Countdown, a hunger games fanfic

A/N: Obviously, not mine. Also, just to clarify – none of the tributes I mention are specifically characters from the books.

A minute seems like an eternity, suspended there beneath the sky. I squint up at the clear blue. Not a cloud in sight. In spite of the dense foliage less than 30 meters away, all is still. Everything seems too quiet, to the point of being unnatural.

The azure expanse reminds me painfully of home. The only differences are that this blue is above my head rather than beneath my toes; and this blue is too thin, too weak to convey watery depths. It is the blue of my late dad's eyes. My eyes.

It is this exact shade of blue that we so seldom see at home. Everyone said the sea gives our sky a pale green tint. When we did chance upon such calm weather, I would always look up, skywards. I never liked how the space seemed too vast without any birds or clouds. Mom loved it for a different reason; she said watching me stand there at the end of the dock with my eyes pointed toward the heavens was like seeing a mirror reflect itself. I was like the sky - "filled with possibilities and limitless potential...so open and true..." I only believed it when she said my eyes reminded her of the sky, of calmer times when things weren't good, but they were better. Back when Dad was around.

The blue disappears. I force myself to lower my chin and return my gaze forward.

Directly across from me stands a boy about seven inches taller than me. His brow is furrowed into a frown that seems more fearful than resolved. As I watch, he swallows hard and licks his lips a couple times.

Pools of brown suddenly meet mine. I can't bring myself to look away.

The eyes are filled with depths that rival the ones I grew up with. His bottom lip disappears as he struggles to keep his emotions reined in. The flicker of fear keeps diluting his mask. Wind blows at his hair. Rays of sunlight reflect off his golden locks, highlight the 12 emblazoned on his sleeve. His suit is tight on his muscled form, more than likely built up from years of work.

His size gives him advantage and makes him a difficult opponent, if it wasn't for his kindness. Roughly cut flashbacks rise in my mind of how he lingered along the perimeter of the training room, of how he willingly gave up choice weapons to those waiting rather than finish off the dummy. It isn't in his nature to kill.

Shivers rise along my spine. Goosebumps form on my skin at my next thought.

He will probably be among the first to go.

Now, standing here across from him, locked in a straight stare, I look away first. The utter pain and horror filling his eyes are more than I can handle. I don't want to be the one who kills him.

The calm before a storm. That's what the next pair of eyes reminds me of.

They are storm grey and filled with a quiet sort of confidence that makes up for her slight, graceful frame. She flicks feathery, brown hair out of her eyes, now meeting my gaze in a vague sort of challenge. Her stance reminds me of my sister's – Charlotte's. It's self-assured, cocky almost, but not baseless.

I remember seeing her in training, watching as she undid tangles and traps without blinking an eye. She strayed from the lessons we were taught, choosing instead to create her own devices that were far more cunning and lethal than anything the rest of us could have come up with.

I am about to label her as a threat when her gaze flashes upward, betraying a momentary flash of underlying pain. Her chin turns abruptly. I watch her jawline tighten. Her profile greets me.

From my own upward scan, I know nothing to be above my head. The girl's silver 5 flashes in the high sun when she straightens her jacket and resumes a stony stare ahead, ignoring the wind tousling her fringe. Hair.

My own wispy blond strands blow in the wind. I mentally thank my stylist for dealing with my usually unruly bangs. They don't impede my vision anymore. When I looked in the mirror before my interview, I thought it looked a bit like Charlotte's hair.

Charlotte.

The girl with storm grey eyes has her gaze locked on the trees. I realize with a pang that my hair, so unlike hers in color, but so similar in nature, probably reminds her of the family she's leaving behind. Was it a brother or a sister that had refused to let go of her three weeks ago?

The hair of the boy opposite Storm Grey dances in the breeze. He doesn't bother to tame it. His gaze is locked on the ground directly below him. Large hands hanging by his sides contract and detract into tense fists. The 10 glints with each movement.

I haven't seen him much before, except for that day. The last day of training.

The silver of the tall spear gleamed menacingly in the low, artificial light. I stood a few meters in front of him, watching. He gazed up, almost reverently, at the vaulted ceiling. A hand ran down the body of the weapon, equally as beautiful as his look had been. Long fingers danced along the pole before they joined the digits of his other hand, grasping tightly.

His green eyes startled me. I was so entranced by his motions that I'd failed to notice him staring directly

at me.

The same eyes look up from the blades of grass twitching in the wind to meet mine once more. Then, his eyes were cold and aloof. Now, they blaze with a sense of quiet understanding that fail to line with the dimpled smile he wore during his interview. The audience loved his cheeky nerve, his suave wink and laidback nature.

The nod is so subtle that I wonder if I imagined it.

I didn't.

His gaze returns to the weapons arranged in the center.

I mentally wish him luck. With his strength and charisma, he has more than enough running for him.

The neighbors always said people would like me simply because I was likeable. My best friend, Elle, always laughed. Was that not the essence of the word, "likeable?" The comment hadn't held much worth for me then. I only hope that this "likeability" will help me now. I don't have much going for me. I was never the best in anything, except jumping. And raking oysters. And getting myself hurt for idiotic reasons.

A strange sensation comes over me. I'm being watched.

Gold eyes not quite directly across from me bore into mine. The boy is completely still. His 2 looks grey in the shadow of his body. A Career.

Something keeps me from turning away in the first second. He is different.

In the training sessions, he steered clear of the others, remained aloof in his training. I didn't understand him. He is skilled on all fronts, well-built, and boasted an air fully supported by his ways. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't among the people who stared at his first entrance into the dim training room. While others charmed their ways into the audience's hearts, he used his moody pout and quiet, sullen gaze to seduce everyone.

It worked. He is too perfect to mar.

I manage to keep my face straight as his gaze lingers. There is a flash of intent in his eyes, but I can't read it. Whatever he is looking for, he finds. He turns away without further acknowledgement.

I set my shoulders and fix my gaze upon a large, dangerously curved sword in the middle. A scimitar. Unlike the other swords during training, this one felt balanced in my hand, like it belonged.

The strange feeling returns. Gold Eyes is now glaring. His neck twitches in an imperceptible no.

My eyes narrow.

He silently growls at me and motions discreetly with one hand at an innocent pile of packs on the edge of the middle perimeter.

I don't know why he's trying to help me, but I find myself trusting him. I turn to the packs. His gaze leaves me.

I wish the sky would turn green.

I send my love to my family.

I ask my dad for strength, for courage.

I feel my throat close.

I think of the four tributes whose eyes I met.

I wonder about their pasts, their families.

I wonder why I had a moment with them now, on the eve of our imminent deaths.

I wonder if we ever could have been friends, in another world, another life.

I don't want to kill them.

I don't want to die.

I run.

Please let me know what you think!