonwealth' ruling all over these 18 districts. Every 4 years now, a tribute from each of those districts would be sent to London to entertain the English and show just on what place the districts were.
Of course those 'Commonwealth Games' would be broadcasted on radio and screen all over the world.

Also, the children, starting at age 10 would be nominated for to be a tribute. Those would then be registered on the town square. A chip would be set into their skin that would come into action when the person would join the Commonwealth Games. This was also some kind of census to count the inhabitants throughout the districts. The Government in London estimated that someday they would have to pick more than one tribute each district just to make sure that not too many people lived on the planet.

The representative for this district was a man with lovely long blond hair and a French accent. He had come from another Land but was working now for England. He was the show master of this event but also the medial support person for the tribute.
"I am 'onoured to present you zhe tribute of zhis year's Commonwealzh Games!", the blond picked with neat fingers an envelope from a silver plate that was offered to him. "Zhis year's tribute with be….Alasdair Kirkland!"

Silence among the numerous would-be tributes. They stood at least in 10 lines before the tribune that was heavily guarded in case anyone would go nuts.
However, Alasdair Kirkland was obviously missing. The guards had called him, no one had answered and as the registrars reported that the guy had not been seen all morning, a troop of the guards was put together to tell the bloke the good news warmly.

The guards knocked on the door. After receiving no answer, they kicked it in and invaded the lonely house. Alasdair just blinked awake as he heard the violence in his home. Not much later, the guys were in his sleeping room.
"…Ye.", When the redhead was woken like this, he was rather grumpy.
"We have the order to escort you to the train to London.", one of the officers said in a strict tone.
"Said who?"
"…You have been elected to be this year's tribute."
"…Th' election wos t'day?", Alasdair sluggishly replied as he got out of bed. He wore nothing but a pair of shorts. It was not like he cared if those heavily armoured guys were in his room.
"Yes. So would you kindly put something on and follow us to the train? Your trainer is waiting."
"…Pah."

Alasdair wasn't allowed to bring anything. Not even his own clothes or weapons. He was told that he was given that at the capital. So he was just wearing some pants, a shirt and some slippers. It was summer after all and the heat pressed down everywhere. That was at least what sweat-soaked Alasdair had thought as he stepped on board the long steel train. Inside, everything was…nice.
The furniture looked old, but classy. French design, maybe. Then, it was rather cold compared to outside and hardly damp. Because of the constant rain, when summer came in the second District it would be usually like in a spa: Hot and wet.
"Zhere you finally are. Haha… 'ave you overslept?"

The redhead looked and then found the blond smiling at him, coming from the front cabin. He looked dazzling, flashy…definitely someone to get laid with, regardless what your own sex would be.
"Uh… Mh…", the door behind the Scot closed aprubtly and the train started to move forward. Soon the woods and houses outside would blend together and would barely be seen. At least those close by.
"Zhe train can take up to 200 miles per Hour. …Ah, zhis is no good. Luckily we still have at least two hours left. Because juste like you are now, we cannot present you to zhe audience."
"Whot audience?"
"… Are you stupid?", another girly chuckle escaped Francis Bonnefoy's mouth. It soon annoyed Alasdair. "Zhe very point in your appearance is to look good. You need to make friends among zhe audience, so zhey support you during zhe battle."
"…Whot's th' point…We tributes are dead by th' time we're picked, Aye? Even th' winner.", he looked out of the window and carefully stepped along the cabin, looking around him and not really understanding what was around him. Why was he picked? Wanted someone get rid of him?

"We need to wash you, give you a proper 'aircut… mh.. did you need to be so 'airy?", the Frenchman started to pinch and pick on the taller man. "At least you have some muscles to show. Oh, zhe people will like zhat. …I know! I will take your measures and phone them to London so your clothes will be waiting for you."
"Why couldn't A get me own clothes?", Alasdair blushed and glared at the blond.
"Don't you still get it? It's my job to get you zhrough zhis. Now stop being…. Being so childish! …My job is bad as it is.", the Frenchman turned from his delightedness to a more serious mood. One, that didn't seem so superficial.
Alasdair looked at the blond and felt something like pity for him.

At first, Alasdair had to take a bath. And while he was sitting in the tub, Francis entered the room, looking more like business now, with a set of scissors, brushes and razors.
"Hum?", Alasdair looked over.
"Are we enjoying ourselves?", Francis chuckled. He turned some levers and he had a holder for his tray that held his tools as well as a small sink like those that professional hairdressers use. The blonde set right to work and washed Alasdair's hair after having put on gloves. "Don't be so tense. Relax… and I don't look anyzhing away. …Besides, I decided for you to keep most of your unsightly hair. Because I want to create a certain picture. You are a brave and tall – handsome – Scottish man. I want to give zhe audience zhe impression zhat you are coming right from zhe Highlands. Loch Ness and stuff."
"…But A am fra th' Highlands. …An' Nessie is real."
"Haha, of course, of course. Anyway, you are going to be wearing a Kilt. I already phoned zhat to our little team waiting in London. They don't know your size as I didn't measure you yet, but zhe Kilt is… normal, Oui? About 5 or 8 Metres. I ordered 8, because you're so big."
"…", Alasdair blushed a little as he let the blond massage his scalp.

"Oh, you got wonderful hair too. …You're a natural ginger?", Francis leaned over to see the hair on the Scots chest and… a little further down. Alasdair noticed that.
"O' course A am a natural! And stop lookin'!"
"Sorry, sorry!", Francis laughed nervously and rinsed the hair conditioner out of the red hair. Then he dried it roughly with a towel, getting right to cut the hair. He draped a cloth around Alasdair's shoulders, then divided the hair into sections, clipping them up with several clips. The cutting happened quick and secure. Francis knew very well what he was doing. Alasdair however dozed off as the feeling of the Frenchman on his head seemed rather…relaxing.

Francis chuckled softly as he noticed that his 'client' had dozed off. But he continued with his work and draped the cloth slightly different to shave him. He used foam to mark where he would shave and then went down with the blade leaving no scratches or whatsoever. Alasdair was then left behind with a good and decent haircut that made him look like a civilised gentleman (the usual cut you see him with on the 'pixiv' Scotland = similar to England but parted in the middle.), and slight sideburns. Now he looked so good that Francis was tempted to kiss …and probably do some other things to him.
The French managed to gather his tools and clean up the hair that had fallen to the floor.

"…Eventually you need to leave zhe tub. Zhe water is cooling down.", Francis said and heartily poked the Scot.
Alasdair flinched and fell back awake. He immediately noticed how his head was lighter – still felt better – and his face was free from most hair. He ran a hand to his mouth. "…O-och!"
The blond French smiled and gave Alasdair a mirror. "We made a beauty out of zhe beast."
"…", Alasdair gave Francis a weird look, but then was astonished by what he saw in the mirror. He was sure a handsome man!
"It's really a shame zhat you 'ave to join zhis hideous battle. If it was for me, I'd keep you forever."
"…Weesht. (shut up)"
"I wonder if you die as a virg…"
"Can A have a towel, please?!", Alasdair loudly interrupted the other, knowing fairly well where this was going.

Francis handed his prodigy a large and very soft towel. "What are your… strengzh's? I mean in battle. You 'ave battled before, 'aven't you? Your muscles are well toned."
"Aye. …A went huntin', daily.", Alasdair was rubbing his skin dry as Francis had turned his back to him. Francis had then also given him some spare clothes that were clean and somewhat fitted Alasdair.

Then the two went over to the waggon they had been in previously. A fine meal was served there. But Francis insisted on taking Alasdair's measures before the redhead was let to the food.
"…A lik' big weapons. Big swords more than fire weapons.", Alasdair explained while he shoved the food into his mouth like there would be no longer food afterwards. But also he knew this was a golden coffin. So why not make use of that? "But if A have ta, A'll use guns too."
"When zhe Games start ye must but run… Zhere will be a set of weapons spread out in zhe middle. But zhe most air'eads go for zhat first and a big massacre is zhe result. You don't want zhis, do you?"
Alasdair frowned.
"Also, you will be given a week of time preparation before coming actually to battle. Zhere will also be interviews. …Do you 'ave family at 'ome?"
"Nae. There's no one…"

Francis found that sad and watched as the other still dug his food. The Frenchman was already finished eating his salad.

Eventually, their train reached London by night. Alasdair did have some resting time before the train arrived. The 17 other districts' tributes had already arrived, but not all of them had done so by train as some of them were also across oceans in other parts of the world.
The same evening was a show, where the tributes were introduced. The tickets for the show had been largely out of sale for months already.

"Good evening England, Commonwealth and the World!", the presenter boomed into his microphone. He had short blond hair, bright blue eyes that were but covered by a pair of sunglasses, and a festive suit. "This evening we proudly present you the 18 tributes of the Commonwealth that will stand against each other in a match within a week. This tradition has been going on now for at least 900 years ever since the Great England has taken over the world! Only 22 Nations have been spared so far and some have exited the Commonwealth. But for what reason? There is the chance to become immortal among the heroes of the Commonwealth! Unforgotten are those that battled within the glorious Arena of London! And today in the 21st century, technology has allowed us to perfect the Games for you, dear audience in this stadium but also out there on the monitors and radios!"

Music was played and the excitement among the audience grew wild.
"But let's not digress into other spheres. Here come the tributes of this year! From the First District: Owain Kirkland!"
Owain was a tall man with dark brown hair and forest green eyes. He had a lot of a gentle giant. He wore what was meant to be the traditional clothes of his land.

"And from the Secound District: Alasdair Iain Kirkland!"
Alasdair was nervous. He tugged a little on the clothes he had been given. A Kilt with blue-red-white Tartan pattern and a sash with the same pattern, then a black frock jacket and a white shirt with a white tie. Then white socks that were well visible and black slippers. This wouldn't be what he was wearing for battle, that was for sure. He got even more nervous as the crowd cheered and his face was seen on the four large monitors that were in the arena.

"The Third District: Liam Kirkland!"
Liam was a young lad with ginger hair and also forest green eyes. He seemed nervous but a grin showed confidence.

"From the Fourth District: Matthew Williams!"
Matthew was a shy young man with silky blond hair and purple eyes. He looked rather handsome and wore the typical attire of the Canadian Mountain Police.

Other districts followed. What Alasdair bothered was how they had no names but numbers. They should have had names…they should have been independent countries. Maybe they were, but often the government would censor everything that was related to the past from before they belonged to England's realm.

Remarkable were the guys from Districts 8 and 9. Number 8 had a Koala on his shoulder while 9 had a small bird named Kiwi with him.
The show ended after Papua New Guinea had entered and the audience had gotten a good view on the combatants. Everyone was excited for the match that would be coming up within 7 days.

"What a show! Alasdair!"
"…Who said ye could call me tha'?"
"You're my prodigy! …And I am probably zhe last person you are close wizh.", Francis gave him a hurt look.
The taller redhead gave Francis a glare. The Frenchman however just pulled him along. "You'll 'ave to change clozhes."
"Again?"
"Oui, you have something for the night and somezhing for training, and zhen zhe zhing you will wear on your day of battle."
"…Ye behave lik' a mother."
The blonde chuckled and blushed a little.

About an hour later, Alasdair was sitting in his comfortable pyjama and was eating dinner as he was in his room. He was left alone by Francis just to get some privacy and time to think for the first few minutes of this day.
This day?
It was already the next day. But Alasdair actually enjoyed sitting by himself. He had a very comfortable and soft bed that just invited for sleeping, he was sitting on a couch that was just as comfortable, he had a large window through which he could see the city lights… it was almost as if all of these lights were marking a living thing inside the city.
He let the TV run besides that. The TV showed scenes mainly from the event of the Commonwealth Games, about the participants, about the stadium, about earlier Games.
The redhead missed nature a bit in there…
"Actually, yer all ta pity.", he mumbled softly as he took a bite of his stew. It was delicious. The best meat he had ever eaten.

The next day, Alasdair was over at the training hall. Others were already doing their training. Here, the redhead wore a tight-fitting tank top in black with blue lines, and some loose fitting pants with the same pattern. He had asked Francis if his Battle Outfit would also be with Kilt, but it wasn't going to be… well, good to know.

The other District Tributes seemed to do well with their weaponry. One had Bow and Arrow, another used shotgun of various calibre, others were good with throwing knives, then there were also users of staffs or swords.
Okay, this was why Francis had asked if he had been specialised. But Hunger was actually the worst part of the Games. It was all about Surviving out in the wilderness. Shouldn't the Districts then be teaching their young ones on how to do that? Especially when all of them could have been chosen as tributes.
At least, there was no child among them…

"Yo Number 2, wanna do some sparring?", a dark skinned man with a Jamaican accent walked up to him. "A know that fightin' each other isn't allowed, but a bit of sparring can't be bad?"
"A din ken…", Alasdair's eyes looked for any supervisors.
"Come on, man. It ain't gonna hurt.", the guy from District 5 went into battle stance. His suit was similar to Alasdair's but the lining was yellow. The guy wore dreadlocks in a ponytail and a pair of sunshades. …As if he needed that inside this building where the walls were already black and only illuminated here and there to give some cool effect.
Alasdair shrugged, then cracked his knuckles and warmed his body a bit up, just to go into fight mode too.

What the two did with each other was something like Kickboxing. Whenever there was an opportunity, one weak defence, the other would use it. Soon, the other District tributes would stand around them and watch them fight.
Sadly, soon a supervisor got between them and told them to separate.

"Whot's yer name?"
"…Coffey… Jim Coffey. …Lik' the drink, just a bit different.", Jim grinned.
"Okay, Jim.", Alasdair smiled. "A'm Alasdair Kirkland."
The Jamaican had a funny accent, the Scot liked that.

When Alasdair returned Sweat soaked from the training, he found a large envelope on a shelf in his bathroom. He had just wanted to take a shower and change into his comfortable pyjama again as he noticed that.
Towel still around his hips, he walked out of the bathroom and studied what was in the envelope. It was the story of his District how he would soon learn.

The Kingdom of Scotland was founded by a King very early in time after the Romans had left the British Isle and when the King had united the Picts, Northern Umbria, Dál Riata and Strathclyde.
The Scottish and the English would fight each other to the bitter end.
In the early 14th century a man named William Wallace had fought bravely for his believe that the Scottish should have been independent from their Southern neighbours. He had paid with a painful death.

In the report was written detailed how Wallace died. And about the Alliance between the Scottish and the French… Well, Francis Bonnefoy – his mentor – was French. Alasdair knitted his thick red eyebrows together as he noticed that he was dry enough to wear clothes and walked back into the bathroom.

As the week went by, the famous presenter with the blond hair and cowlick would interview the tributes individually. This would also give the tributes a chance to win 'fans' among the people of England. Thus this would give them some benefits during the battle.

Just when it was Alasdair's turn he walked up to Francis and requested a makeover for his costume.
"Now? Are you nuts? Couldn't you 'ave come earlier? Mon ami, zhis is really not zhe time!"
"Help me!", the green eyes burnt into the French mind.

10 minutes later, Alasdair walked on stage in a somewhat… irritating fashion. He wore blue celtic patterns over his right arm and face, wore a simple rough woven shirt in beige and the Feileadh Mhor, the 'great Kilt', around his hips and a part of it as a sash around his upper body. Dark brown boots reached almost up to his knees. The audience was stunned by the look because Alasdair looked really wild.
Francis stood with some other people backstage before the monitors. He didn't believe what he saw.

Alasdair on the other hand had discovered his confident patriotic side. He knew that the 'Scotland' from the report was his District.
"Okay, Ladies and Gentleman. Today we will introduce you further to the 18 tributes that will fight each other in the Commonwealth Games in a few days. This time it's about Alasdair Kirkland from the 2nd District. Welcome, Alasdair."
"Moarn."
"Is… that get-up usual in your place?"
"Actually nae. And at home, no one walks around in a Kilt.", the redhead explained, pointing to the skirt-like garment he wore. "But we tributes lik' ta show where we come fra, and who we are. Wasn't it so at the entrance show? Th' world is goin' ta remember us."
"You are pretty self-conscious about this. …Are you sure you will win?"
"If A din believe A will win, then A will definitely lose."

"Y-yea, that sounds pretty confident. …By the way, what do you wear underneath that…Keld?"
"Kilt. K-I-L-T. …A can show ye.", Alasdair smirked and got up from the seat, turning his back to the audience and lifted his Kilt.
The presenter Mr. Jones gasped at what he saw. The reaction of the audience varied. Some were shocked, others grinned, some gasped as well but then grinned.
However, you could probably say that whatever Alasdair had done, he had sold himself to the people. Not some false figure created by someone else.

"Just what were you zhinking?!"
"Whot's th' matter?", Alasdair snickered.
"What zhe matter is? You juste showed your bum to zhousands if not millions of people! Do you zhink zhis is going to 'elp?"
"…Och, din be mad. It's juist a wee bit o' fun fer a dyin' man."
Francis huffed. So much for confidence into winning. Alasdair ticked back and forth between living and dying.
Well, it was no mystery that the winner of the Commonwealth Games would always go against the 'Tribute' of England. …But the Tribute of England always wore a marvellous suit of Armour and a set of Weapons that would be way too good compared to whatever the winner had.
It was not a secret that the Districts would have to sacrifice one among them every 4 years for their Government to kill. These tributes were sacrifices.

The Scotsman tried for the rest of the week to just enjoy life but also use the training to stay in shape. He really was torn between the possibility of winning but also giving up because there was no possibility for him to win. What were his options?
If only he would know if there was a weakness upon this ominous suit of armour. But there were only rumours about it. Actually, rumours he would believe as these rumours included that pictures and other stuff about the armour were top secret. Even the cameras would shut off once the English 'Tribute' would step onto the island.

Ah yes, the island. The battlefield was an island somewhere in the English Channel. There was in the middle a clearing in which the tributes would start. 18 spots set for them around a bunch of crates and weapons that would be lying around like from a horn of plenty. The rest of the isle was covered in deep forest, almost like a jungle. There were also hidden chests here and there to be found. So even if one would run from the start, there was a chance to survive. People said that hunger might be one of the more possible deaths out there.
Well, besides the thick forest were also ravines and the influence of the operators. The operators had control over the island via computers and modern technology. They were able to broadcast the happenings around each of the tributes but also to cause controlled fires in the forest, make smaller or bigger animals appear or disappear. They were practically gods of the island.

The tributes were brought individually to the island and they also wouldn't attack each other until they had their positions in the circle around the horn of plenty. It seemed like the tributes were sports that were preparing themselves for a marathon. It was surprising how there were barely any women.
Alasdair thought that still some of them might look like girl but he could tell that they were just… young guys. For example, the one coming from District 9 (New Zealand).
The redhead wore his battle outfit, that consisted of a black hoodie, a black shirt beneath, a pair of dark jeans and boots. He had put on some decorations such as blue celtic patterns that covered half his face and a stripe of tartan fabric bound like a neckerchief around his left ankle. It might even come in handy later.

The countdown was visible via laser above the trees in the sky. 5…4…3…2…1… Go!

Some of the tributes flinched, the more brave ones darted forward towards the horn of plenty, others ran away without even grabbing anything.
Alasdair believed in the function of his long legs and darted forward, grabbing two backpacks. Then he headed straight for the woods, but one of the other tributes stood before him, ready to smash him with a sword.
"Darn!", Alasdair cursed and grabbed something close – it was a spear – and smacked it against the guy. The sword flew out of his hands and Alasdair didn't think twice, but drove his spear right through the guy's skull through the eyeball, picked up the sword and headed once again for the woods. He heard screaming behind him and bullets graze his legs, but he just ran as if his life depended on it.
Well, maybe it did depend on it.

Alasdair soon ran through the forest where the ground was filled with slippery wet leaves from last autumn. He hoped that no one had set up a trap yet. But that wasn't much likely. Not a lot of time had passed since the start. But where to run first? Eventually, he couldn't hear the cries near the Cornucopia anymore.
His nose noticed the smell of salty air. Maybe he was near the ocean. Yup, there were a receding forest and upcoming weather-torn bushes ahead.
He was in luck. He found a cave to hide in for now.
"Anybody in here? Come out now or never…"

No reply. Okay, he thought, and walked inside. He wanted to look at what was inside the bags he had been able to get, but then hesitated. What if someone was behind him? He waited and listened for what might be outside the cave.

Nothing, still. Good… the redhead furrowed his thick eyebrows and opened one backpack after another. There were two bottles, one filled with coke. A Swiss army knife, a rope, a roll with plastic bags, a small can with beans and a box of matches. The redhead grinned over his luck as he tried to keep in a happy cry. He stored the things into one bag. He didn't need two. Okay, he had these items and the sword he had gotten from the other guy he had struck down. Does that make me a murderer?, he wondered. Again, he looked outside at the sea with the waves that waved their foam crowns at him.
"…This is legalised murder.", he muttered.

The first few days were rather boring. Every now and then rain would wipe away traces of both human and the inhabiting animals. Some of the tributes had already died and were announced also on the island by evening. On the evening of day 2 were alive from District 1 (Wales), 2 (Scotland), 3 (Northern Ireland), District 4 (Canada), District 6 (Bahamas), District 8 (Australia), 9 (New Zealand), 10 (Grenada) and 12 (Salomones).

In the meantime, Alasdair had found a routine, had found something to eat and always changed the location of his camp. This night would be more uncomfortable as he had decided to sleep in a tree. He used the rope to tie himself onto the tree and covered his head with the hoodie. He regretted that he had used up the coke, but refilled both bottles with fresh water from a stream he had found on his way.

Apart from the start he hadn't killed or met any of the others again. Actually, he couldn't picture himself killing someone coldblooded. But the thing was that he had no choice. And what if someone actually managed to kill the 'tribute' of England? Bringing back history to their respective owners in the Districts would probably call for a revolution. Because as much as he had read about the history of Scotland… how brave these people were, as much were probably the others too.
Just too bad that it was impossible to go with the other tributes and start something like a riot. Some of them had been eager to kill…

"Pst."
Alasdair blinked just before he had been able to doze off.
"Pst…. Mr. Skirt."
"…It's called a Kilt, ye bastard."
"Mr. Kilt, I knew it…"

It was the Canadian. He looked like a kicked puppy. He had bruises all over and his nose had been bleeding.
"Are ye alone?"
"Y-yes… please, Mr. Kilt…Help me."
"If this is a trick… A swear to god.", Alasdair still made no move towards the blonde below him.
"It's not a trick. …I think no one is here. Can I come up? I ran away when the others formed a group."

"Yea, they formed something like an alliance. They want to kill you. They have been looking for your traces but up until now you were too good."
"Until ye came along. How did ye find me?"
"…I needed to pee and then I found something odd about this tree.", the blond Canadian blushed.

"Listen mate… this isn't guid. …A'm plannin' ta overthrow th' stupid Kingdom. And A can't use a sidekick. They want all o' us dead aside fer a single tribute. …And if we're th' last two, ye make me kill ye. …A din want ta be th' one doing tha'. Ye look like a pup."
"Just because of that? …Can I come up, I think we're being too loud. What if the others hear us? On the other branch is still space."
Alasdair rolled his eyes.

About 10 minutes later, the Canadian was with him up in the tree. Apparently he had told the truth. But killing him would somewhat break his heart. What sacrifice…
Actually, having everyone dead and play along wasn't good either. Too many people had already died…
"How it is with yer place? Have they also inserted some … kind of chips into your vein? Where are they?"
"Oh, the chips? …I have no idea. But yes, they will be a problem. This is why we do this. Haven't they told you that …'they' can push a button and kill you with this chip?."
"…Och.", so much for a revolution. With the chips inside… there wasn't even a need for a high-tech arena like this where they could send out beasts or anything to kill them right away. Or a final boss like the English tribute.

The next morning brought new victims. According to what Matthew – the Canadian – said, there had also been fighting among the group he had left. These new victims had not been announced by the operators yet, but the corpses had been found on the way of Matthew and Alasdair.
"Do ye think they get a funeral?"
"I'm not sure…", Matthew didn't want to look further at them and tip-toed past them.
"A hope so. …A din think tha' anyone wanted a war lik' this."

But things would come different as many times…
The two groups eventually met up. The operators behind their computers had pushed them together by using fire and other things to shoo them into the right direction. And here they were just on a bridge between two large rocks. Underneath the bridge a vast river that cut into the island.

"We're a bit outnumbered, aren't we?", Alasdair murmured.
"You can also just run into my blade and it'll be all over.", said one of the men with the darker skin.
Matthew whimpered.
The other guys in the larger group didn't look so confident.
"Ye din want tha', do ye?"
"I do!"

The guy from the 6th District (Barbados) lunged forward and attacked Matthew and Alasdair. The redhead tried to dodge the attack. Eventually, other tributes from the larger group joined the fight and the hanging bridge collapsed.
The last thing that Alasdair remembered was a stinging feeling between his ribs, then everything went black…

Alasdair couldn't tell how much later it was when he awoke the next time. He was washed ashore somewhere down the river. He heard only birds chirping around him as he was lying on his back, seeing the very blue sky above him. Or below him? Oh, his mind was fuzzy.
The stinging feeling between his ribs had been a dagger that had eventually gotten there. It wasn't so deep in there, so he considered pulling it out.
Then again he knew that pulling it out could cause internal bleeding. So, what to do…? Still lying on the ground, he looked around him. There were some of the other group, but obviously dead. One of them stared right at him with a dull gaze. No life in there, clearly.
The redhead continued looking around him, then considered his options.

He pulled the dagger out of his ribs, then quickly pressed cloth against it. It hurt like hell and he would have screamed if he had not found some stick of wood beside him to push between his teeth. Usually, burning out the wound would have done a good job too. But he was still very wet from the ride in the river. There was no chance… also, he had no gunpowder to do that.
"Wonder…where the others are.", he muttered to himself in a raspy voice. He felt mental, but he needed to hear talking. He noticed how much he missed the blond Canadian. Och, there he was. …Also dead.

Shudders ran through the Scotsman's spine and he felt a knot in his throat while tears rolled down his cheeks. Why the sudden tears? For the blond Canadian? Well…yes…damn, he had been the first to stick around with Alasdair, because for company, not because it had been his job! And now he had been ripped out of life.
Why did it surprise him though? They all had been sentenced to death at the point they had been drawn from among all the other District inhabitants.
"…Shit.."

With his blurry vision he would never see how on the tip of the dagger was a small, technical item…

Alasdair didn't pack the things that were scattered around the rocky beach, save for a sword that seemed to his liking. He walked up beside the stream to find at least the spot where all of them had fallen from the old bridge.
How many were alive by now? How much longer would the games take? Or were they already over? Couldn't be…

Eventually, he reached an area, where the guy from District 8 (Australia) fought bravely against a man in a white suit of armour. The battle was really unfair. The suit of armour seemed very high technology with a lot of inbuilt weapons. Eventually, he beheaded the Australian and the head rolled over to Alasdair.

The redhead huffed in shock and stared at the head. He just saw how the eyes got dull.
The rest of the body fell over into the dirt. Slightly, Alasdair wondered if the tributes would even get a proper funeral in honour.

"Ah? There's another one…?", the man in armour said. This was the English 'tribute'. It was much likely a parody of the wars that had enslaved the 18 Districts under England. "But the operators said you were dead…"
"Well… as ye can see… A'm not.", Alasdair huffed. The injury in his ribs hurt. And here he was, fighting just for a statement. And to make a change in history. Maybe, these Districts could regain their names… and this massacre could stop!

The armoured man shot a few arrows out of his arm and at the redhead. Alasdair grunted and dodged the attack. He knew he better won soon. He needed to get closer to the other guy as his sword was made for close combat, not to cross such a range of distance.
The guy in armour seemed to calculate quickly and took out a glowing sword from his armour. Apparently, it had a heated up blade.
As their blades clashed, there was a buzzing sound and sparks flew.

The Scotsman tried to break through the defence, but the suit of armour allowed the Englishman to move at an enormous speed. Eventually, the blade of Alasdair was cut in half and flew behind him. But in the heat of battle he hardly recognised that and went just past the defence and right into a softer part of the white armour. He made it through the hard shells and seemed to hit something… fleshy. Blood soon sprinkled out.
"You… you…"
"…Ah."

Alasdair hesitated for a moment, but then added force onto his blade. The white 'knight' seemed to be unable to make a counter attack with his sword. As the broken sword stuck into him, Alasdair ripped the helmet from the guy's head.
He had short blond hair and thick eyebrows… much like Alasdair himself.
The redhead had to see that maybe they weren't so different.

"You… bastard…"
"…Stop tha'. A did it fer th' future.", Alasdair felt stupid for saying this. "England shall be no longer ruling over us… and take our culture. Ripping it fra our faces."
"We never …. Did that… we wanted to … unify you… all of you… under one sky…"
Then, the gaze of the man went dull.
Alasdair thought about what he had said. Under one sky? …That would mean that this was purely for the sake of unifying them all…so there would be no war between the Districts…