Again a lot from the book, except a little bit about Peeta and the beginning with Finnick. What is Peeta up to? and Katniss's thoughts. I'm trying to make it as realistic and like the story as possible just with a few changes.
Chapter Thirteen: Let the Games Begin
In the morning when Cinna comes to get me I am asleep with Finnick in my bed. I don't remember coming to bed, Finnick must have carried me from the roof. Finnick wakes when I get up.
He looks at me with tears in his eyes, "Promise me Katniss, promise me you will do everything you can to come back to me." his eyes are pleading with me.
"I promise." I swallow hard. That's two promises I don't know if I will be able to keep. The one to Prim and now this one to Finnick.
Finnick kisses me hard, quickly since I have to go.
It hurts to walk away from him but I have to follow Cinna. We go up to the roof and a hovercraft picks us up. Inside the hovercraft a woman with a white coat inserts something in my arm.
"This is just your tracker, Katniss. The stiller you are, the more efficiently I can place it," she says.
Now the Gamemakers will always be able to trace my whereabouts in the arena. Wouldn't want to lose a tribute.
We eat breakfast on the way. When we arrive we are ushered into an underground room below the arena. In the Capitol, they call it the Launch Room. In the districts, it's referred to as the Stockyard. The place animals go before slaughter.
Everything is brand-new, I will be the first and only tribute to use this Launch Room. The arenas are historic sites, preserved after the Games. Popular destinations for Capitol residents to visit, to vacation. Go for a month, rewatch the Games, tour the catacombs, visit the sites where the deaths took place. You can even take part in reenactments. They say the food is excellent.
I struggle to keep my breakfast down as I shower and clean my teeth. Cinna does my hair in my simple trademark braid down my back. Then the clothes arrive, the same for every tribute. Cinna has had no say in my outfit, does not even know what will be in the package, but he helps me dress in the undergarments, simple tawny pants, light green blouse, sturdy brown belt, and thin, hooded black jacket that falls to my thighs. "The material in the jacket's designed to reflect body heat. Expect some cool nights," he says. The boots, worn over skintight socks, are better than I could have hoped for. Soft leather not unlike my ones at home. These have a narrow flexible rubber sole with treads though. Good for running.
I think I'm finished when Cinna pulls the gold mockingjay pin from his pocket. I had completely forgotten about it.
"Where did you get that?" I ask.
"Off the green outfit you wore on the train," he says. I remember now taking it off my mother's dress, pinning it to the shirt. "It's your district token, right?" I nod and he fastens it on my shirt. "It barely cleared the review board. Some thought the pin could be used as a weapon, giving you an unfair advantage. But eventually, they let it through," says Cinna. "They eliminated a ring from that District One girl, though. If you twisted the gemstone, a spike popped out. Poisoned one. She claimed she had no knowledge the ring transformed and there was no way to prove she did. But she lost her token. There, you're all set. Move around. Make sure everything feels comfortable."
I walk, run in a circle, swing my arms about. "Yes, it's fine. Fits perfectly."
"Then there's nothing to do but wait for the call," says Cinna. "Unless you think you could eat any more?"
I turn down food but accept a glass of water that I take tiny sips of as we wait on a couch.
Nervousness seeps into terror as I anticipate what is to come. I could be dead, flat-out dead, in an hour. Not even. My fingers obsessively trace the hard little lump on my forearm where the woman injected the tracking device. I press on it, even though it hurts, I press on it so hard a small bruise begins to form.
"Do you want to talk, Katniss?" Cinna asks.
I shake my head but after a moment hold out my hand to him. Cinna encloses it in both of his. And this is how we sit until a pleasant female voice announces it's time to prepare for launch. Still clenching one of Cinna's hands, I walk over and stand on the circular metal plate. "Remember what Haymitch said. Run, find water. The rest will follow," he says. I nod. "And remember this. I'm not allowed to bet,but if I could, my money would be on you."
"Truly?" I whisper.
"Truly," says Cinna. He leans down and kisses me on the forehead. "Good luck, girl on fire." And then a glass cylinder is lowering around me, breaking our handhold, cutting him off from me. He taps his fingers under his chin. Head high.
Then I hear the legendary announcer, Claudius Templesmith, as his voice booms all around me.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventy-fourth Hunger Games begin!"
Sixty seconds. That's how long we're required to stand on our metal circles before the sound of a gong releases us. Step off before the minute is up, and land mines blow your legs off. Sixty seconds to take in the ring of tributes all equidistant from the Cornucopia, a giant golden horn shaped like a cone with a curved tail, the mouth of which is at least twenty feet high, spilling over with the things that will give us life here in the arena. Food, containers of water, weapons, medicine, garments, fire starters. Strewn around the Cornucopia are other supplies, their value decreasing the farther they are from the horn. For instance, only a few steps from my feet lays a three-foot square of plastic. Certainly it could be of some use in a downpour. But there in the mouth, I can see a tent pack that would protect from almost any sort of weather. If I had the guts to go in and fight for it against the other twenty-three tributes.
Which I have been instructed not to do.
We're on a flat, open stretch of ground. A plain of hard-packed dirt. Behind the tributes across from me, I can see nothing, indicating either a steep downward slope or even cliff. To my right lies a lake. To my left and back, spars piney woods. This is where Haymitch would want me to go. Immediately. I hear his instructions in my head. "Just clear out, put as much distance as you can between yourselves and the others, and find a source of water."
But it's tempting, so tempting, when I see the bounty waiting there before me. And I know that if I don't get it, someone else will. That the Career Tributes who survive the bloodbath will divide up most of these life-sustaining spoils. Something catches my eye. There, resting on a mound of blanket rolls, is a silver sheath of arrows and a bow, already strung, just waiting to be engaged. That's mine, I think. It's meant for me.
I'm fast. I can sprint faster than any of the girls in our school although a couple can beat me in distance races. But this forty-yard length, this is what I am built for. I know I can get it, I know I can reach it first, but then the question is how quickly can I get out of there? By the time I've scrambled up the packs and grabbed the weapons, others will have reached the horn, and one or two I might be able to pick off, but say there's a dozen, at that close range, they could take me down with the spears and the clubs. Or their own powerful fists.
Still, I won't be the only target. I'm betting many of the other tributes would pass up a smaller girl, even one who scored an eleven in training, to take out their more fierce adversaries.
Haymitch has never seen me run. Maybe if he had he'd tell me to go for it. Get the weapon. Since that's the very weapon that might be my salvation. And I only see one bow in that whole pile. I know the minute must be almost up and will have to decide what my strategy will be and I find myself positioning my feet to run, not away into the stir rounding forests but toward the pile, toward the bow.
When suddenly I notice Peeta, he's about five tributes to my right, quite a fair distance, still I can tell he's looking at me and I think he might be shaking his head. But the sun's in my eyes, and while I'm puzzling over it the gong rings out.
And I've missed it! I've missed my chance! Because those extra couple of seconds I've lost by not being ready are enough to change my mind about going in. My feet shuffle for a moment, confused at the direction my brain wants to take and then I lunge forward, scoop up the sheet of plastic and a loaf of bread. The pickings are so small and I'm so angry with Peeta for distracting me that I sprint in twenty yards to retrieve a bright orange backpack that could hold anything because I can't stand leaving with virtually nothing.
A boy, I think from District 9, reaches the pack at the same time I do and for a brief time we grapple for it and then he coughs, splattering my face with blood. Then the boy slips to the ground. That's when I see the knife in his back. Already other tributes have reached the Cornucopia and are spreading out to attack.
The girl from District 2, ten yards away, running toward me, one hand clutching a half-dozen knives. She never misses. And I'm her next target. All the general fear I've been feeling condenses into at immediate fear of this girl, this predator who might kill me in seconds. Adrenaline shoots through me and I sling the pack over one shoulder and run full-speed for the woods. I can hear the blade whistling toward me and reflexively hike the pack up to protect my head. The blade lodges in the pack. Both straps on my shoulders now, I make for the trees. Somehow I know the girl will not pursue me. That she'll be drawn back into the Cornucopia before all the good stuff is gone. A grin crosses my face. Thanks for the knife, I think.
I continue running until the woods have hidden me from the other tributes then slow into a steady jog that I think I can maintain for a while. For the next few hours, I alternate between jogging and walking, putting as much distance as I can between myself and my competitors. I lost my bread during the struggle with the boy from District 9 but managed to stuff my plastic in my sleeve so as I walk I fold it neatly and tuck it into a pocket. I also free the knife - it's a fine one with a long sharp blade, serrated near the handle, which will make it handy for sawing through things - and slide it into my belt. I don't dare stop to examine the contents of the pack yet. I just keep moving, pausing only to check for pursuers.
I can go a long time. I know that from my days in the woods. But I will need water. That was Haymitch's second instruction, and since I sort of botched the first, I keep a sharp eye out for any sign of it.
It's late afternoon when I begin to hear the cannons. Each shot represents a dead tribute. The fighting must have finally stopped at the Cornucopia. They never collect the bloodbath bodies until the killers have dispersed. On the opening day, they don't even fire the cannons until the initial fighting's over because it's too hard to keep track of the fatalities. I allow myself to pause, panting, as I count the shots. Eleven dead in all. Thirteen left to play.
That's when I panic. What about Peeta? Is he safe still? I won't know for a few hours, until they play the faces of the dead in the sky. Maybe I should have found him before I took off, but then I remember the conversation we had last night, it was the right thing to leave him. One or both of us has to die and I don't want to be there to see it. But if I'm there I could be able to prevent it. I argue on with myself for a while going back and forth. It could be too late. I'm overwhelmed by the thought that Peeta may be already lost. I try hard to remember if I saw him once the action started. But the last image I can conjure up is Peeta shaking his head as the gong rang out. Maybe it's better, if he's gone already. He had no confidence he could win. And I will not end up with the unpleasant task of killing him. Maybe it's better if he's out of this for good. The logic in my head makes me scream at myself. I couldn't kill him. I can't kill him. I won't kill him.
I slump down next to my pack, exhausted. I try to clear my head. I need to go through it anyway before night falls. See what I have to work with. This orange will practically glow in the dark. I make a mental note to camouflage it first thing tomorrow. I carefully lay out the provisions. One thin black sleeping bag thatreflects body heat. A pack of crackers. A pack of dried beef strips. A bottle of iodine. A box of wooden matches. A small coil of wire. A pair of sunglasses. And a half-gallon plastic bottle with a cap for carrying water that's bone dry. I need water.
I make camp up in a tree so it will be harder for other tributes to find me. I find a sturdy branch and lay out. I remove my belt and use it to fasten myself into the tree so I won't fall out when I fall asleep.
Through the branches I can see the seal of the Capitol. The anthem fades out and the sky goes dark for a moment. I take a deep breath as the face of the eleven dead tributes begin and tick them off one by one on my fingers. The first to appear is the girl from District 3. That means that the Career Tributes from 1 and 2 have all survived. No surprise there. Then the boy from 4. I wonder how Finnick feels about that? Is he sad for his tribute? I didn't expect that one, usually all the Careers make it through the first day. The boy from District 5 . . . I guess the fox-faced girl made it. Both tributes from 6 and 7. The boy from 8. Both from 9. Yes, there's the boy who I fought for the backpack. I've run through my fingers, only one more dead tribute to go. Is it Peeta? No, there's the girl from District 10. That's it.
I'm relieved Peeta's alive. Haymitch was right, he did help me by announcing he is my brother outside of the arena. It should help me get sponsors. But inside the arena, its going to put a target on my back, that and my training score.
Snap! The sound of a breaking branch wakes me. Someone is near me. I look in that direction and see nothing but blackness. Then I see a spark and a small fire begins to bloom. A pair of hands warms over flames, but I can't make out more than that.
I have to bite my lip not to scream every foul name I know at the fire starter. What are they thinking? A fire just at nightfall would have been one thing. Those who battled at the Cornucopia, with their superior strength and surplus of supplies, they couldn't possibly have been near enough to spot the flames then. But now, when they've probably been combing the woods for hours looking for victims. You might as well be waving a flag and shouting, "Come and get me!" And here I am a stone's throw from the biggest idiot in the Games. Strapped in a tree.
I lay smoldering in my bag for the next couple of hours really thinking that if I can get out of this tree, I won't have the least problem taking out my new neighbor. My instinct has been to flee, not fight. But obviously this person's a hazard. Stupid people are dangerous. And this one probably doesn't have much in the way of weapons while I've got this excellent knife.
Instead I just lay in the tree thinking. I wonder where Peeta is. I wonder what Finnick is doing. I wonder if my mom and Prim are watching right now. I wonder if Haymitch got any sponsors. I wonder if we will get discovered because of their stupid fire.
The sun starts to rise just barely and I start to think the stupid fire starter might have gone unnoticed. Then I hear it. Several pairs of feet breaking into a run. The fire starter must have dozed off. They're on her before she can escape. I know it's a girl now, I can tell by the pleading, the agonized scream that follows. Then there's laughter and congratulations from several voices. Someone cries out, "Twelve down and eleven to go!" which gets a round of appreciative they're fighting in a pack. I'm not really surprised. It will have to be the Career Tributes from 1, 2, and 4. A total of 5.
"Better clear out so they can get the body before it starts stinking." I'm almost certain that's the brutish boy from District 2.
There are murmurs of assent and then, to my horror, I hear the pack heading toward me. They do not know I'm here. How could they? And I'm well concealed in the clump of trees. At least while the sun stays down. Then my black sleeping bag will turn from camouflage to trouble. If they just keep moving, they will pass me and be gone in a minute.
But the Careers stop in the clearing about ten yards from my tree. They have flashlights, torches. I can see an arm here, a boot there, through the breaks in the branches. I turn to stone, not even daring to breathe. Have they spotted me? No, not yet. I can tell from their words their minds are elsewhere.
"Shouldn't we have heard a cannon by now?"
"I'd say yes. Nothing to prevent them from going in immediately."
"Unless she isn't dead."
"She's dead. I stuck her myself."
"Then where's the cannon?"
"Someone should go back. Make sure the job's done."
"Yeah, we don't want to have to track her down twice."
"I said she's dead!" An argument breaks out until one tribute silences the others.
"We're wasting time! I'll go finish her and let's move on!" I almost fall out of the tree. The voice belongs to Peeta. Thank goodness, I had the foresight to belt myself in. I've rolled sideways off the fork and I'm facing the ground, held in place by the belt, one hand, and my feet straddling the pack inside my sleeping bag, braced against the trunk. There must have been some rustling when I tipped sideways, but the Careers have been too caught up in their own argument to catch it.
"Go on, then" says the boy from District 2. "See for yourself."
I just get a glimpse of Peeta, lit by a torch, heading back to the girl by the fire. His face is swollen with bruises, there's a bloody bandage on one arm, and from the sound of his gait he's limping somewhat. I remember him shaking him his head, telling me not to go into the fight for the supplies, when all along, all along he'd planned to throw himself into the thick of things. Just the opposite of what Haymitch had told him to do.
Okay, I can stomach that. Seeing all those supplies was tempting. But this . . . this other thing. This teaming up with the Career wolf pack to hunt down the rest of us. No one from District 12 would think of doing such a thing! And Peeta had the gall to talk to me about disgrace?
"Why don't we just kill him now and get it over with?"
Oh no. I think though my anger, please don't kill him.
"Let him tag along. What's the harm? And he's handy with that knife."
"Besides, he's our best chance of finding her."
It takes me a moment to register that the "her" they're referring to is me.
"Why? He is her brother, he is obviously going to protect her."
"Yeah but she might try to find him to protect him. You saw the reaping, how she protected her little sister."
"She might. Seemed pretty simpleminded to me. That would be the stupidest thing for her to do."
"Wish we knew how she got that eleven."
"Bet you Brother Boy knows."
I'm distracted as i hear shuffling under me. Peeta is walking back to join them. He walks right under my branch, and looks up and smiles at me. He has seen me. Panic rises in my throat. He teamed up with the careers who knows what he will do. All that stuff about trying to protect me could have been a load of crap trying to get me to trust him. But everything I know about Peeta tells me that's not what he is like.
The sound of Peeta returning silences them.
"Was she dead?" asks the boy from District 2.
"No. But she is now," says Peeta. Just then, the cannon fires. "Ready to move on?"
I relax, he didn't tell them he saw me. Of course he wouldn't.