Chapter 7
Chapter Text
Bobby Jean "Blight" Oakley, District 7 Male
They hadn't been able to leave the television studio until after midnight because of the investigation.
Selphie had made a big fuss complaining that it was unfair given that the Games started so early the next day. "After the interviews all the escorts got together and convinced Camilla to postpone the Games if the same thing happens next year," she had confided to him as she whisked the District Seven tributes back to their apartment. Too bad he wouldn't benefit because he would be most likely be dead next year.
His stylist Cornelius had come before dawn, guiding Blight to the waiting hovercraft where he was lifted by an electric ladder. He was still yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes when he took his seat, not yet letting go of the hope that something would come up that would cancel the Games.
As he took his seat to stare out the window unseeingly he thought back to last night's strange events. It was the first he had seen of an interruption during the tribute interviews, but maybe because he hadn't lived long enough to see very many.
Later that night in his room he had turned on the television to watch the recap of the last night's mandarin viewing and it was a continuous seamless stream of interviews, no break in sight and definitely no background audio of a frantic audience.
Maybe this was a regular occurrence for the Games and they always edited the footage for reruns? Blight shook his head vigorously. No, it was useless to think about the past interviews, he should be focusing on the Games ahead and how he would survive.
His mentors hadn't given him any advice for the bloodbath but any idiot knew that it was the number one place where tributes died. He closed his eyes and tried to recall the mandatory broadcasts that he saw in the past. District Seven usually did respectably well, not well enough to actually win but well enough to make the top Eight often enough.
It must be something about physical labour at a young age and the clean air and fresh water. The fact that most of them knew how to use an ax didn't hurt either. The most successful strategy he had seen was to pick up whatever was nearest at their feet and then make a run for it, which he supposed would be his strategy once the gong ran.
Deep in his thoughts he almost didn't notice a woman in a white lab coat appear, holding a large syringe.
"This is your tracker, Bobby Jean. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she said calmly.
He knew what it was, it was explained every year in the Games as a way to trace the whereabouts of the tribute in the arena and would signal a cannon to go off once it no longer detected a heartbeat. It hurt slightly when it was inserted, creating a noticeable bulge under his skin and he couldn't help but run his hand over the unnatural lump and worry.
Too soon they arrived at the Launch Room, or as they were known in the districts, the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter. Images of the Careers slicing him open like butchers did to pigs in District Ten flashed before his eyes, he began to picture open body cavities and organs falling out while he thrashed on the floor in the death spasms like he had seen in previous bloodbaths and he struggled to keep down his breakfast.
When he was ready, Cornelius pulled out his uniform neatly packaged in an opaque bag, eagerly exclaiming how it was the most exciting part of being a stylist. After he had ripped it open, they both had to stop and stare at what the Gamemakers had decided would be this year's uniform.
The tightest pair of ripped jeans he had ever seen, a brown woolen scarf, plaid button-up shirt and leather boots came tumbling out of the package.
"Wow," Cornelius eyed the outfit appreciatively. "You tributes are lucky this year, this is honestly the most fashionable arena uniform I've ever seen."
Blight stared at him in disbelief, then at the jeans. "How the hell do I move in this dang outfit?"
Cornelius didn't reply but instead handed Blight his cap which he snatched eagerly and jammed it on his head.
"You'll be pleased to know your token cleared the review board," he said, ignoring his previous question. "They eliminated the necklace from the girl from Five though, the review board found that it contained built-in explosives. She claimed she had no knowledge of it and there was no way to prove she did but she lost her token."
Jeepers, District Five is just plain crazy, Blight thought as he pulled on the clothes. Better hope I don't run into any of them. He had to suck in his already flat stomach and jump up and down to get the jeans to fit, but otherwise there was no problem.
Cornelius sent him a smug look. "There, you're all set. Move around and make sure everything's comfortable."
Blight awkwardly raised his arms and bent at the waist. To his surprise, he was able to move quite fluidly, as if he wasn't wearing anything at all. Even the tight-fitting jeans were no trouble. Once again, he found himself grudgingly impressed by the Capitol's technology.
"Feels good," he admitted.
"Excellent, nothing left to do but wait for the call. Oh, and boy?"
At this point Blight realized his stylist never even bothered to learn his name. For some reason that he couldn't put his finger on, that small fact annoyed him.
"What?" he snapped.
"Do try to win would you? My career has been in a backslide ever since I was demoted from the District Four stylist years ten ago but if I could just get a victor, oh the costumes I could design! I've had sketches for the victory tour, and the crowning, planned for ages that I've been waiting to use," he swooned and sighed like a schoolgirl over a celebrity crush.
"Don't worry, I ain't gonna go suicidal," Blight snapped and turned away in disgust, not wanting to even look at his stylist anymore.
A few years ago a girl had purposefully threw herself on the ground before the landmines deactivated. They blew up both tributes on either side, one of which was a Career and the Gamemakers got into big trouble for that one. Ever since that incident, they had scaled back the explosions to a manageable level.
Blight took a seat on the black couch and stared at the ground, conjuring flashbacks of past Hunger Games bloodbaths until a pleasant female voice announced it was time for launch. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He snuck a sidelong glance at his stylist and wondered if he could perhaps just knock him out and not step up for launch. As if reading his mind, Peacekeepers materialized from seemingly nowhere and stepped towards him menacingly.
"Alright, alright, I'm goin'," he muttered. Trying to stand tall, he walked over to stand on the circular metal plate. A glass cylinder lowered around him and he began to rise.
For maybe fifteen seconds he was in darkness and then he could feel the metal plate pushing him out of the cylinder, into the open air.
He squinted at the dazzling light, and as his vision adjusted the first thing he noticed was seats. Rows and rows of grey empty bleachers raised like a polo stadium in the Capitol.
He turned around to see the same sight. For a brief moment he was terrified that the Gamemakers had boxed them in a circular space, but to his relief he noticed exits every few feet along the wall. He didn't even have to chance to try and figure out the arena before the anthem sounded, interrupting his scattered thoughts.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the annual Forty-sixth Hunger Games begin!" The voice of legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith rang out around them, causing Blight to nearly jump in surprise.
I gotta calm the hell down. Blight bit his lip and took a deep breath, ignoring his pounding heart and tried to take in his surroundings strategically.
They were on a flat, grassy field in some sort of enclosed stadium. He looked straight up, and through the open ceiling he could see the cloudy blue skies and even the specks that were birds flying by, but there was also the largest LED digital clock he had ever seen counting down from sixty.
The tribute to his right was the boy from Six. The tribute to his left was the girl from Eleven. The nearest Career was a few pedestals away which he took as a good omen. Also he couldn't help but notice that instead of an identical uniform, all the tributes were dressed differently, but in equally gaudy clothes.
He turned his attention to the supplies and cornucopia. To his surprise and delight, he didn't see a single weapon in the horn. He didn't have to look at the Careers to know they were probably cursing like his ma when the television read out the lotto numbers. But it was a good sign for the other tributes, for him too, and he decided that he had an even better chance of grabbing supplies and getting out alive.
His eyes scanned the ground in front of him, trying to decide what he should aim for. In terms of supplies, there were all hidden inside backpacks of varying size strewn around the field.
It was probably the new Head Gamemaker's way of shaking things up, he supposed. Making the supplies a mystery and a surprise. Even he had to admit it was a good idea, if he was a viewer he would be glued to his seat wondering what each backpack held. Back in the Capitol, children would be jumping up and down in their seats, adults doing the same as they speculated on what would be hidden inside each pack.
Blight grit his teeth and hopped up and down in place to loosen his muscles because unfortunately he wasn't a Capitolite, he was a tribute inside the arena ready to fight for his lif ,and he was determined to do whatever it took to survive for as long as he could.
He focused on a large black pack a few yards in, and when the gong rang out he sprang into action and full-out sprinted towards the pack. Luckily, no other tribute had set their sights on the same pack and he managed to avoid running into anyone.
Not even a minute in, he could hear the sickening crunch of bone and high-pitched screams of pain from other tributes but Blight ignored them and focused on his target.
He slung the pack over one shoulder, encouraged by how heavy it was, turned around and ran full-speed towards the nearest exit. The door opened with a crash as he threw his entire body weight into it and he tumbled outside, the weight of the backpack causing him to fall flat on his face.
His hands and knees smarting, Blight picked himself up, and did a double-take at this year's arena.
Small shops and brick houses lining the cement streets, high-rise glass buildings and lampposts every few feet. A pot of begonias hung from the railings of a balcony, the flag of a bright-red mailbox was standing up. The streets were freshly swept and picture-perfect. The only thing missing were the people.
Usually the arena was some variation of a forest, jungle, or swamp but this year, the arena was a city.
One of the tributes pushed past him, running madly into the streets bringing Blight back to his senses and he bolted in another direction.
He kept running in that direction, buildings passing like blurs for what seemed like hours but was probably only minutes, and then jogged when he could no longer run, and finally slowed down to a walk when his lungs felt like they were on fire and his legs felt like jelly.
The last time he had run this much was during physical education in school when their teacher was in a bad mood and felt like taking it out on the kids. Some of his friends had complained, stating that they didn't have to push themselves this hard, they shouldn't be training like a Career District. But the teacher had only retorted that they didn't know, maybe they would be Reaped one day and would be grateful for the exercise.
Panting like a dog, Blight thought that she was right. He ducked into a narrow alley, climbed over a chainlink fence, and after deciding that he that he had put enough distance between himself and the other tributes, collapsed on the ground.
As he lay on the ground trying to catch his breath, the cannons began to go off. He counted the shots. One...two...three...on and on until they reached eight. Eight dead in all, sixteen left to play. It was definitely on the small side as far as bloodbaths go, definitely due to the complete absence of deadly weapons in the cornucopia this year.
After he had regained his breath, he hurriedly unzipped his pack and emptied it on the ground. He began to panic when its contents came tumbling out. Rocks. Nothing but worthless rocks. This couldn't be, no it couldn't! He frantically unzipped the side pockets only to come up with a few smaller rocks.
Dangit! Those high-cotton sonofabitches Gamemakers be doggone bullshittin'!
He imagined Camilla Silver and the other Gamemakers laughing at him from their fancy screens in the Capitol which only made him angrier.
He mentally screamed every obscenity he knew and kicked a brick wall in frustration, which he realized wasn't such a smart idea as he was jumping up and down and clutching his throbbing toe afterwards.
The Careers
"This one is full of rocks too," the girl from One groaned as she dumped out the contents of the final pack onto the grassy field. Around the pretty girl with golden curls tied in buns on top of her head were equally tall piles of rock from pack after pack. She had desperately hoped that at least one of the packs couldn't be useless, but after opening the last one she angrily threw it on the ground.
"Hmm..." Her partner ran his hand through his silky blonde hair, frowning with disapproval. He was wearing a slouchy beanie on his head, tweed pants, high-top sneakers and a black shirt stating 'THE COOL KID JUST SHOWED UP'. How the Gamemakers thought he would feel cool in such an asinine outfit was beyond him.
The six Careers sat in the middle of the field littered with the bodies of dead tributes they had killed earlier that day. The grass was stained glossy red in places where blood was freshly spilled, a darker brown where the blood had time to dry.
A few small splatters stained their own clothes and skin which they ignored because there were more pressing matters to worry about. Killing with their bare hands meant less mess, but also less dead tributes overall.
They had been initially legitimately concerned about the number of high-scoring tributes, but it had only meant over-confident idiots who thought that just because they were somewhat skilled with axes and scythes and they could go rushing into the heart of the bloodbath.
Too bad they didn't know how to fight bare-handed. The Careers had cut through the ones who had the misfortune of being nearby, snapping necks and crushing windpipes.
"So this is it huh? Only rocks?" Niko held his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, partially to keep them from sagging, and turned to the sky casually. "You guys up there got anything for us?"
The Careers looked upward eagerly. A few moments later, six silver parachutes came floating down bearing lightweight grey vests with straps around the shoulders and around the waist.
"The hell are these?" The girl from Four, Tiki picked one up and turned it around in her hands, studying it carefully.
The District Two tributes exchanged knowing looks.
"Kevlar vests," Niko replied, taking off his T-shirt and strapping the vest on, "they protect you from bullets. If someone shoots you the vest absorbs the impact and reduces penetration, as long as the force and the calibre is small enough."
"Why would our mentors send us this protection and not food? Hey, if you guys are listening, can we get some something to eat too?" The boy from One called hopefully.
The Careers held their breaths and waited, but nothing else came floating towards them from the sky to the still-dewy field.
"Our mentors know more than we do about the arena," Tori finally said when it was apparent they weren't getting any more help. "By not sending anything else, they're sending a message."
"Like what, that the arena's going to pump our stomachs full of lead and not food?" Marlin grumbled. "I need to eat, amiga."
"St. Barsyn give me strength," the boy from One groaned and flopped over on his back.
"I don't know what they're trying to say, but we won't get anything done just sitting around here." Niko snapped. "C'mon let's get out of here and see the rest of the arena." Without waiting for a reply he strode over to the nearest exit and pushed the door open, right into the city streets.
The rest of the Careers followed and they slowly stepped out from the stadium and into the real arena. Their eyes widened as they simply stood there and took in the streets and buildings stretching farther than what they could see.
Miles away to the left they could make out a suspension bridge held up by metal cords over a glistening sea, to the right there was a maze of roads and overpasses leading to a place they couldn't see from where they were standing but all around the city was littered with tall skyscrapers, glass and steel and concrete like a city before the Dark Days.
"Whoa."
Their expressions were sheer shock and amazement, and they instinctively began to analyze the arena, knowing that the size of the arena number of buildings meant hiding places for both tributes and potential danger.
"Yeah, whoa is right. This isn't the wilderness anymore."
As they stared into the deserted streets and buildings, the gears in their heads began turning. Niko was the first to speak. "Alright I see what the situation is. There's food and supplies in the arena, that's why our mentors didn't send anything, it's all there for the taking. We'll split up into two man teams, Tiki and Cologne, Tori and Shampoo, and Marlin with me. Search the area for supplies then meet back here," he pointed upwards at the LED clock that was large enough to be visible from everywhere in the city, "before eight o'clock to watch the recap. Everyone agree?"
"Yeah."
"Yes."
"Si."
"Sure."
"Gladly."
"Great," he smirked. "Now let the Hunger Games really begin."
A/N Aaaand we're in the arena! Sorry the beginning of the Games starts so slow. Dramatic things don't start happening until chapter 10 or so, so hold on!