Early the next morning, he was woken up by the sounds of footsteps crunching on the snow outside. He quietly got out of the sleeping mat and crouched down, fists clenched.
When the tribute crawled into the ice-hut, he was ready.
They fought and punched and kicked and rolled on the ground until he got the upper hand and stomped on her throat until she gave one final twitch and lay still, the cannon booming through the morning air.
He heard a familiar beeping and went outside to collect the parachute. Inside the canister was a warm serving of soup.