I've never given it much thought until right now, but I suppose green is my favourite colour. I love the way it signifies that warmer seasons are upon us. I love the smell of pine and earth and freshly-grown grass that I've come to associate with it. I love the coverage it supplies when I'm hunting, the sustenance it provides when we're starving. Green, to me, means life. And it must be my favourite colour, because the total absence of it when I take in my surroundings makes my heart sink to my feet.
No trees. No leaves. Not a single indication that anything living exists within these barriers of the arena but the twenty-four tributes poised on their metal pedestals. There is no colour to be seen. Everything around me is a shade, all greys and blacks and the rusted browns of decay. And white. An unnerving, terrifying amount of white. In the sky, freezing my face, creating ghostly blankets over the piles of supplies nestled in the giant mouth of the golden Cornocopia in front of me. It looks like the Game Makers have decided to pay homage to our great leader by starting the Games with his namesake – they've made it snow.
With wild eyes, I try to pull in as much information as I can in the sixty seconds we're forced to stay still before we're able to move. Step off the platform any time before that and the landmines below you will detonate, blowing you into pieces as small as the snowflakes swirling around us. I am so taken aback by what I see that I nearly do exactly that, and I wobble perilously on the tips of my toes for a heart-stopping moment. Whether consciously or not, I had been depending on a lush landscape almost as much as I was on my immunity, and nothing I can see around me even remotely qualifies as that. I hadn't given any thought whatsoever as to what I would do without it, and already I know that this was a grievous error in strategy.
Every tribute stands an equal distance away from the next, forming a wide circle around the traditional golden horn. Beyond us, as far as I can see, are impossibly tall buildings. Sky-scrapers, I remember Effie calling them. They're eerily similar to the ones I've spent my week staring at in the Capitol, only instead of neon lights and a thousand occupants, these ones are skeletal and abandoned. From somewhere within me, a deeply foreboding sense of mistrust tells me never to step foot inside any of them. Nearly all of the windows in the one directly ahead of me have been smashed out, and I imagine jagged shards of glass lining the street below, hiding maliciously under the cover of snow. I snap my head left and right, seeing only carcasses of old cars, rusted street signs and dark alleyways that could be hiding any sort of creature or trap the Game Makers have laid out for us.
This is a city, and it doesn't take much to imagine the ghosts who haunt its walls. By nightfall, I could be one of them.
I am so far out of my element that for one insane moment, I wonder if this is another nightmare, and that any second I'll wake up back in my bed, roused by Cinna or Effie or even Prim, come to tell me that I've been asleep for days again, and that she's so glad I'm okay. But when the disembodied voice of the famous Hunger Games' host, Claudius Templesmith, rings out into the frosty air, my cruel reality slices through me like a knife. This is no dream. This is a waking nightmare.
Claudius welcomes us to the arena, though he's no doubt somewhere very far away, watching from one of the many hidden cameras trained on all of us here. His introduction means I have just another forty five seconds or so before the bombs under my feet are dismantled, and I'll be free to run. I scan the faces around me that aren't hidden from view on the other side of the Cornocopia, but even those that I can see are obscured, made blurry by the freezing wind and snow assaulting my face. To my left, a dark body stands, too large to be anyone but Thresh. The posture indicates that he's waiting to run full tilt into the middle of the horn, to battle over the supplies and weapons left there for us. On my right, slightly smaller but no less intimidating, is Marvel, looking haughty and trying his best to appear stoic. Beyond him, a thin figure with jet black hair is craning her neck to get a good look at the bounty strewn across the ground from here to the mouth of the horn. Clove. As if she senses me staring, she tilts her head in my direction, and I can feel the heat from her glare through every layer of my winterized clothing.
She screams something across the circle, unintelligible through the wind and Claudius' booming speech, but I get the gist. I can see her lift a hand over her eyes, shielding them from the glare of the thin morning sun. I know she's looking for Cato, and grimly realize that Peeta and I were not the only ones who thought to form an alliance.
I rip my eyes away from her, searching desperately for my own ally, but already I know it's no use. On the other side of Thresh is the female tribute from Ten, visibly shivering even from where I stand. I can't make out who stands beside her, but I'd bet my next meal that it's the boy from Nine. They've placed us in an alternating pattern, which means that the only person in this arena who doesn't want me dead is as far away from me as he could be. Peeta is virtually impossible for me to reach, stuck on the other side of the Cornocopia, only twenty feet away from Cato. If I follow Haymitch's advice and run from the fight, I won't even know if he's alive until they broadcast the photos of the dead into the sky after nightfall.
I bite my lip, trying to keep a cool head. I should stick to the plan. We agreed that we would hide, find each other after the bloodbath. Even so, I don't think either of us imagined a playing field quite so skewed against us. The forest is my home, even Peeta knows that about me. I think both of us had already subconsciously determined that we would head to any woodland the Game Makers gave us. How will I find him in this concrete monstrosity where every corner looks the same?
"Ladies and Gentlemen, I proudly present, the reinstallation of the Hunger Games! Tributes, may the odds be ever in your favour!"
Claudius Templesmith's voice cuts through my worries, the last echoes reverberating through my skull. Somehow, I've blocked out his whole speech, and an icy chill runs down my spine when a pleasant female voice announces the traditional ten second countdown. My scar suddenly burns with excruciating pain. I've been so terrified that the fear has been keeping the virus at bay, but now the disease is fighting for dominance.
Ten seconds. I have ten seconds before my life could end at any moment. Ten seconds before it's kill or be killed. Ten seconds to decide if I should risk everything to get to Peeta now, or trust him enough to find me himself.
"Ten."
Haymitch said to run. I need to run.
"Nine."
What if Peeta and I never find each other? What if I'm forced to try and survive on my own?
"Eight."
The snow starts to turn crimson, though no blood's been spilled yet. Maybe the virus will make my mind up for me.
"Seven."
What about weapons? If I don't get my hands on anything now, I'll be empty-handed and vulnerable. Finding anything in this white wasteland will be next to impossible. I mirror Clove, searching the ground for something, anything, I can pick up and use to defend myself.
"Six."
That eerie feeling of being watched magnifies, making my skin crawl. It must be the cameras I know to be trained on me. I grit my teeth, refusing to show the audience how truly petrified I am.
"Five."
Another glance left and right. It isn't just the cameras. Clove has twisted her body, facing me entirely. She's headed straight for me as soon as the gong sounds, I know it. Is Cato doing the same to Peeta right now?
"Four."
Despite the frigid temperature, a heat of proportions I've never known rips through me. My veins are on fire. The virus rages through my blood, and I know it's already taken the choice to run from me. If I don't fight, I'll die.
"Three."
I keep my nose turned forward. I'll let her come to me. Maybe I'll get lucky and someone else will engage her first.
"Two."
If I die, please let it be quick. Please don't let Prim watch me suffer. No. I can't die. Not now. I told Prim that I would come home to her, whatever it takes. If that means becoming the monster I hate so much, that's what I'll have to do.
"One."
One last second of silence that takes all of my breath with it when it's gone. Then, from seemingly nowhere and everywhere all at once, the ringing of a gong sounds, sending my brain into overdrive.
The chaos is immediate. Bodies race forward, scrambling for purchase on anything in front of them that might help them survive their first moments in this hellhole. Emboldened by the virus, caught up in the excitement, I run with them. Fuck what Haymitch said. Leaving with nothing is a death sentence, anyway. And besides, he's never seen me in action. He's underestimated me. Or, at least that's what I tell myself as I sprint towards certain danger.
There's no room for that sense of clarity I yearn for now – my ears are too full with the sounds of battle. Heavy breathing, racing heartbeats, the shrieks of killers and victims alike. There's death in the air already; tributes who's family will mourn them tonight. I don't let myself feel anything for them. I tell myself it's better them than me.
I sprint forward, kicking up snow and keeping as wide of a distance as I can between myself and the mountain known as Thresh. I don't know that it's necessary, as he either doesn't notice me or doesn't care that I'm beside him. He pumps his arms and dives for an ax, the blade sticking up out of a crate almost totally submerged in white already. I change course, doubling back and trying not to slip on hidden patches of ice, praying that he isn't willing to part with it so soon by sticking it in my back.
I know from watching previous Games that all the best gear will have been placed closest to the mouth of the Cornocopia, in hopes that it will draw a bigger fight, but I'm not so far gone as to pretend I have a chance at getting there unscathed. Instead, I set my eyes on a backpack only ten feet away. It looks big and full enough to be home for something worthwhile, but far enough away from the rest of the tributes to not be worth a fight to the death over it. I could grab it and run, but run to where?
My feet move before I can form a definitive answer. I pounce on the bag, wrap my hand around the strap. I'm just slinging it over my shoulder when a blur of movement forces me flat out onto my stomach. Clove has gotten to me. But it can't be her – the hysterical laughter coming from above is lower, too masculine. A rough hand clamps onto the back of my skull, shoving my face down into the ground. I'm choking on snow and dirt and the rage of being caught unaware like this, of dying before the first hour is up. No, this isn't going to happen.
I flail wildly, kick my feet out, push my shoulders back. The laughter turns into grunts. Whoever it is on top of me throws all their weight onto my neck, trying desperately to crush the air out of me. They must not have a weapon or I'd be gone already. My hands feel around blindly until they come across something solid. I grasp it with fingers that are already numb, go limp for long enough to make them release the pressure, and twist.
My shoulder connects with the chin of my assailant. I spin around and rise to my knees, coughing a mouthful of dirty snow into the face of the male tribute from District Three. I don't remember his name, but I know I'll always remember the look of pure shock on his face fondly. He scoots back on all fours, blood trailing from a busted lip. Both our eyes fall to the solid thing in my hand at the same time – a jagged rock, one vicious point jutting up from my palm. He jumps up, turning to run, but I'm faster. The rock flies, hitting him square in the back of the head with a satisfying crack. He goes down hard without even a scream.
Panting, I swing the bag back onto my back from where it's slid to the crook of my arm. The weight of it is reassuring. I dash over to the boy from Three, kicking him over onto his back. He's still alive, but only barely. His limbs twitch in convulsions and his eyes have that dazed, unseeing look that mean he's not really here, not anymore. My rock has cracked his skull open. Hot blood pours from the wound and melts the snow surrounding his head. I could leave him like this, prone and helpless and waiting for an inevitable death. I could, but the virus calls that a weak move, and my throbbing neck agrees.
My boot fits perfectly across the boy's neck, a perfect angle to do what he tried to do to me, and I apply enough pressure to cut his airway off. He doesn't even seem to notice. I feel, more than hear, the crunch of his windpipe collapsing, and then the twitching limbs go still and I know he's gone. I make quick work of it, not indulging in the desires of the virus to relish in the kill. In fact, looking down at the body, I feel nothing at all. There is no satisfaction like what comes from killing the undead. Not even the remorse I know I should be feeling is present, just a cold numbness that would be frightening if I had the time to dissect it. But I don't have the time, not in the slightest, and a shrill, taunting voice reminds me of that almost immediately.
"Ooh, the little rat from Twelve made her first kill, how cute!"
Clove waves at me like we're old friends. Her face is blood-splattered, pointed nose already bright pink from the cold. There's a dark wet patch spreading across her jacket and I hope for the source to be coming from inside it. She's obviously gotten side-tracked in her plan to get to me first. She's careful to stand far enough away to make her insults safely, but close enough for me to see the set of knives clutched in her hands. I remember watching her during training and can't help the flutter of nerves that come with the memory. She's a sure shot with blades, and I'm her only target.
I crouch lower to the ground, getting ready to dive when she throws one. I keep a growl of frustration locked behind my teeth. I've played this all wrong. Haymitch was right to tell us to run. I'm out in the open with no viable weapon and no real means of escape. Whatever I've earned in this backpack is still a mystery, and I somehow doubt that Clove will allow me to call for a pause so I can dig through it's contents. And yet, she makes no moves to advance on me.
"What's the matter? Cat caught your tongue?" she sneers. "No matter, little rat. You'll scream soon enough."
She bares her teeth in a cruel smile, but her words float through the icy air as empty threats. We're alone on this side of the circle – the rest of the tributes are gone in at least once sense of the word. There are no distractions, she could hurl a knife through my heart in an instant right now if she wanted to, but for reasons I can't name, she holds off.
I don't return her insults, so we stay locked in this confusing stand-off in silence, listening to the wind whistling in the alleys around us and the distant noises of pain and fighting still carrying on from the other side of the Cornocopia. I don't dare run, either toward or away, for fear of forcing an action out of her, but a distinctly male scream forces me to break eye-contact, looking fruitlessly for the source.
The cry ends abruptly, followed by what might be a cheer. My stomach swoops. Could that have been Peeta? Did he get caught up in the violence as I did? No, I tell myself. Peeta is smart. He's clever. And he was always so much better at listening to Haymitch than I was. He would have ran as soon as the gong rang. He's probably hiding out somewhere, waiting for the excitement to die down before he starts searching for me. Guilt joins the worry in my gut as I think about him creeping through alleyways, whispering my name and looking for an ally who will never join him. That image causes the virus to flare, and I snap my attention back to Clove, determined to get myself out of this situation, one way or another.
"The only thing I'm about to do is yawn," I call out to her. "Are you planning on boring me to death? All this talk about making me suffer and yet, you won't get close enough to touch me. Get on with it or admit you're scared and go."
I may not have a weapon, but I've seen enough of this girl to know I only need words to wound her pride. Her mocking expression morphs into an angry one, and she raises her hand in a practiced movement. I can see the blade held in it, murderously sharp. I balance on the balls of my feet, trying to decide which way to spin when she lets go of it. She's eyeing me up, trying to throw me off, but just as her muscles tense before she lets the knife fly, a familiar voice explodes behind her, full of feral energy and pure malice.
"Clove, no! I fucking told you, not yet! That bitch is mine!"
The outburst breaks her concentration, sending the knife far short of it's intended destination. It lands hilt up not far from my boot, but it's not the killing blow either of us were expecting. Clove snarls at the missed shot, turning her head to view the distraction.
The figure in the distance is too far away to see clearly, just rounding the corner of the great horn, but I don't need details to know who it is. I thought Clove had gotten messy during the opening minutes of the Games, but she's practically clean compared to Cato. From this distance, he's a mess of red. I think of how close in proximity he must have been to Peeta and hot bile suddenly coats my throat, praying that none of that blood is his. In his one hand is a lethal-looking machete, dripping liquid into the slush at his feet.
"Come get her then! I've got her trapped!" Clove screams to him. The one eye I can see flicks back and forth between us, keeping watch to make sure I don't flee.
And I don't. I stay stone-still, my breaths coming out in quick puffs of hot air. My muscles are so tensed they might as well be made of iron. Something metallic blooms on my tastebuds and I realize I've bitten my tongue. The blood in my mouth somehow serves to center me, and I focus on the taste. The virus shoots signals of pain and electricity throughout my whole body, waiting for it's cue. My fear seems to dissipate, in it's place nothing but a hard resignation. I am deeply disadvantaged - It's two against one, I'm weaponless, trapped, and in a strange place, but I've faced worse than this and survived. I have no choice but to hope the virus has a better sense of self-preservation than I do.
Cato starts his way towards us. He takes slow, measured steps, puffing his chest out with confidence. I wonder if he's playing to the audience or if he truly feels as victorious as he looks. I can't really blame him if he does. If our positions were switched, and I had him cornered, I'd be just as predatory. When he saunters close enough for me to take in any detail, I know he's not yet in the full throws of an episode, but it won't be long now. His eyes are all but black, the pupils expanding and contracting wildly. A vein in his neck pulses radically. He grips the machete in his hand with white knuckles. The Capitol audience must be going wild. I try not to think about anyone watching in the districts.
"Well, well. That didn't take long," he calls out to me smugly. "Not so high and mighty now that your boyfriend's gone, huh? He barely lasted a minute. Think you'll outlast him?"
The sweat beading down my spine turns to fingers of ice. Peeta's dead already? That can't be true.
"You're bluffing," I spit at him. My tone passes as confident, nonchalant, but my heartbeat has turned into one continuous vibration against my ribcage.
"Oh, am I?" Cato taunts. "Come see for yourself. They don't take the bodies away until we're all cleared out. I promise not to kill you until you've said your last goodbyes. Only fair for the star-crossed lovers."
Clove tilts her head back and laughs cruelly. Cato smirks at me, willing me to take his bait. I lick my chapped lips and say nothing. Even if he's telling the truth, if he really did murder Peeta, allowing me amnesty for a last moment with my partner is far beyond Cato's capacity for caring. It's a poorly executed trap, and I've already fallen for one of those today.
"If he's dead, he's dead. So what?" I challenge. "One less person standing in my way."
The words sound wrong coming out of my mouth, but if I'm already alone in this arena, I'll need the sponsors to know that I'm capable of surviving on my own. If I can get out of this, that is.
"Not even a tear," Cato shakes his head, mocking me. "So brave, so cold-hearted. Tell me, is it the virus that makes you such a bitch, or is that all you?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He's already barrelling towards me at a sprint, eyes narrowed against the howling wind. Clove doesn't advance, but she readies another knife in her grip, ready to slow me down if I try to escape. I have just enough time to throw the bag off my back and dive for the weapon Clove accidentally gifted me. It's no match for the machete I'm about to face, but I might get a slice or two in before I go down. I snatch the knife out of the frozen earth and brace myself, vision tunneling until all I see is the raging, red-soaked boy quickly taking over my line of sight. I exhale until my lungs are empty and count down what could be my last few living seconds. Three, two-
Without warning, Cato suddenly drops to his knees with a howl of pain. He skids another foot, finally coming to a stop just behind Clove. Am I dreaming? Did the Game Makers detonate a trap, thinking this fight has come too early in the Games? He stays down, swearing and spitting a red glob of phlegm into the snow.
"Cato? Cato!" Clove screams. The worry in her voice is obvious and satisfying. She whips around to face me, glaring as if I've caused her partner's sudden collapse, but I'm just as lost as she is.
He raises back onto his haunches, looking dazed but no less murderous. Raising a hand to the back of his neck, he swears again when he pulls it away. It's smeared with blood that wasn't there before. He stares down at it in shock for a moment, then suddenly seems to remember where he is. He wrenches his head around, scanning the alleyways, and seems to lock onto a target there.
"Clove, come on!" He screams, and then he's up and running again. Only, it's not towards me anymore.
"What the hell are you doing?" Clove screams back, clearly torn between following her partner and finishing me off. But Cato's already halfway back to the Cornocopia, apparently much more interested in this new threat than in ending me. I am suddenly eternally grateful for both the secret attacker and the virus' lack of inhibition.
Clove lets out a frustrated screech and turns back to me with another fiery stare. She raises the knife again and I tense, realizing that she's written her partner off and that she's not going to let me go, something that I should have known all along. I get ready to dive again, but Clove does it first, dropping down as something hard and small whips just past her ear.
I drop down too, scanning the blackened alleys in front of me for the attacker. At first I see nothing, just shadows and dark shapes that could be anything. Then, peaking out from behind a turned-over crate just beyond the horn, the smallest of figures appears, barely visible through the snowy haze. In their hands is some sort of contraption, and I realize what it is just before they let another shot fly.
Another lightning-fast stone shoots out, barely missing Cato as he swerves and hitting a street sign behind him with a deafening ring. Crouching beside the crate is Rue, resetting a slingshot and pushing her wild hair out of her face. She works fast, a look of deep concentration creasing her forehead. She may be aiming for me as much as she is the others, but I feel an inkling of pride for her all the same. Not many twelve-year-olds would be willing to put themselves in harm's way so brazenly. And, I think, not many twelve-year-olds could survive against the brute heading her way.
Before I can talk myself out of such a suicidal idea, I'm dashing forward after Cato. Because a little girl should never have to die this way. Because I don't think I can bare to witness it. Because I don't see Rue hiding behind that crate, I see Prim.
I don't care that Clove stands in my way. I only have one target in mind, and he's gaining ground on his own victim. I try to dash past her while she's still crouched low to the ground, but a searing burn in my arm tells me that she still cares about me. A second knife whips past me, dripping my own blood where it's torn through the jacket sleeve in my shoulder. Feathers spill out and float behind me, mingling with the still-falling snow. I pause, calculating the best route around her, but I know it won't be any sort of easy. My eyes jump back to Rue and Cato to gage how much time I have, and I think I might be hallucinating.
A second figure steps out from their cover, pulling Rue behind him. A break in the clouds lets more sunlight shine through onto our surroundings, and it reflects off golden curls. Peeta's golden curls. His face is chalk-white, and there's as much blood on his jacket as there is on Clove's, but he's very much alive. And very much in danger of being Cato's next victim.
"Katniss, run!" he shouts. He turns and pulls Rue around until she's in front of him, shielding her from Cato. He looks back, locking his blues on my greys one more time, and somehow I know he's telling me that we'll find each other again once it's safe. Then, he flees, pushing Rue on in front of him.
I don't need to be told twice. I spring backwards and snatch my backpack up again, racing towards the closest alley. I can hear Clove screaming, shouting at Cato that I'm getting away, but I don't look back. I dive between another rusted car and a trash bin once I reach the edge of the closest building, listening for any following footsteps, but there's nothing but the sounds of my own panting breath.
I wait for as long as I can, trying to slow my breathing to an acceptable level, then I chance a peak around the corner. It looks like I've been afforded a clean breakaway, thanks to Rue and Peeta. In fact, squinting through the snowflakes still swirling around, I can just make out two dark shapes hurtling towards the crates where my rescuers were hidden. My chest tightens, wondering if they've just sacrificed themselves in the worst way to get me out alive. I've run in the total opposite direction. It'll take me ages to catch up to them now, and by then it'll be too late if the District Two tributes find them first. But they made it this far, I tell myself. It's only been an hour, but everyone knows that the bloodbath of the opening minutes is the worst for most tributes, and neither of them looked wounded. And they're together. That has to count for something.
Despite the weather and my wrecked nerves, a small comfort warms my insides. I smile a little at the thought of Peeta and Rue working together. Someone needed to look out for the littlest tribute from Eleven, and it shouldn't surprise me that Peeta took on that responsibility. Now, the only question is, how do I get back to them?
Notes:
Hey! Thanks again for reading if you're still with me! A bit of a different take on the arena and the opening moments of the Games, but I did promise some deviation from the OG works! If you've been commenting or leaving kudos or subbing, I just want to say I see them and they are so very motivating, thank you! Work and personal life has been kicking my ass left, right and center and I haven't been able to write as much as I'd like, so thank you for your patience with me! Stay safe, be kind! Love ya'll!